My last entry documented the routine that my boys and I entered into to facilitate the passage of our summer days. Truth is that routine did not last the entire summer.
On July 31st, our family flew to my wife's homeland, Spain, for a three week stay. It was incredibly fun and, from a traveling with children standpoint, wonderfully successful. It was not the whimsy of fate that led to the pleasant travel. There are definite, identifiable keys to peaceful, efficient travel with one's brood.
First, I will address the actual journey. To reach Spain from our city, one needs to take three flights and one hour long taxi ride (we have tried other routes in the past, but as this was what we did this last time, we'll treat the latest route as the best). First, there is a ten-hour flight to London. This is followed by a two-and-a-half hour flight to Barcelona. From there, one must take an hour's flight to Bilbao. From that fair city (this is a joke that will only resonate with people from San Sebastian or other San Sebastianites world-wide), an hour's taxi ride delivers one to San Sebastian, the Jewel of Spain (my opinion).
A lengthy journey by anyone's standards. So, how does one achieve a stress-free day of traveling that, including lay-overs, lasts 20-and-a-half hours? My first piece of advice would be to fly British Airways (we take them to London). Not only do the jolly accents of the crew create a nice environment, but every seat has a screen embedded above the facing tray-table. This screen contains countless movies and TV shows, many of which are perfect for entertaining a child during countless airborne hours. (It goes without saying that many of the offered movies are not child-friendly, so one needs be aware). It also helps that the flight to Spain leaves at 6:45-what my wife calls a "night-night" flight. The power of suggestion seems to work on my boys as they sleep for much of the ten hours to London. (My sleep is never terribly sound because the allure of limitless movies is too great, making sleep seem uninteresting). Another factor aiding our family in our quest for pleasant journeys has to do with experience. Both of my boys have travelled to Spain many times, from the age of eight months (in my older boys' case) and from ten months (in my younger son's case). Their having completed the journey in the past makes present journeys easier. So, what makes for easy traveling with one's children? Picking the right airline, having a flight leave at night thus encouraging sleep, and having children that have flown frequently seem to be the keys. Of course, none of the factors that I have mentioned have anything to do with parenting, but one needs to take credit when one can.
Honestly speaking, enthusiasm helps as the most boring airplane magazine can seem interesting to a child if a parent gushes over it. Bringing lots of books is, obviously, a good idea. Materials for drawing also come in handy to pass the time. Another key component would be patience and calm under pressure (otherwise known as the ability to ignore hateful stares from fellow passengers who were apparently never children). We have had flights that have been difficult in the past. Luckily for our dyad, my wife is both patient and cool under pressure. So in past, more trying journeys, while I wilt in the seat trying to avoid glares, my wife has picked up whichever boy is having a problem and coolly carried him to the back of the plane to soothe him. Now, luckily for me, my boys don't have any significant problems on the plane so I can finish a journey feeling as refreshed as possible without feeling the guilt that goes along with knowing that one's wife has done all the real work on the flight.
So, we did have a relatively hassle-free journey to Spain. Whether we actually did anything to ensure the positive journey is a matter of debate. Possibly, any family with five and eight year old boys would fare well on a Transatlantic, behemoth of a journey. Regardless, we arrived safely in Spain and had a wonderful three weeks.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
New Beginnings
It has been a long time since I last shared my experiences as a stay-at-home father with the cyber-world. I have a good reason for the absence. In the crazy world of the stay-at-home parent, much is flip-flopped. Weekends are more work than weekdays, vacations often more work than non-vacations and, most of all, summer more work than school months. Indeed, for the stay-at-home father, summer is when the heavy lifting is done. (I mean this both metaphorically and literally as the constant presence of my boys increases my work-load and their growing has made wrestling them quite a chore). Thus, my incommunicado status for the past months. I couldn't blog because I was busy. Very busy. Often near insanity sort busy. Having one's children present all day every day will do that to a guy. To avoid the obviously unpleasant alternative of losing one's sanity, plans need to be laid. My strategy for the summer months involves routine, or scheduling, if you prefer.
My boys take swim lessons and tennis lessons over the summer. The swim lessons last for 30 minutes and occur every day. The tennis lessons occur twice weekly (from 11-12 for my younger boy, 12-1:30 for my eldest). Both boys continued with music lessons. My older son's piano lessons happened in his teacher's house on Monday's at 12:45 or 1 or 1:30; the piano teacher is a great guy and a wonderful teacher, but a tad disorganized so the lessons seemed to start at slightly (occasionally radically) different times depending on the week. Luckily, the piano teacher has a back yard where my boys could play while awaiting the lesson (and where my younger son and I could continue to play whilst my older boy had his lesson). My younger son's violin lessons occurred on Wednesdays at 11 am. His teacher lives too far away to hold lessons at his house. Instead, the violin lessons were offered in another family's house. I would describe this house as "loosely" in our neighborhood. It required a long walk. But walking is a forte of ours, and every Wednesday a-violin-ing we did go. To keep our spirits up during long, hot summer treks to and from music lessons, I decided that my boys and I needed (nay, deserved) some reward. Thus, we ate lunch twice weekly at our favorite restaurant (before piano and after violin). This restaurant is a frequent destination for my boys and I. The staff never give us menus. Instead they greet us with, "hey guys. Two apple juices, a Diet coke, a Peanut-butter and honey, a Grilled cheese, and a Rosewood Deluxe, right?" And they never forget to bring us two chocolate-chip cookies (split three ways) for dessert.
After the boys and I returned home, they would read or do other school work for an hour (on impressive days) or a half-hour (on less impressive days). The work would be followed by a celebratory hour-long TV show which would be followed by sports (baseball or basketball or paddle-tennis or football or soccer) until my wife came home. Thus, Mondays consisted of swimming, walk to our favorite restaurant, lunch, walk to piano teacher's house wait/play/pray for the start of lesson, walk back home, school work, TV, play. Tuesdays and Thursdays were made up of swimming, tennis, walk home, lunch, school work, TV, play. Wednesdays consisted of play, long walk to violin, violin, walk to favorite restaurant, lunch, walk home, work, TV, play. Fridays were the simplest: swimming, walk home, lunch, work, TV, play.
To see my summer summed up so concisely does not entirely do it justice. 'Swimming, walk to lunch, walk to piano, walk home, work, TV, play..... This sounds so orderly, so neat, so easily achieved. The words do not do justice to the constant battle to keep the peace, to maintain tranquility. Every facet of our summer days was occasionally visited by conflict. Fights between brothers, complaints about fatigue, complaints about hating whatever activity was next on our agenda, arguments regarding school work, regarding TV shows, regarding play. In short, each phase of every day this summer has seen its battles. Enjoyable battle to be sure, but combat none-the-less.
If I were a rapper, they'd call me Smoky the Bear because I'm always putting out fires. However, to be totally accurate, I would be a far more contented Smoky the Bear than the one who dominated the anti-forest fire push of yesteryear. The fires of disquiet that my boys constantly set this summer were annoying at times, but, for the most part, they did not mar what was a very successful summer. We are all happy, healthy, and ready for school. As the fires of summer cool, I must prepare for new fires to come. I am now father to a third grader and a kindergartener.
My boys take swim lessons and tennis lessons over the summer. The swim lessons last for 30 minutes and occur every day. The tennis lessons occur twice weekly (from 11-12 for my younger boy, 12-1:30 for my eldest). Both boys continued with music lessons. My older son's piano lessons happened in his teacher's house on Monday's at 12:45 or 1 or 1:30; the piano teacher is a great guy and a wonderful teacher, but a tad disorganized so the lessons seemed to start at slightly (occasionally radically) different times depending on the week. Luckily, the piano teacher has a back yard where my boys could play while awaiting the lesson (and where my younger son and I could continue to play whilst my older boy had his lesson). My younger son's violin lessons occurred on Wednesdays at 11 am. His teacher lives too far away to hold lessons at his house. Instead, the violin lessons were offered in another family's house. I would describe this house as "loosely" in our neighborhood. It required a long walk. But walking is a forte of ours, and every Wednesday a-violin-ing we did go. To keep our spirits up during long, hot summer treks to and from music lessons, I decided that my boys and I needed (nay, deserved) some reward. Thus, we ate lunch twice weekly at our favorite restaurant (before piano and after violin). This restaurant is a frequent destination for my boys and I. The staff never give us menus. Instead they greet us with, "hey guys. Two apple juices, a Diet coke, a Peanut-butter and honey, a Grilled cheese, and a Rosewood Deluxe, right?" And they never forget to bring us two chocolate-chip cookies (split three ways) for dessert.
After the boys and I returned home, they would read or do other school work for an hour (on impressive days) or a half-hour (on less impressive days). The work would be followed by a celebratory hour-long TV show which would be followed by sports (baseball or basketball or paddle-tennis or football or soccer) until my wife came home. Thus, Mondays consisted of swimming, walk to our favorite restaurant, lunch, walk to piano teacher's house wait/play/pray for the start of lesson, walk back home, school work, TV, play. Tuesdays and Thursdays were made up of swimming, tennis, walk home, lunch, school work, TV, play. Wednesdays consisted of play, long walk to violin, violin, walk to favorite restaurant, lunch, walk home, work, TV, play. Fridays were the simplest: swimming, walk home, lunch, work, TV, play.
To see my summer summed up so concisely does not entirely do it justice. 'Swimming, walk to lunch, walk to piano, walk home, work, TV, play..... This sounds so orderly, so neat, so easily achieved. The words do not do justice to the constant battle to keep the peace, to maintain tranquility. Every facet of our summer days was occasionally visited by conflict. Fights between brothers, complaints about fatigue, complaints about hating whatever activity was next on our agenda, arguments regarding school work, regarding TV shows, regarding play. In short, each phase of every day this summer has seen its battles. Enjoyable battle to be sure, but combat none-the-less.
If I were a rapper, they'd call me Smoky the Bear because I'm always putting out fires. However, to be totally accurate, I would be a far more contented Smoky the Bear than the one who dominated the anti-forest fire push of yesteryear. The fires of disquiet that my boys constantly set this summer were annoying at times, but, for the most part, they did not mar what was a very successful summer. We are all happy, healthy, and ready for school. As the fires of summer cool, I must prepare for new fires to come. I am now father to a third grader and a kindergartener.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Picture a young child preparing for music practice (in this case, violin lessons). Are you picturing a contented youth, brimming with potential, smiling as he puts rosin on his bow and attaches his chin rest to the violin? That may be how it is in many houses, but not ours. The following is a word for word transcription of the near-daily struggle my younger son and I have.
Me: "Alright babe, time for violin."
Him: "No."
Me: "It'll be quick, love. Let's just do it."
Him: "Nope. No way."
Me: "We need to practice what you've learned in violin lessons."
Him: "No."
Me: "Come on, babe. Just pick up the violin! Get ready. Let's go already."
Him: "You can't make me."
Me: "If you don't practice, you don't earn smiley faces."
Him: "So?!!!?"
Me: "Then you won't earn any more Tintin books."
Him: "I hate TinTin."
Me: "Alright, no TV for a week if you don't practice."
Him: "I hate TV."
Me: "Babe, if you had just started when I asked you would have been finished with violin three times over."
Him: "You're not the boss of me."
Me: "I am the boss of you. Please practice violin, NOW!"
Him: "Nope. Never."
Me: "Fine. If you don't practice then I'm going to donate all your toys to charity."
Him: "What's 'donate' mean?"
Me: "It means 'give away forever.'
Him: "So. I hate toys."
I then start to leave the room to donate his toys to some random charity when he caves.
Him: "Alright, daddy. But I don't know how to set up my violin."
He does. But I know which battles to pick.
Me: "Fine. I'll set it up [put on the chin rest]. Now, let's practice."
Same dance. Every day.
But we may have turned an important corner this week. Now, my boy can play a song, and violin is a significantly more satisfying activity. He's learned the "Flower Song," and things are looking bright on the violin scene. It's a simple song (pepperoni pizza rythms on E, F sharp, E, and A). Easy and satisfying.
Beginning violin consists of endless perfecting of fairly boring skills like holding the bow, holding the violin, standing correctly for playing violin, bowing properly, etc. Understandably, my younger boy found the practices in which he practiced standing, bowing, and holding the bow rather dry. He was bored so wasn't excited to practice. That has changed. He's now feeling excited by his new skills. Practices, for the moment anyway, are going to proceed with much less drama.
My older boy experienced some success this week, too. He was awarded a PE All Star for the third straight year at school. This award is given to the best athlete/rule follower in gym class. A significant achievement as it is one of the only awards available to K-3rd grade. (He won a math award, too, last year, but I'm trying to stay classy and resist the temptation to brag).
Speaking of bragging, my eldest son's baseball game was a resounding success yesterday. My boy was 3-3 with two doubles and a single. He played good defense. My boy and his best friend (who's also on the team) were accused of being too old to participate by the opposing coach. This suggestion was both preposterous (because of relative size of my son's opponents) and gratifying (all those hours of catch have clearly paid off).
Perhaps this posting was a bit too self-congratulatory, but parents need an occasional weekend like this. In chronicling my experiences parenting, it has become clear to me that parenting is frequently an exercise ripe with failure and humiliation. Occasional moments of true success are hard to come by and should be savored and posted for posterity.
Me: "Alright babe, time for violin."
Him: "No."
Me: "It'll be quick, love. Let's just do it."
Him: "Nope. No way."
Me: "We need to practice what you've learned in violin lessons."
Him: "No."
Me: "Come on, babe. Just pick up the violin! Get ready. Let's go already."
Him: "You can't make me."
Me: "If you don't practice, you don't earn smiley faces."
Him: "So?!!!?"
Me: "Then you won't earn any more Tintin books."
Him: "I hate TinTin."
Me: "Alright, no TV for a week if you don't practice."
Him: "I hate TV."
Me: "Babe, if you had just started when I asked you would have been finished with violin three times over."
Him: "You're not the boss of me."
Me: "I am the boss of you. Please practice violin, NOW!"
Him: "Nope. Never."
Me: "Fine. If you don't practice then I'm going to donate all your toys to charity."
Him: "What's 'donate' mean?"
Me: "It means 'give away forever.'
Him: "So. I hate toys."
I then start to leave the room to donate his toys to some random charity when he caves.
Him: "Alright, daddy. But I don't know how to set up my violin."
He does. But I know which battles to pick.
Me: "Fine. I'll set it up [put on the chin rest]. Now, let's practice."
Same dance. Every day.
But we may have turned an important corner this week. Now, my boy can play a song, and violin is a significantly more satisfying activity. He's learned the "Flower Song," and things are looking bright on the violin scene. It's a simple song (pepperoni pizza rythms on E, F sharp, E, and A). Easy and satisfying.
Beginning violin consists of endless perfecting of fairly boring skills like holding the bow, holding the violin, standing correctly for playing violin, bowing properly, etc. Understandably, my younger boy found the practices in which he practiced standing, bowing, and holding the bow rather dry. He was bored so wasn't excited to practice. That has changed. He's now feeling excited by his new skills. Practices, for the moment anyway, are going to proceed with much less drama.
My older boy experienced some success this week, too. He was awarded a PE All Star for the third straight year at school. This award is given to the best athlete/rule follower in gym class. A significant achievement as it is one of the only awards available to K-3rd grade. (He won a math award, too, last year, but I'm trying to stay classy and resist the temptation to brag).
Speaking of bragging, my eldest son's baseball game was a resounding success yesterday. My boy was 3-3 with two doubles and a single. He played good defense. My boy and his best friend (who's also on the team) were accused of being too old to participate by the opposing coach. This suggestion was both preposterous (because of relative size of my son's opponents) and gratifying (all those hours of catch have clearly paid off).
Perhaps this posting was a bit too self-congratulatory, but parents need an occasional weekend like this. In chronicling my experiences parenting, it has become clear to me that parenting is frequently an exercise ripe with failure and humiliation. Occasional moments of true success are hard to come by and should be savored and posted for posterity.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Mirror Image
Every parent has had this experience. The parent's child is acting in an obnoxious manner. The parent turns to his/her spouse and says, "YOUR child is acting in unacceptable fashion [being stubborn/rude/too loud/too quiet]"etc. My wife and I are experts at this particular manner of conversation. I tend to view every instance of our children's being stubborn as the perfect time to say to my wife, "I wonder why he's being so stubborn? Where did he inherit that?" As I say this, I am pointedly looking at my wife, clearly blaming her stubborn streak. My wife, interestingly enough, can observe the same scene, the same stubborn streak, and fault my genes. Such interactions seem fractious, yet I believe them to be healthy and normal. What better way to relieve the stress of irritation with one's child than to blame it on one's spouse.
Sometimes the opposite can be true. Rather than blame one's spouse for a child's misbehavior, a parent gladly takes responsibility for a child's positive behavior. I specialize in this. I often credit myself for my older son's athletic skills or his charming ways; I also see myself in my younger son's zany sense of humor or his great imagination. Yes, it is easy to see one's self in one's children when they are acting in a pleasing manner. But what happens when we see our short-comings in our children. How to handle this?
The first challenge in the handling of our less pleasant qualities' appearing in our children is to recognize the qualities. It has taken me years, literally, to realize that I wasn't a perfect child. For the life of me, I could not recognize anything of me in my older boy's ultra-hyper-uber competitiveness. Then, and this actually took considerable reflection, I recalled tapping a tremendous source of competitive aggression when playing against my father in a Thanksgiving day basketball game when I was in high- school. The realization that I, too, had the capacity for athletic-oriented, intensely competitive zeal/mania was eye-opening. It provided me with some insight into my older boy's reactions to playing sports with me. Also, a considerable searching of childhood memories afforded me with an insight into my older son's occasional (and completely age-appropriate) shabby treatment of his friends when they don't want to do what he wants. I was i second grade. My best friend was over to play. Somehow, I got the idea that we could go to see the movie Grease (it would be my seventh viewing). I LOVED that movie (Olivia Newton-John was my first love). My best friend was not so excited. He said he didn't want to go. My father, very appropriately said, we would not be going. I was outraged. In a huff, I ran upstairs and, slamming my door, sequestered myself in my room. Obviously, this was not the most gracious reaction to disappointment. I had completely forgotten about the incident until I witnessed my son's sequestering himself in his room during his birthday party (I forget what set him off). After observing his behavior, searching my memory, and realizing that I had once acted similarly- I felt better equipped to help my son more graciously handle his frustrations vis-a-vis his friends.
As a child, I played the role of the incompetent like a pro. Any task that I was asked to do (like setting the table before dinner or clearing the table after dinner), I did so poorly that my sister or mother or father had to take over and complete themselves. It is pure justice, therefore, that my younger son has adapted a similar approach to his chores. He feigns the inability to do many tasks that I know he can do. He does it with such conviction, such creativity that I almost believe him. But then I recall my own childhood, my own youthful shenanigans to get out of daily chores. Empowered with such knowledge, I'll often say to my son, "you can't fool me. I used to try the same tricks. Please go ahead and do...." But my younger boy is unyielding. His insistence that he cannot perform the chore is so convincing that I often find myself completing his tasks. Boy, can he be inflexible!!!!! He's so... stubborn!!! (And that's my wife's fault).
Just joking.
Sometimes the opposite can be true. Rather than blame one's spouse for a child's misbehavior, a parent gladly takes responsibility for a child's positive behavior. I specialize in this. I often credit myself for my older son's athletic skills or his charming ways; I also see myself in my younger son's zany sense of humor or his great imagination. Yes, it is easy to see one's self in one's children when they are acting in a pleasing manner. But what happens when we see our short-comings in our children. How to handle this?
The first challenge in the handling of our less pleasant qualities' appearing in our children is to recognize the qualities. It has taken me years, literally, to realize that I wasn't a perfect child. For the life of me, I could not recognize anything of me in my older boy's ultra-hyper-uber competitiveness. Then, and this actually took considerable reflection, I recalled tapping a tremendous source of competitive aggression when playing against my father in a Thanksgiving day basketball game when I was in high- school. The realization that I, too, had the capacity for athletic-oriented, intensely competitive zeal/mania was eye-opening. It provided me with some insight into my older boy's reactions to playing sports with me. Also, a considerable searching of childhood memories afforded me with an insight into my older son's occasional (and completely age-appropriate) shabby treatment of his friends when they don't want to do what he wants. I was i second grade. My best friend was over to play. Somehow, I got the idea that we could go to see the movie Grease (it would be my seventh viewing). I LOVED that movie (Olivia Newton-John was my first love). My best friend was not so excited. He said he didn't want to go. My father, very appropriately said, we would not be going. I was outraged. In a huff, I ran upstairs and, slamming my door, sequestered myself in my room. Obviously, this was not the most gracious reaction to disappointment. I had completely forgotten about the incident until I witnessed my son's sequestering himself in his room during his birthday party (I forget what set him off). After observing his behavior, searching my memory, and realizing that I had once acted similarly- I felt better equipped to help my son more graciously handle his frustrations vis-a-vis his friends.
As a child, I played the role of the incompetent like a pro. Any task that I was asked to do (like setting the table before dinner or clearing the table after dinner), I did so poorly that my sister or mother or father had to take over and complete themselves. It is pure justice, therefore, that my younger son has adapted a similar approach to his chores. He feigns the inability to do many tasks that I know he can do. He does it with such conviction, such creativity that I almost believe him. But then I recall my own childhood, my own youthful shenanigans to get out of daily chores. Empowered with such knowledge, I'll often say to my son, "you can't fool me. I used to try the same tricks. Please go ahead and do...." But my younger boy is unyielding. His insistence that he cannot perform the chore is so convincing that I often find myself completing his tasks. Boy, can he be inflexible!!!!! He's so... stubborn!!! (And that's my wife's fault).
Just joking.
Monday, May 24, 2010
A Delicate Balance
My boys' baseball game was cancelled this Saturday. However, our Saturday was not athletics-free. Instead the athletic void created by the cancellation led to a near-frantic playing of any sport available. This consisted of Basketball and Paddle Tennis (with some catch thrown-in- excuse the pun). For the most part, my older son and I played; my younger son helped my wife with gardening. While playing with my older son, I reflected on the delicate balance that needs to be struck in any father/son competition.
The balance in question? How hard to try. Do I let my son win? Sure. He will feel good for the moment, but am I doing him a disservice by not trying harder. This is a pertinent question when I play with my son. First, he's very competitive. Like many people, he loves to win and hates to lose. Second, he is very talented athletically and wants to improve his game (and ultimately achieve his goal of having a professional sports/naturalist TV host career).
Regarding my son's competitiveness: it is important that I let him win to foster his self-esteem, but isn't it also important that I teach him how to handle not always winning? (I know this sounds self-serving because any lesson in losing for my son is an experience in winning for me.) That I'm even discussing the "experience in winning for me" point is an indication that I, too, am perhaps guilty of being a tad competitive (I can picture my wife nodding in agreement when she reads this). The cynic would say that I might want to beat my son because I want to win, not because I want to teach him how to handle defeat. The earnest father might argue otherwise, but his words might ring hollow. Perhaps I am winning just because I like to win, but I am going to avoid taking responsibility for what is surely a profound immaturity by blaming my son (and, in so doing, prove that I'm not immature?).
If he wasn't so good at sports, this whole "who should win?" conflict would never arise. When he was younger, there was no question who was better. Our games were clearly dictated by the more skilled player (the one who had been playing for twenty-five years before my son was even born). I could afford to let him win because I was confident that I could beat him if I tried. Now, I can still beat my son, but I have to really try which is troubling on a number of levels. It is embarrassing (because I am trying to defeat my son and, thus, teach him how to be less competitive?), tiring (because I am old and he is young), and ultimately frustrating because I either win (and feel guilty as I witness my son's disappointment) or lose (and feel disappointment which revolves around either my chagrin due to losing or due to my caring that I lost).
This Saturday was a good example of the quandary in which I frequently find myself. My son and I were playing a game of basketball. He quickly jumped out to a 16-6 lead. I said to him, "now I'm going to try hard and catch up, okay?" (This was kind of a cop-out; my son acquiesced, but what else was he going to do? And by verbalizing that I was about to engage in potentially immature behavior: does that make the immaturity any less immature? So, I clamped down on D and caught up. It was no cake-walk, and I was feeling faint when, at 30-26 (MY LEAD!!!!!), my son mercifully said, "I'm not really in the mood. Let's play paddle tennis."
During the tennis game, I did not play too hard. I hit balls to my son that he easily return. I was trying to allow him to gain experience and feel that he was gaining skills. Still, he was agitated. His demeanor slowly evolved from sunny to serious to quiet to sullen to near-tears. He was extremely frustrated that I was returning some of his hardest hit balls. I felt somewhat frustrated myself as I had made a point not to play too hard yet had still managed to discourage/upset my boy. Finally, he said that he wanted to quit. We went home, where my son angrily stormed to his room. At first, I was puzzled by his reaction. I had thought that I had reached the perfect competitive compromise, forcing my son to play well while not trying to win. But it is a delicate balance, and I have not yet found the proper recipe. I ended up focusing on the positive. True, my son is wildly competitive, but what champion isn't. Bill Russell, Tom Brady, Lary Bird, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett. I'm sure that their reactions to athletic adversity would have been equally strong as my boy's.
The balance in question? How hard to try. Do I let my son win? Sure. He will feel good for the moment, but am I doing him a disservice by not trying harder. This is a pertinent question when I play with my son. First, he's very competitive. Like many people, he loves to win and hates to lose. Second, he is very talented athletically and wants to improve his game (and ultimately achieve his goal of having a professional sports/naturalist TV host career).
Regarding my son's competitiveness: it is important that I let him win to foster his self-esteem, but isn't it also important that I teach him how to handle not always winning? (I know this sounds self-serving because any lesson in losing for my son is an experience in winning for me.) That I'm even discussing the "experience in winning for me" point is an indication that I, too, am perhaps guilty of being a tad competitive (I can picture my wife nodding in agreement when she reads this). The cynic would say that I might want to beat my son because I want to win, not because I want to teach him how to handle defeat. The earnest father might argue otherwise, but his words might ring hollow. Perhaps I am winning just because I like to win, but I am going to avoid taking responsibility for what is surely a profound immaturity by blaming my son (and, in so doing, prove that I'm not immature?).
If he wasn't so good at sports, this whole "who should win?" conflict would never arise. When he was younger, there was no question who was better. Our games were clearly dictated by the more skilled player (the one who had been playing for twenty-five years before my son was even born). I could afford to let him win because I was confident that I could beat him if I tried. Now, I can still beat my son, but I have to really try which is troubling on a number of levels. It is embarrassing (because I am trying to defeat my son and, thus, teach him how to be less competitive?), tiring (because I am old and he is young), and ultimately frustrating because I either win (and feel guilty as I witness my son's disappointment) or lose (and feel disappointment which revolves around either my chagrin due to losing or due to my caring that I lost).
This Saturday was a good example of the quandary in which I frequently find myself. My son and I were playing a game of basketball. He quickly jumped out to a 16-6 lead. I said to him, "now I'm going to try hard and catch up, okay?" (This was kind of a cop-out; my son acquiesced, but what else was he going to do? And by verbalizing that I was about to engage in potentially immature behavior: does that make the immaturity any less immature? So, I clamped down on D and caught up. It was no cake-walk, and I was feeling faint when, at 30-26 (MY LEAD!!!!!), my son mercifully said, "I'm not really in the mood. Let's play paddle tennis."
During the tennis game, I did not play too hard. I hit balls to my son that he easily return. I was trying to allow him to gain experience and feel that he was gaining skills. Still, he was agitated. His demeanor slowly evolved from sunny to serious to quiet to sullen to near-tears. He was extremely frustrated that I was returning some of his hardest hit balls. I felt somewhat frustrated myself as I had made a point not to play too hard yet had still managed to discourage/upset my boy. Finally, he said that he wanted to quit. We went home, where my son angrily stormed to his room. At first, I was puzzled by his reaction. I had thought that I had reached the perfect competitive compromise, forcing my son to play well while not trying to win. But it is a delicate balance, and I have not yet found the proper recipe. I ended up focusing on the positive. True, my son is wildly competitive, but what champion isn't. Bill Russell, Tom Brady, Lary Bird, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett. I'm sure that their reactions to athletic adversity would have been equally strong as my boy's.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Good, Clean Rap and an Embarrassment of Riches
It was last Saturday morning. My older boy was standing in front of our stereo. He was intently listening to some really cool rap music that I had down-loaded the day before. If you've read my previous posts than you know that one of my strategies for producing hip (socially speaking) children is introducing them to cool music. There is no music cooler than cool rap music. So, I was delighted. My son turned to me. "Daddy," he said in the excited voice that he uses when he's discovered something really interesting, "now I know why you like rap so much. It's awesome!!!" I was pleased to hear him speak these words. He has always liked rap music, but had never articulated his appreciation so eloquently. (At this point, I feel that an apology is order for my wife who doesn't share my enthusiasm for rap. Sorry, babe.) Along with my excitement, there came a little apprehension. While down-loading the songs, I had not been able to find the edited (or clean, as it appears in itunes) versions of most of the songs. It's alright, I thought, he won't pick up the inappropriate words for years. All worries regarding the new rap music left my consciousness at this point. It was nearly game time. We had to get our minds right.
When I say "we," I mean my older boy, younger boy and I. My wife was, unfortunately, working this morning so would be unable to attend the game. Another reason that WE needed to get our minds ready for the game is that both boys would be playing on my older son's team. I'll sum up the game quickly. It was, as always, super fun. I am not sure why I enjoy watching my boys play baseball so much, but boy do I. Our team lost, but it didn't matter at all. My boys, and I am saying this with a great degree of pride, were a combined 3-3 from the plate. My older boy hit a single and a double. (He easily could have stretched his double to a triple or even an inside the park home-run; it was that well-hit). And my younger son, and this is possibly more impressive than the work by his more experienced, harder-hitting brother, legged out a well-hit single. Now, I would like to tell you that I handled my younger son's hit with a been-there, done-that style, but I can't. I stood in the entrance to the dug-out leaping up and down with my hands raised in triumph. As dorky as I undoubtedly looked, my younger son was beaming. It was worth it.
Later that night, we were eating dinner with friends, discussing the baseball game (our friends' son is on the team, as well). The reason, we decided, that baseball is such an excellent forum for youth sports is this. It is, in a lot of ways, a very individual sport. One can appreciate, just to take a random example, my older boy's masterful handling of a ground ball, his expertly turning to second to get the force-out, and ignore the second basement who was playing in the dirt. Similarly, one could ignore the players who struck-out before and after my younger son's single. The point is the team can not be performing at an optimal level, but the individual child can still excel.
But the baseball game was just the beginning of what would be a treasure trove of athletic activities during the weekend. We arrived home from the game and rested? no, cleaned ourselves? no, ate? no again. We arrived home and went out back to play basketball. Now, everyone should now have the impression that we are a very tough, hard-nosed family when it comes to sports. But just to further emphasize this point, we all played basketball shirtless. That's right. One father and two sons sans shirts. We played for, and I am not joking here (sadly), almost two hours. During this time, I realized a depressing thing. My older son is not that far away from beating me even if I really try. Now, I started to beat my father in basketball at the age of eleven. I was always sure that I could hold my son off, easily, until he was fifteen or sixteen. It is time to, perhaps, rethink this as he, an eight year-old, has some serious skills. Serious skills, indeed, that are often put to excellent use. Perhaps my favorite moment of the afternoon came when, after I had gone inside for a quick drink, I came out to find my older boy schooling my younger son on basketball technique (at my younger son's request; awesome). My older boy's advice was sound too. Establish your outside shot. Then use a pump-fake and drive to the basket. Picture me weeping tears of joy. All is right with the world, and it is not yet noon.
One negative of the basketball experience involves my younger son. He loves to play, but is too small, yet to reach a ten foot basket. Our basket is supposed to be adjustable, but it doesn't operate properly so my youngest is relegated to a tiny hoop. It won't be long, however (probably sometime this summer) that he will be able to reach the bigger hoop. That will represent paradise-found.
After the basketball, and I know how crazy this sounds and is, we went to our across-the-street neighbors' house. They have a paddle-ball (picture tennis with paddles on a half-sized tennis court) in their back-yard. My boys and I love to play there, and as our neighbors' boys have graduated college (no longer live at home) the court is always free. Anyhow, this was a very exciting event because we can all participate. At one point, I moved off to the side as my boys played against each other. With the pride of a job well-done, I watched my younger son's perfect follow through on his forehand only to be equally pleased with my older boy's backhand form.
Life was going pretty smoothly at this point. A wonderful morning filled with sunny skies, a great baseball game, fun basketball, paddle tennis and athletic prowess displayed by both boys. I became a little alarmed. Too much was going right. Some challenge was bound to appear and, soon, it did.
We went home after an hour of playing paddle tennis. I decided to take a shower. I turned on the water, and my older boy ran in with a smile. "Daddy," he said breathless with excitement, "guess what Snoop Dogg just said?" Oh, no, I thought. "What?" I asked preparing for the worst. "Big Booty!!!!" he exclaimed with glee, "he said BIG BOOTY." I froze. How to respond appropriately to this situation? "It's okay, though," my son said, "he was just joking. Snoop wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings." "You're right," I answered, "Snoop tries very hard not to hurt anyone's feelings." As I took my shower, I thought, that didn't go too bad. Big Booty!!??!!!?? Of all the bad words he could have heard, that's really light weight. My wife didn't think so. She came home while I was in the shower. My son greeted her with, "Mom, I love Snoop Dogg. [Just what any tired mother wants to hear]. And he said 'BIG BOOTY.'" My wife opened our bathroom door. "We have to do something about these new rap songs, she said. They're all marked 'explicit.'" "I'll go on i-tunes later," I said, "and try to find the edited versions."
I finished my shower and got dressed. It was time to go to our friends' house for dinner. Maybe all this rap mania will die down, I was hoping. Perhaps my son has already lost interest.
I went into the garage to join my family for our drive to our friends' house. "Snoo-oop, Snoo-oop," my son chanted. He was referring to Snoop Dogg. GULP. "Drop it like it's hot, Drop it like it's hot," my older boy began to rap. Time for me to find some edited songs and maybe encourage my son to listen to opera. Puccini rarely has words deleted from his songs when they play on radio.
After dinner, I went on i-tunes and re-downloaded all the songs, but made sure to download the 'clean' or edited version. Crisis averted. I had found some good, clean rap for my boys. They could still benefit from the cool music (in terms of making them cooler). But the rap my boys heard would be as non-offensive as possible.
When I say "we," I mean my older boy, younger boy and I. My wife was, unfortunately, working this morning so would be unable to attend the game. Another reason that WE needed to get our minds ready for the game is that both boys would be playing on my older son's team. I'll sum up the game quickly. It was, as always, super fun. I am not sure why I enjoy watching my boys play baseball so much, but boy do I. Our team lost, but it didn't matter at all. My boys, and I am saying this with a great degree of pride, were a combined 3-3 from the plate. My older boy hit a single and a double. (He easily could have stretched his double to a triple or even an inside the park home-run; it was that well-hit). And my younger son, and this is possibly more impressive than the work by his more experienced, harder-hitting brother, legged out a well-hit single. Now, I would like to tell you that I handled my younger son's hit with a been-there, done-that style, but I can't. I stood in the entrance to the dug-out leaping up and down with my hands raised in triumph. As dorky as I undoubtedly looked, my younger son was beaming. It was worth it.
Later that night, we were eating dinner with friends, discussing the baseball game (our friends' son is on the team, as well). The reason, we decided, that baseball is such an excellent forum for youth sports is this. It is, in a lot of ways, a very individual sport. One can appreciate, just to take a random example, my older boy's masterful handling of a ground ball, his expertly turning to second to get the force-out, and ignore the second basement who was playing in the dirt. Similarly, one could ignore the players who struck-out before and after my younger son's single. The point is the team can not be performing at an optimal level, but the individual child can still excel.
But the baseball game was just the beginning of what would be a treasure trove of athletic activities during the weekend. We arrived home from the game and rested? no, cleaned ourselves? no, ate? no again. We arrived home and went out back to play basketball. Now, everyone should now have the impression that we are a very tough, hard-nosed family when it comes to sports. But just to further emphasize this point, we all played basketball shirtless. That's right. One father and two sons sans shirts. We played for, and I am not joking here (sadly), almost two hours. During this time, I realized a depressing thing. My older son is not that far away from beating me even if I really try. Now, I started to beat my father in basketball at the age of eleven. I was always sure that I could hold my son off, easily, until he was fifteen or sixteen. It is time to, perhaps, rethink this as he, an eight year-old, has some serious skills. Serious skills, indeed, that are often put to excellent use. Perhaps my favorite moment of the afternoon came when, after I had gone inside for a quick drink, I came out to find my older boy schooling my younger son on basketball technique (at my younger son's request; awesome). My older boy's advice was sound too. Establish your outside shot. Then use a pump-fake and drive to the basket. Picture me weeping tears of joy. All is right with the world, and it is not yet noon.
One negative of the basketball experience involves my younger son. He loves to play, but is too small, yet to reach a ten foot basket. Our basket is supposed to be adjustable, but it doesn't operate properly so my youngest is relegated to a tiny hoop. It won't be long, however (probably sometime this summer) that he will be able to reach the bigger hoop. That will represent paradise-found.
After the basketball, and I know how crazy this sounds and is, we went to our across-the-street neighbors' house. They have a paddle-ball (picture tennis with paddles on a half-sized tennis court) in their back-yard. My boys and I love to play there, and as our neighbors' boys have graduated college (no longer live at home) the court is always free. Anyhow, this was a very exciting event because we can all participate. At one point, I moved off to the side as my boys played against each other. With the pride of a job well-done, I watched my younger son's perfect follow through on his forehand only to be equally pleased with my older boy's backhand form.
Life was going pretty smoothly at this point. A wonderful morning filled with sunny skies, a great baseball game, fun basketball, paddle tennis and athletic prowess displayed by both boys. I became a little alarmed. Too much was going right. Some challenge was bound to appear and, soon, it did.
We went home after an hour of playing paddle tennis. I decided to take a shower. I turned on the water, and my older boy ran in with a smile. "Daddy," he said breathless with excitement, "guess what Snoop Dogg just said?" Oh, no, I thought. "What?" I asked preparing for the worst. "Big Booty!!!!" he exclaimed with glee, "he said BIG BOOTY." I froze. How to respond appropriately to this situation? "It's okay, though," my son said, "he was just joking. Snoop wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings." "You're right," I answered, "Snoop tries very hard not to hurt anyone's feelings." As I took my shower, I thought, that didn't go too bad. Big Booty!!??!!!?? Of all the bad words he could have heard, that's really light weight. My wife didn't think so. She came home while I was in the shower. My son greeted her with, "Mom, I love Snoop Dogg. [Just what any tired mother wants to hear]. And he said 'BIG BOOTY.'" My wife opened our bathroom door. "We have to do something about these new rap songs, she said. They're all marked 'explicit.'" "I'll go on i-tunes later," I said, "and try to find the edited versions."
I finished my shower and got dressed. It was time to go to our friends' house for dinner. Maybe all this rap mania will die down, I was hoping. Perhaps my son has already lost interest.
I went into the garage to join my family for our drive to our friends' house. "Snoo-oop, Snoo-oop," my son chanted. He was referring to Snoop Dogg. GULP. "Drop it like it's hot, Drop it like it's hot," my older boy began to rap. Time for me to find some edited songs and maybe encourage my son to listen to opera. Puccini rarely has words deleted from his songs when they play on radio.
After dinner, I went on i-tunes and re-downloaded all the songs, but made sure to download the 'clean' or edited version. Crisis averted. I had found some good, clean rap for my boys. They could still benefit from the cool music (in terms of making them cooler). But the rap my boys heard would be as non-offensive as possible.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Trials and Tribulations
Yes, parenting can be a roller-coaster rides. At one moment, a parent is climbing toward the heavens only to drop steeply back to earth a moment later. Last night, I experienced a couple of significant "rise toward the heavens" moment; this morning, I precipitously fell back to earth.
Yesterday, the Boston Celtics beat the Cleveland Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference Semifinals. Rising toward the heavens. My boys and I were, of course, watching. At one point, there was a gatorade advertisement which featured various NBA players. Expressions of determination/aggression/manliness were displayed on our TV. This ad did not focus on teams; one could only see the players faces. It was with considerable pride that I beheld my five year-old son greet each player's face with "dumb-head" or "cool guy" depending on whether they played for the Celtics. I would guess that most adults couldn't recognize the faces of different NBA players (no jerseys) and successfully identify his team. Not only did my son do this, but he had the excellent sense to berate all players who do not play for the Celtics. Ah, sweet music. The ascent to the heavens was almost dizzying at this point.
The night before, I experienced a similar moment of pride. I was in our office downloading some music from i-tunes. My older son was downstairs reading "How to Speak Dragonese" (book 3 in the How to Train a Dragon series by Cressida Cowell; My son loves these books) and my younger boy was engaged in an imaginary sword battle in our living-room. The music that I was downloading consisted of some particularly cool rap songs that I really enjoy. Before one downloads any song from i-tunes, one has the chance to listen to thirty seconds of the song (to make sure that it is the intended song). As if drawn by the coolness of the music (that was just emanating from my computer), both boys dashed into the office and began to dance. And not merely haphazard dancing. No, they were feeling the music- bopping at all the right times, a smooth gangster-lean and faces of dispassionate coolness. And my boys are not followers. They have their own moves. My older son does a jerky, but effective, hybrid of the running-man and a jump-squat, and my younger son's dancing closely resembles Brazilian martial-arts dancing (punches and kicks to the rhythm). VERY COOL. The warm winds of gratifying parenting-moment (parent-moment?) were washing over me.
Sadly, every rise to the heavens moment is met with a startling fall. Enter this mornings activities. We were doing great. We had eaten our breakfasts. It was 7:31AM. We were on-schedule and looking cool. Then, it all fell apart. Getting my younger son to put on his shoes is like organizing a middle-east peace summit- not easy. So, I am asking, requesting more firmly, Asking Loudly Now, YELLING, "would you, PLEASE, put on your shoes!!!!???!!!" If I had opened the door to the space shuttle and asked the moon to put on its shoes, I would have gotten more of a response. This is frustrating. "Come on," I yell at no one in particular (this is good because, I assure you, no one was listening). Then, to make my morning experience even more pleasant my younger son taunted my older son with a "I'm stronger than you" comment. And my older son, rather than maturely pointing out their age difference/size difference/and thus, strength difference, straight-arms his younger brother into the floor. Now, I found myself yelling at my older boy, "Why did you do that? You are bigger and stronger than him; you could hurt him." My older boy looked at me like I was speaking Greek. "Because he said that he was stronger than me. So, I had to show him he was wrong." My blood had gone from a light simmer (when I first noticed my younger son's not putting on his shoes) to a far more intense simmer (after having seen my younger son thrown to the ground by his brother). Enter the full boil. My boys (somehow working in cahoots to drive me mad without ever formulating a game plan) ratchet up their vexing of me. My younger son put on our dog's leash in an effort to prepare for our walk to school (although HE STILL DOESN'T HAVE HIS SHOES ON). At this point, my older son grabs the leash and proceeds to drag my younger son on the floor. Now, I really lost it. "THAT'S IT," I bellowed, "YOU HAVE BOTH LOST ALL YOUR G-BUCKS! YOU'VE LOST YOUR ALLOWANCE!" I pounded our counter-top for emphasis (The counter-top is very hard; hitting it makes no noise and really hurts, but it seemed like the right move). Even in the midst of my rant, I realized how ridiculous I looked/sounded. So, did my boys, but they had the grace not tell me to my face (why kick a man when he's down?). The yelling does convince them that it's time to actually leave for school. It was now 7:47AM. Sixteen minutes wasted; our leisurely walk to school would now have to be a quick march/slow jog. But we made it to school on time. I admitted, during our walk, that "Daddy got a little hype there, boys. It isn't really fair for me to fly off the handle and take away all your G-Bucks." My older son seemed to appreciate that I was coming back to my senses. "Yeah daddy," he said, "I've done a lot worse and only lost five G-Bucks." I smiled at my older boy. He was right. I looked at my younger son, wondering what I should say to make sure that he wasn't distressed by my outburst. I needn't have worried. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, "daddy," he said, "isn't it funny in Planet 51 (the movie), when the alien looks at the guy's penis and thinks it's an antenna?" "Yeah, that is funny," I said. We resumed our walking. Ours was a peaceful, but purposeful pace. I wondered why I couldn't maintain a rational/even demeanor in the midst of pre-depart-for-school-madness of morning. For a moment, I wondered if a better father would have acted differently. But this notion didn't last. I took a zen approach to the whole ordeal. Pleasing ascents to the heavens will always be met by the occasional descent back to earth.
Yesterday, the Boston Celtics beat the Cleveland Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference Semifinals. Rising toward the heavens. My boys and I were, of course, watching. At one point, there was a gatorade advertisement which featured various NBA players. Expressions of determination/aggression/manliness were displayed on our TV. This ad did not focus on teams; one could only see the players faces. It was with considerable pride that I beheld my five year-old son greet each player's face with "dumb-head" or "cool guy" depending on whether they played for the Celtics. I would guess that most adults couldn't recognize the faces of different NBA players (no jerseys) and successfully identify his team. Not only did my son do this, but he had the excellent sense to berate all players who do not play for the Celtics. Ah, sweet music. The ascent to the heavens was almost dizzying at this point.
The night before, I experienced a similar moment of pride. I was in our office downloading some music from i-tunes. My older son was downstairs reading "How to Speak Dragonese" (book 3 in the How to Train a Dragon series by Cressida Cowell; My son loves these books) and my younger boy was engaged in an imaginary sword battle in our living-room. The music that I was downloading consisted of some particularly cool rap songs that I really enjoy. Before one downloads any song from i-tunes, one has the chance to listen to thirty seconds of the song (to make sure that it is the intended song). As if drawn by the coolness of the music (that was just emanating from my computer), both boys dashed into the office and began to dance. And not merely haphazard dancing. No, they were feeling the music- bopping at all the right times, a smooth gangster-lean and faces of dispassionate coolness. And my boys are not followers. They have their own moves. My older son does a jerky, but effective, hybrid of the running-man and a jump-squat, and my younger son's dancing closely resembles Brazilian martial-arts dancing (punches and kicks to the rhythm). VERY COOL. The warm winds of gratifying parenting-moment (parent-moment?) were washing over me.
Sadly, every rise to the heavens moment is met with a startling fall. Enter this mornings activities. We were doing great. We had eaten our breakfasts. It was 7:31AM. We were on-schedule and looking cool. Then, it all fell apart. Getting my younger son to put on his shoes is like organizing a middle-east peace summit- not easy. So, I am asking, requesting more firmly, Asking Loudly Now, YELLING, "would you, PLEASE, put on your shoes!!!!???!!!" If I had opened the door to the space shuttle and asked the moon to put on its shoes, I would have gotten more of a response. This is frustrating. "Come on," I yell at no one in particular (this is good because, I assure you, no one was listening). Then, to make my morning experience even more pleasant my younger son taunted my older son with a "I'm stronger than you" comment. And my older son, rather than maturely pointing out their age difference/size difference/and thus, strength difference, straight-arms his younger brother into the floor. Now, I found myself yelling at my older boy, "Why did you do that? You are bigger and stronger than him; you could hurt him." My older boy looked at me like I was speaking Greek. "Because he said that he was stronger than me. So, I had to show him he was wrong." My blood had gone from a light simmer (when I first noticed my younger son's not putting on his shoes) to a far more intense simmer (after having seen my younger son thrown to the ground by his brother). Enter the full boil. My boys (somehow working in cahoots to drive me mad without ever formulating a game plan) ratchet up their vexing of me. My younger son put on our dog's leash in an effort to prepare for our walk to school (although HE STILL DOESN'T HAVE HIS SHOES ON). At this point, my older son grabs the leash and proceeds to drag my younger son on the floor. Now, I really lost it. "THAT'S IT," I bellowed, "YOU HAVE BOTH LOST ALL YOUR G-BUCKS! YOU'VE LOST YOUR ALLOWANCE!" I pounded our counter-top for emphasis (The counter-top is very hard; hitting it makes no noise and really hurts, but it seemed like the right move). Even in the midst of my rant, I realized how ridiculous I looked/sounded. So, did my boys, but they had the grace not tell me to my face (why kick a man when he's down?). The yelling does convince them that it's time to actually leave for school. It was now 7:47AM. Sixteen minutes wasted; our leisurely walk to school would now have to be a quick march/slow jog. But we made it to school on time. I admitted, during our walk, that "Daddy got a little hype there, boys. It isn't really fair for me to fly off the handle and take away all your G-Bucks." My older son seemed to appreciate that I was coming back to my senses. "Yeah daddy," he said, "I've done a lot worse and only lost five G-Bucks." I smiled at my older boy. He was right. I looked at my younger son, wondering what I should say to make sure that he wasn't distressed by my outburst. I needn't have worried. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, "daddy," he said, "isn't it funny in Planet 51 (the movie), when the alien looks at the guy's penis and thinks it's an antenna?" "Yeah, that is funny," I said. We resumed our walking. Ours was a peaceful, but purposeful pace. I wondered why I couldn't maintain a rational/even demeanor in the midst of pre-depart-for-school-madness of morning. For a moment, I wondered if a better father would have acted differently. But this notion didn't last. I took a zen approach to the whole ordeal. Pleasing ascents to the heavens will always be met by the occasional descent back to earth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)