Loving my son, building my son, touching my son, playing with my son, being with my son_ these aren__ tasks that only super dads can perform. These are tasks that every dad should perform. Always. Without fail.
I appricated that Nell was talking to me like a grown-up, but I had no idea what she meant. Still, I could see that the words flowed together like water over a riverbed.
Eli the Good
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I appricated that Nell was talking to me like a grown-up, but I had no idea what she meant. Still, I could see that the words flowed together like water over a riverbed.
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Dads. Do your faces light up when you first see your child in the morning or when you come home from work? Do you not understand that a child__ entire sense of value can revolve around what they see in your face when you first see them?
Do you not realize that your kids are going to make mistakes, and a lot of them? Do you not realize the damage you do when you push your son__ nose into his mishaps or make your daughter feel worthless because she bumped or spilled something? Do you have any idea how easy it is to make your child feel abject? It__ as simple as letting out the words, __hy would you do that!?_ or __ow many times have I told you_
Dads. Do you not realize that a child is what you tell them they are? That people almost always become what they are labeled? Was whatever your child just did really the __umbest thing you__e ever seen somebody do_? Was it really the __ost ridiculous thing they ever could have done_? Do you really believe that your child is an idiot? Because she now does. Think about that. Because you said it, she now believes it. Bravo.
Dads. It__ time to tell our kids that we love them. Constantly. It__ time to show our kids that we love them. Constantly. It__ time to take joy in their twenty-thousand daily questions and their inability to do things as quickly as we__ like. It__ time to take joy in their quirks and their ticks. It__ time to take joy in their facial expressions and their mispronounced words. It__ time to take joy in everything that our kids are.
They were learning that New York had another life, too _ subterranean, like almost everything that was human in the city _ a life of writers meeting in restaurants at lunchtime or in coffee houses after business hours to talk of work just started or magazines unpublished, and even to lay modest plans for the future. Modestly they were beginning to write poems worth the trouble of reading to their friends over coffee cups. Modestly they were rebelling once more.