When you’re married to someone whose job requires putting in eight days a week, yet it is still never complete, working on the weekend is a fact of life. Although we’ve enjoyed a short off season, baseball is just around the corner, and the days of, “What shall we do on Saturday?” are pretty much over. There is a facility to be prepped and equipment to be ordered, and let’s face it, the coach is just ready to get at it. So Saturdays at our house are just about gone. Not that we don’t have Saturdays, they just sort of seem like another Friday. Or sometimes, heaven forbid, another Monday.
I can still, vaguely, remember the days of working for the weekend. On Fridays, I’d leave the headaches of work at the office and look forward to winding down on the weekend: sleep in, lay around, read a book, shop a while, work outside…or do absolutely nothing at all. That’s what weekends used to be about. But since having the boys, my Saturdays have apparently been…misplaced.
Little kids don’t know what day of the week it is. They don’t know that the day is supposed to start at least two hours later than usual. That we are allowed an extra cup of coffee, preferably hot, and that if we want to eat breakfast at 10 and lunch at two, it is perfectly and entirely acceptable. They haven’t learned that adults are supposed to take a break from their jobs on Saturday. All they know is that Thomas comes on four times in a row, and Daddy usually cooks waffles.
It’s easy to get frustrated when there’s never a day off. In motherhood, there is no fall break, no spring break, and no Christmas vacation. What ever happened to snow days, and who says Mom’s don’t need them? Even God took a day to rest.
I recently received a short respite myself in the form of a very special Valentine from my mom and grandmother. They took the boys home with them for a long weekend.
The first few hours alone in my house were pure bliss. The first full day, I was floating on air. After sleeping in peaceful slumber and waking in tune with my body’s internal alarm clock, my head was in the clouds.
I did things I hadn’t done in years. I read a book in quiet solitude. I had a manicure. I cleaned out places I’m ashamed to know exist in my own home. I changed no diapers. I heard no whining. I cooked no meals. And after all of the indulging and basking in the freedom of a week full of Saturdays, something strange and unnatural happened: I missed my boys.
As I contemplate their return this afternoon, I know they will be glad to see me. They will have missed their dad and their dog, their monster trucks and their trains. They will want to check out the ball field and make sure it is still there, and they will slowly but surely wiggle back into the routine that we have carved out of our lives.
They will whine a little more loudly, sleep a little less soundly, and play a little less peacefully. They will balk at my meals and beg for “The Jag”, and ask when the next ballgame will start.
But in the end, I know they will be glad to be home. They will hug a little tighter and snuggle a little longer. They will be needy and clingy and only Mom will do, and I’ll be pulling my hair out for days-loving every minute of it, glad to have my boys back, knowing all is right in the world. Even amidst a week without Saturdays.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Mean kids
I never really knew how mean little kids could be until I witnessed their evil being directed at my child. I know all about teenagers. They can be spiteful and sarcastic, jealous and malicious. Some become experts at holding a grudge. I guess in my oblivious imagination, I assumed children were kind; however, I have quickly learned that this is not always so.
Cooper is at the age where he simply wants to play, and demographics don’t mean a thing: young or old, black or white, girl or boy, this kid just wants to have fun. He can show up at the ball park with a sack full of trucks and spot a potential playmate a mile away. The first thing he will ask is, “Mom, can I share my toys with that boy?” He hasn’t quite come to grips with the fact that all kids may not be interested.
Our first encounter with the dark side of childhood came when else, but during an evening at the ball park. A couple of kids we didn’t know were having a good time playing tag. Cooper had never played tag before, but he was taking it all in, as he stood in the background watching.
I could see that he was enjoying their game, even from the sidelines. He was smiling and crouching over with his hands on his knees. I guess he decided he’d not wait for an invitation because he jumped right in and started running around with them as if they’d been playmates for years. At first the other kids just gave him a sort of sideways glance. But when they figured out he was joining in their fun-uninvited-they stopped in their tracks, looked at him with their hands on their hips, and said, “Hey! You aren’t playing with us!”
Sometimes, the disruption to the ease of playtime is caused by the straightforward differences in gender. We've learned that girls can have much higher playtime expectations than little boys, and they have a tendency to be a bit bossy. Kind of like an umpire who anticipates the play and makes the call before it even happens.
Other times a child is left out of the fun merely as a result of a disparity in age. Not so long ago, we spent an entire Saturday at a men’s softball tournament. Lucky for us, there was an empty field adjacent to the one on which we were competing. Cooper spent hours that day running the bases, golfing softballs across the infield, driving cars in the dirt…until the “big boys” showed up. The five year olds. They had a bag of wiffleballs and bats to match, and they informed Cooper that he could not play with them and he needed to get off their field. But like a dog to a bone, Cooper saw those two dozen balls strewn about home plate, and he could not contain himself. He artistically golfed every one of their wiffleballs out into center field and then causally went looking for something else to get into.
I thought for a second about disciplining Cooper for hitting all of those balls out there, but something in my gut told me that the mean little kid was getting just what he deserved. Besides, at least now he knows that the “little kid” is definitely big enough to play ball. I bet next year he’ll even pick him to be on his team.
Just as my faith in humanity and the innocence of little children had almost been completely destroyed, we came across two little angels who saved my cynical soul and renewed my belief in the kindness of strangers-and those under four feet tall.
I’m not sure how old these girls were, at least nine or 10. But for some reason they took great care in playing with my boys that day at the ball park. I’d never seen them before, and I don’t even know where they came from, but you can bet I found their mothers before we left. And from the looks on those mothers’ faces when I thanked them for their daughters’ kindness, they might have been as surprised as I.
So, what is a parent to do? All of these kids were several years older than Cooper, and I’m sure they thought he was still a baby. But in my mind their advancement in age meant they certainly should have known better, and it simply left them to be accountable.
I understand the whole psychology behind why little kids can be so cruel. Setting up boundaries, and struggling for autonomy, and learning that one way to strengthen a bond within a group is to try and keep others out. But when it is my kid who is being mistreated, suddenly the knowledge and experience I have accumulated over the years goes right out the window. That momma bird instinct kicks in and all I want to do is swarm the enemy and protect my young.
I watched for 10 years as students passed through our hallways, and I discovered that it’s not every day we meet parents who expect their children to treat others with respect. And that’s where it begins for sure. I realize that kids will be kids-and they all have their moments-but if we as parents are doing our job, a moment’s insanity is better than a lifetime of cruelty, and that is what we will prevent if we are attentive to our children in their moment of childhood. And if we are looking, there will come a day when we can stand from afar and see all the efforts of our hard work pay off.
I’m so glad we encountered those little angels that day. It renewed my faith in children and parents and civilized society in general. I was all set to grab a chicken, buy a cow, and move to the country where I would home school my kids until they were at least 21. I was willing to try anything to tuck my kids away from all the meanness of the world…But thanks to those two strangers, and their parents, now, maybe I’ll reconsider.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Cooper is at the age where he simply wants to play, and demographics don’t mean a thing: young or old, black or white, girl or boy, this kid just wants to have fun. He can show up at the ball park with a sack full of trucks and spot a potential playmate a mile away. The first thing he will ask is, “Mom, can I share my toys with that boy?” He hasn’t quite come to grips with the fact that all kids may not be interested.
Our first encounter with the dark side of childhood came when else, but during an evening at the ball park. A couple of kids we didn’t know were having a good time playing tag. Cooper had never played tag before, but he was taking it all in, as he stood in the background watching.
I could see that he was enjoying their game, even from the sidelines. He was smiling and crouching over with his hands on his knees. I guess he decided he’d not wait for an invitation because he jumped right in and started running around with them as if they’d been playmates for years. At first the other kids just gave him a sort of sideways glance. But when they figured out he was joining in their fun-uninvited-they stopped in their tracks, looked at him with their hands on their hips, and said, “Hey! You aren’t playing with us!”
Sometimes, the disruption to the ease of playtime is caused by the straightforward differences in gender. We've learned that girls can have much higher playtime expectations than little boys, and they have a tendency to be a bit bossy. Kind of like an umpire who anticipates the play and makes the call before it even happens.
Other times a child is left out of the fun merely as a result of a disparity in age. Not so long ago, we spent an entire Saturday at a men’s softball tournament. Lucky for us, there was an empty field adjacent to the one on which we were competing. Cooper spent hours that day running the bases, golfing softballs across the infield, driving cars in the dirt…until the “big boys” showed up. The five year olds. They had a bag of wiffleballs and bats to match, and they informed Cooper that he could not play with them and he needed to get off their field. But like a dog to a bone, Cooper saw those two dozen balls strewn about home plate, and he could not contain himself. He artistically golfed every one of their wiffleballs out into center field and then causally went looking for something else to get into.
I thought for a second about disciplining Cooper for hitting all of those balls out there, but something in my gut told me that the mean little kid was getting just what he deserved. Besides, at least now he knows that the “little kid” is definitely big enough to play ball. I bet next year he’ll even pick him to be on his team.
Just as my faith in humanity and the innocence of little children had almost been completely destroyed, we came across two little angels who saved my cynical soul and renewed my belief in the kindness of strangers-and those under four feet tall.
I’m not sure how old these girls were, at least nine or 10. But for some reason they took great care in playing with my boys that day at the ball park. I’d never seen them before, and I don’t even know where they came from, but you can bet I found their mothers before we left. And from the looks on those mothers’ faces when I thanked them for their daughters’ kindness, they might have been as surprised as I.
So, what is a parent to do? All of these kids were several years older than Cooper, and I’m sure they thought he was still a baby. But in my mind their advancement in age meant they certainly should have known better, and it simply left them to be accountable.
I understand the whole psychology behind why little kids can be so cruel. Setting up boundaries, and struggling for autonomy, and learning that one way to strengthen a bond within a group is to try and keep others out. But when it is my kid who is being mistreated, suddenly the knowledge and experience I have accumulated over the years goes right out the window. That momma bird instinct kicks in and all I want to do is swarm the enemy and protect my young.
I watched for 10 years as students passed through our hallways, and I discovered that it’s not every day we meet parents who expect their children to treat others with respect. And that’s where it begins for sure. I realize that kids will be kids-and they all have their moments-but if we as parents are doing our job, a moment’s insanity is better than a lifetime of cruelty, and that is what we will prevent if we are attentive to our children in their moment of childhood. And if we are looking, there will come a day when we can stand from afar and see all the efforts of our hard work pay off.
I’m so glad we encountered those little angels that day. It renewed my faith in children and parents and civilized society in general. I was all set to grab a chicken, buy a cow, and move to the country where I would home school my kids until they were at least 21. I was willing to try anything to tuck my kids away from all the meanness of the world…But thanks to those two strangers, and their parents, now, maybe I’ll reconsider.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Potty talk
The terms our family has chosen to use when discussing restroom habits is in no way meant to be crude or offensive. There was no round table discussion between mother and father as to which words we would teach our kids when referring to the elimination processes that are a necessity of life. It just kind of evolved into the terminology that is now a part of our daily life.
At our house, it’s called pee pee and poop. That’s it. Nothing flashy. Not too technical. Simple, one syllable words any two-year old can whisper discretely, or scream from the top of his lungs during a funeral.
We started talking a lot about it when the oldest boy got old enough to think about using “the potty”, another term we chose to use. I figured if we talked about it, he might be more encouraged to do something with it. It didn’t work quite that quickly; however, our words did seem to have an effect on the boy, just not the effect I’d hoped.
It’s funny how kids hear us say one thing, and take it to mean something completely different. Like the time I asked Cooper if he was poopy. He said, “No, I’m Cooper.” Now if he was 16, I might have accused him of being fresh, but at two and a half, he didn’t yet have a firm grasp on the use of sarcasm. On a similar occasion, when I asked the same question, he replied, “No, I’m not poopy. I’m pee pee.” The verb had instantly become a state of being.
After a while, it seemed he became so at ease with the family jargon that he began using it at the most inappropriate times and in the most ridiculous of ways. At the end of his prayers, he began saying “A-poop” instead of “A-men”. After a sleep over at his Aunt Debbie’s, he kindly told her that her cookies tasted like poop. In church one Sunday, after singing “God is Love”, he decided to ask if God was in poop.
Don’t ask me where this comes from. I’m sure his father has nothing to do with it. I had to have a talk with Dad, telling him of the boy’s apparent new, favorite word. Dad’s input? “This might be a pretty hard thing to break.” Yeah, no kidding.
Months later, now that the boy is potty trained, the talk has moved more from the excrement itself to its final destination. Every time Cooper flushes the toilet, he asks the same question. “Now where’s it going?” I tried giving him a real explanation about pipes in the ground and a place called the sewer, but that just warranted more questions. So for now he has accepted the theory that the water from the potty goes through the big hole in the bottom of the toilet and into the ground to help water Daddy’s ball field.
Brisco isn’t really interested in sitting on the potty; in fact, he is scared to death of the big one. But he does have a true fascination for the flush. I swear that’s why our water bill keeps going up. If I ever can’t find that kid, he’s either hiding in the shower or off somewhere habitually flushing the toilet. It’s pretty strange.
It is a delicate balancing act when parents try to teach their kids about going to the bathroom. We want them to understand that they should “go” when they feel that “urge”, but as parents, we have a few urges of our own. Like explaining to them how disgusting public restrooms can be and why we always insist they use the potty before leaving the house. Cooper has finally started asking, “Don’t they have a bathroom at the grocery store?” Or where ever we happen to be going.
And it never fails, as parents, the first words out of our mouths upon entering a public lavatory are always, “Ok, now don’t touch anything.” And we always say it real dramatically, pausing for a moment between each word in hopes of getting our point across. But the truth is, kids have no idea why they aren’t supposed to touch. Just like they can’t yet grasp the concept of “what happens in the bathroom, stays in the bathroom.” I think I’ll have that painted on a board and nailed over the toilet at my house. With a house full of boys I’m certain to be in for a lifetime of “I left you a rose petal.” And, “How ‘bout a courtesy flush?!”
Just the other night we were out to eat and I took Cooper into the bathroom. After my initial warning that he keep his hands to himself, we entered the stall to find a very tidy bowl. I prepared the area and made the comment that this was a pretty clean bathroom. Cooper wanted to know why, and I said, “I don’t know. I guess somebody just cleaned it.”
After finishing his business, we returned to the restaurant area. Evidently, the boy got turned around a bit, because he seemed to be talking to his dad, but it was at a table full of folks we didn’t know. He announced loudly and proudly that, “Hey, dad, somebody just cleaned that pot in there. It was not too bad!” I’m sure the management appreciated the accolades.
Raising kids is all about stages. Just about the time I get a hold of the one we’re in, they grow out of it and we’re on to something different. I never considered that I’d have to explain to my kid why we don’t tell strangers about our bowel movements, or that it isn’t polite to announce to your Bible school class that “Brisco’s diaper had corn in it.” But evidently those are both required curriculum at our house.
Yes, as parents, our efforts are split between balancing the information we deem important for our kids to know, and divulging the information in a way their innocent minds can handle. It can be difficult to distinguish between the two. Sometimes we are forced to ad lib and hope for the best. Sometimes talk of the potty is important. And sometimes, it’s just “potty talk.”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
At our house, it’s called pee pee and poop. That’s it. Nothing flashy. Not too technical. Simple, one syllable words any two-year old can whisper discretely, or scream from the top of his lungs during a funeral.
We started talking a lot about it when the oldest boy got old enough to think about using “the potty”, another term we chose to use. I figured if we talked about it, he might be more encouraged to do something with it. It didn’t work quite that quickly; however, our words did seem to have an effect on the boy, just not the effect I’d hoped.
It’s funny how kids hear us say one thing, and take it to mean something completely different. Like the time I asked Cooper if he was poopy. He said, “No, I’m Cooper.” Now if he was 16, I might have accused him of being fresh, but at two and a half, he didn’t yet have a firm grasp on the use of sarcasm. On a similar occasion, when I asked the same question, he replied, “No, I’m not poopy. I’m pee pee.” The verb had instantly become a state of being.
After a while, it seemed he became so at ease with the family jargon that he began using it at the most inappropriate times and in the most ridiculous of ways. At the end of his prayers, he began saying “A-poop” instead of “A-men”. After a sleep over at his Aunt Debbie’s, he kindly told her that her cookies tasted like poop. In church one Sunday, after singing “God is Love”, he decided to ask if God was in poop.
Don’t ask me where this comes from. I’m sure his father has nothing to do with it. I had to have a talk with Dad, telling him of the boy’s apparent new, favorite word. Dad’s input? “This might be a pretty hard thing to break.” Yeah, no kidding.
Months later, now that the boy is potty trained, the talk has moved more from the excrement itself to its final destination. Every time Cooper flushes the toilet, he asks the same question. “Now where’s it going?” I tried giving him a real explanation about pipes in the ground and a place called the sewer, but that just warranted more questions. So for now he has accepted the theory that the water from the potty goes through the big hole in the bottom of the toilet and into the ground to help water Daddy’s ball field.
Brisco isn’t really interested in sitting on the potty; in fact, he is scared to death of the big one. But he does have a true fascination for the flush. I swear that’s why our water bill keeps going up. If I ever can’t find that kid, he’s either hiding in the shower or off somewhere habitually flushing the toilet. It’s pretty strange.
It is a delicate balancing act when parents try to teach their kids about going to the bathroom. We want them to understand that they should “go” when they feel that “urge”, but as parents, we have a few urges of our own. Like explaining to them how disgusting public restrooms can be and why we always insist they use the potty before leaving the house. Cooper has finally started asking, “Don’t they have a bathroom at the grocery store?” Or where ever we happen to be going.
And it never fails, as parents, the first words out of our mouths upon entering a public lavatory are always, “Ok, now don’t touch anything.” And we always say it real dramatically, pausing for a moment between each word in hopes of getting our point across. But the truth is, kids have no idea why they aren’t supposed to touch. Just like they can’t yet grasp the concept of “what happens in the bathroom, stays in the bathroom.” I think I’ll have that painted on a board and nailed over the toilet at my house. With a house full of boys I’m certain to be in for a lifetime of “I left you a rose petal.” And, “How ‘bout a courtesy flush?!”
Just the other night we were out to eat and I took Cooper into the bathroom. After my initial warning that he keep his hands to himself, we entered the stall to find a very tidy bowl. I prepared the area and made the comment that this was a pretty clean bathroom. Cooper wanted to know why, and I said, “I don’t know. I guess somebody just cleaned it.”
After finishing his business, we returned to the restaurant area. Evidently, the boy got turned around a bit, because he seemed to be talking to his dad, but it was at a table full of folks we didn’t know. He announced loudly and proudly that, “Hey, dad, somebody just cleaned that pot in there. It was not too bad!” I’m sure the management appreciated the accolades.
Raising kids is all about stages. Just about the time I get a hold of the one we’re in, they grow out of it and we’re on to something different. I never considered that I’d have to explain to my kid why we don’t tell strangers about our bowel movements, or that it isn’t polite to announce to your Bible school class that “Brisco’s diaper had corn in it.” But evidently those are both required curriculum at our house.
Yes, as parents, our efforts are split between balancing the information we deem important for our kids to know, and divulging the information in a way their innocent minds can handle. It can be difficult to distinguish between the two. Sometimes we are forced to ad lib and hope for the best. Sometimes talk of the potty is important. And sometimes, it’s just “potty talk.”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Crocodiles and alligators
When I was in the 6th grade, I remember a science lesson where we were asked to identify and distinguish a crocodile from an alligator. I didn’t balk much at school lessons, I guess because I liked most of them, but this one, even to me, seemed ridiculous.
I remember missing the question on the exam, and being very disgruntled about the fact that I was being asked to learn such useless information. For some reason that escapes me now, I thought if it seemed silly to me that surely my teacher would agree and add the points back to my test grade. So I asked her. Somewhere in my mind I guess it didn’t connect that she had created the silly question to begin with.
Now, I wouldn’t have considered myself a smart aleck back then, at least not in school, but I remember the response that I gave when my offer was declined. It was definitely bordering on fresh. It was something along the lines of, “You know, if I ever see a crocodile or an alligator up close, all I’m going to do is run. I certainly won’t be stopping to check out the shape of his nose or the length of his tail.” I can’t remember for sure, but I think that got me a trip to the hall.
If someone had told me then, that there would truly be a time in my life where I’d need to know the difference between crocs and gators, I’d certainly have laughed out loud. But now, 23 years after the science lesson to which I objected, I found my self grappling to explain the difference.
Saturday morning, after distributing milk and “gam ca ca’s”, Cooper, Brisco, and I sat down to enjoy an episode of Little Einstein’s. This week, the big-headed, music-loving, geniuses were on a mission to rescue a bird from a swamp. And what creepy creature did they encounter in the swamp but a crocodile. No an alligator…no a…a…
Oh great. I should have known better than to sit down with my children and watch a kid show with the name “Einstein” in it. During what other Saturday morning cartoon would I ever be forced to expose to my children that a miniature maestro who hides a conductor’s baton in his britches is smarter than their mother?!
But it was too late. Upon seeing the creature, Cooper perked up, pointed to the television and said, “Look, Mom, a crocodile!” I responded with, “Well, it sure is, Cooper. Good job!” Just then, the smart little twit on tube yelled, “Watch out! It’s an alligator!”
From that point forward, it mattered not what happened to that poor dodo bird. The rest of the episode was drowned out with questions of, “Why isn’t that a crocodile?” and “I thought that was a crocodile?” and “I thought that wasn’t an alligator?”
No answer that I gave seemed to satisfy, and oddly, I found myself wishing I had a more thorough explanation; one that seemed to make sense to his three-year old mind. I guess I should have listened to Mrs. Hamm after all.
It’s always funny to me the things that can trigger memories from our childhood: songs, smells, reminiscing with an old friend. Who’d have thought watching Saturday morning cartoons would trigger such a miniscule detail from my youth?
Makes me wonder what my kids are going to remember. Basketball in the bedroom? Popsicles on the back porch? Spankings on the front stoop of the church building? Whichever stands out in their memories most, I hope they can take with it some lesson for their own children.
I guess kids have a way of doing that: making us look more closely at ourselves, our lives, our past. They help us learn things about ourselves we should have known years ago. Help us do things differently. Make us want to be better.
I still don’t know the difference between a crocodile and an alligator, but I bet in a couple of years, my son can teach me.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I remember missing the question on the exam, and being very disgruntled about the fact that I was being asked to learn such useless information. For some reason that escapes me now, I thought if it seemed silly to me that surely my teacher would agree and add the points back to my test grade. So I asked her. Somewhere in my mind I guess it didn’t connect that she had created the silly question to begin with.
Now, I wouldn’t have considered myself a smart aleck back then, at least not in school, but I remember the response that I gave when my offer was declined. It was definitely bordering on fresh. It was something along the lines of, “You know, if I ever see a crocodile or an alligator up close, all I’m going to do is run. I certainly won’t be stopping to check out the shape of his nose or the length of his tail.” I can’t remember for sure, but I think that got me a trip to the hall.
If someone had told me then, that there would truly be a time in my life where I’d need to know the difference between crocs and gators, I’d certainly have laughed out loud. But now, 23 years after the science lesson to which I objected, I found my self grappling to explain the difference.
Saturday morning, after distributing milk and “gam ca ca’s”, Cooper, Brisco, and I sat down to enjoy an episode of Little Einstein’s. This week, the big-headed, music-loving, geniuses were on a mission to rescue a bird from a swamp. And what creepy creature did they encounter in the swamp but a crocodile. No an alligator…no a…a…
Oh great. I should have known better than to sit down with my children and watch a kid show with the name “Einstein” in it. During what other Saturday morning cartoon would I ever be forced to expose to my children that a miniature maestro who hides a conductor’s baton in his britches is smarter than their mother?!
But it was too late. Upon seeing the creature, Cooper perked up, pointed to the television and said, “Look, Mom, a crocodile!” I responded with, “Well, it sure is, Cooper. Good job!” Just then, the smart little twit on tube yelled, “Watch out! It’s an alligator!”
From that point forward, it mattered not what happened to that poor dodo bird. The rest of the episode was drowned out with questions of, “Why isn’t that a crocodile?” and “I thought that was a crocodile?” and “I thought that wasn’t an alligator?”
No answer that I gave seemed to satisfy, and oddly, I found myself wishing I had a more thorough explanation; one that seemed to make sense to his three-year old mind. I guess I should have listened to Mrs. Hamm after all.
It’s always funny to me the things that can trigger memories from our childhood: songs, smells, reminiscing with an old friend. Who’d have thought watching Saturday morning cartoons would trigger such a miniscule detail from my youth?
Makes me wonder what my kids are going to remember. Basketball in the bedroom? Popsicles on the back porch? Spankings on the front stoop of the church building? Whichever stands out in their memories most, I hope they can take with it some lesson for their own children.
I guess kids have a way of doing that: making us look more closely at ourselves, our lives, our past. They help us learn things about ourselves we should have known years ago. Help us do things differently. Make us want to be better.
I still don’t know the difference between a crocodile and an alligator, but I bet in a couple of years, my son can teach me.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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