I pondered briefly with the idea of evolution, but since I’ve had children I am convinced there is a greater being who designed this interesting life we parents lead. They are someone with a great sense of humour sitting cross legged on a cloud having a good old chuckle everyday at our expense.
Someone who watched us as Dinkies (double income no kids), partying, holidaying, sleeping (oh remember sleeping?), reading undisturbed and then planted the idea into our heads that life would be all the more glorious if we had children – what a bizarre idea.
So look - there we are, swollen with pregnancy, vomiting and passing out and becoming more distorted in size – and how bizarre we look.
And – oh look at me now - going through the worst physical pain imaginable, an ordeal that should be rewarded with a couple of weeks in hospital but instead rushing home to get up every few hours to empty any goodness we have left in our bodies into a babies mouth – and how bizarre we look.
And there we are now sitting proudly showing off our newborn as if it’s the most beautiful thing, while others, more connected with reality, stare down at a screaming, purple rat and lie through their teeth at the beauty of it – and how bizarre we all look.
And – look at us now – we’re doing it all again - consequently spending years wiping poo and vomit off all manner of places and assuring ourselves that this is far more worthy than drinking cocktails by a pool at a Bali resort or shopping in Milan – now the big creator fella is really laughing.
And so it goes: freezing at sports fields in the weekend, sleeping in tents with rowdy children, baking muffins for plates in the middle of the night, modifying ballet costumes (also at midnight), regularly practicing the guitar when you don’t even know how to play it and on and on the bizarreness goes.
We’ll that’s as bizarre as I’ve got so far. But with ten years and more of this to come I could rewrite the lyrics to OMC’s top ten hit and make it my theme song. I just hope there’s somebody up there still getting some amusement out of it all.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Heading for a Fight
I confess that sometimes the parental taxi service gets so busy that we run from one thing to another without necessarily thinking it through. Ballet, swimming, drama, piano, guitar, soccer, netball – oh yeah, and school - and on it goes. So a few Saturdays ago when I looked in the diary and saw that a Tae Kwon Do tournament was next on the list, I was more worried whether the Dobok was clean and how we would fit it around winter sports, than what we were actually letting our children in for.
When we arrived boy-child boldly announced ‘my fight is at 4.30.’ “Fight? What fight?’ I said, suddenly becoming distracted about how close I was to a shopping mall. I proudly watched girl-child in patterns and thought about what a lovely extra curricular activity this was. But when I saw my son being kitted out in helmet and body padding, a cold sweat started to break out all over me. My anxiety levels then escalated off the scale watching one of his little school mates kicking the living daylights out of some stranger on an over sized mat. The fight was stopped momentarily while one of the wee boys wiped his tears and gained his composure. Mothers were silently crying and fathers were grinning proudly. This was surely not happening!
But there he was – boy-child – on the mat – psyched to the max, the buzzer went and the fight began. I cannot explain what I felt at that moment, but a voice inside my head kept saying ‘this jest aint natural.’ I am supposed to be a nurturing mother and yet here I am supporting my son in a ‘scrap.’ I decided to cheer for him to distract myself.
“Kick him Zandie, kick him,’ I called out and then recoiled in horror. ‘OMG what am I doing?” My sweet little boy won his fight and there was back slapping and hand shaking all around. Well – from the blokes anyway. The woman gave each other sympathetic looks and half hugs as we wondered how we had meandered in to this foreign land.
Logic says Tae Kwon Do is a fantastic sport for discipline, strength, self discovery, and, of course self protection. Logic is, of course, correct, but logic doesn’t always work for emotional mothers.
The kids love it – they’ll keep doing it with my full support. But next time there’s a tournament – I’ll be cowering in the toilets – or even better – heading for that shopping mall.
I confess that sometimes the parental taxi service gets so busy that we run from one thing to another without necessarily thinking it through. Ballet, swimming, drama, piano, guitar, soccer, netball – oh yeah, and school - and on it goes. So a few Saturdays ago when I looked in the diary and saw that a Tae Kwon Do tournament was next on the list, I was more worried whether the Dobok was clean and how we would fit it around winter sports, than what we were actually letting our children in for.
When we arrived boy-child boldly announced ‘my fight is at 4.30.’ “Fight? What fight?’ I said, suddenly becoming distracted about how close I was to a shopping mall. I proudly watched girl-child in patterns and thought about what a lovely extra curricular activity this was. But when I saw my son being kitted out in helmet and body padding, a cold sweat started to break out all over me. My anxiety levels then escalated off the scale watching one of his little school mates kicking the living daylights out of some stranger on an over sized mat. The fight was stopped momentarily while one of the wee boys wiped his tears and gained his composure. Mothers were silently crying and fathers were grinning proudly. This was surely not happening!
But there he was – boy-child – on the mat – psyched to the max, the buzzer went and the fight began. I cannot explain what I felt at that moment, but a voice inside my head kept saying ‘this jest aint natural.’ I am supposed to be a nurturing mother and yet here I am supporting my son in a ‘scrap.’ I decided to cheer for him to distract myself.
“Kick him Zandie, kick him,’ I called out and then recoiled in horror. ‘OMG what am I doing?” My sweet little boy won his fight and there was back slapping and hand shaking all around. Well – from the blokes anyway. The woman gave each other sympathetic looks and half hugs as we wondered how we had meandered in to this foreign land.
Logic says Tae Kwon Do is a fantastic sport for discipline, strength, self discovery, and, of course self protection. Logic is, of course, correct, but logic doesn’t always work for emotional mothers.
The kids love it – they’ll keep doing it with my full support. But next time there’s a tournament – I’ll be cowering in the toilets – or even better – heading for that shopping mall.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
A Day in the Life Of...
1am: awake to horrible sound, choking? Coughing? Gagging. Oh no it’s vomiting. Stumble out of bed, see silhouette of boy child violently regurgitating lovingly prepared Coq Au Vin into basin. Get him back to bed with bowl and towel and return to chaos. Plug won’t come out properly, try to poke bits of chicken and carrot (we didn’t even have carrot) down the hole with plug in way. My lovely dinner – my soul is destroyed.
1.30am: Return to bed, and worry. Worry about work, worry about money, worry about the Hutus and the Tootsies in Rwanda. In the morning I won’t care, but 1.30 in the morning seems to be automatically reserved for mindless worry.
2.30: Husband child leaps out of bed in fright. ‘Boy Child is vomiting.’ Thanks for noticing the first time. Lights are switched on and off, there is crashing and banging and noise. I hide in bed – does he have to be so noisy? “The bowl you gave him wasn’t big enough’ he says “he’s vomited all through his bed.’ I reach for my figurative ‘bad mother’ badge - lately I’ve been wearing it a lot.
3.30: Repeat of 1am. We both collapse back into bed. I ridiculously ponder how it might still be possible to send boychild to school – bit of make up to cover pale skin and cup of pamol? Begin sleepy ‘my job is more important than your job’ conversation – someone must stay home. I have meetings. I do too. Mine are really important. Are you saying mine are not?
7.30: Wake with a start. Early vet appointment for cat to get $300 stitches out. Spot cat, grab cat cage, reach for cuppa. Where is cat? Search house. Dam. Race outside shaking cat biscuits. “Daffodil, Daffodil. Where are you stupid cat?” I stand in the rain, in pyjamas, rattling a box of biscuits screaming for a spring bulb.’ Even in Paekakariki I am looking odd!
7.45: Cancel vet, drive to work drinking tea and stuffing down toast.
9am: Meeting of millions over video conference. ‘Who is chairing this meeting? “You.” Oh dear Lord. Listen to monotonous droning. I have no idea what they are talking about. The tea hasn’t worked. I need coffee.
10am “What’s your opinion Cas? Oh no is this still the same meeting? It seems inappropriate to say what I really think. A quick power nap is all I need – where’s the sick bay?
6pm: Drive home. Arrive to Chinese laundry, bedding hanging all over house. Husband child is exhausted from trying to tend to boychild and work from home. What shall we have for dinner?
Gaze into fridge – and there it is. Left over Coq au Vin. Hmmmm. How about toast?
Thursday, May 13, 2010
An Unwelcome Visitor
Growing Up - An Unwelcome Visitor
We have a new guest in our house. A guest that no one has invited. She only visits now and again although her visits are becoming more frequent.
I am sad to admit that no one in our house particularly likes her. She is volatile, demanding, unpredictable, grumpy and often distracted. In her world of what is ‘cool’ its friends that matter and life is terribly boring without them. On her worst visits she has been known to slam doors, sometimes rattling pictures off the wall.
Interestingly our girl-child clearly does not like this visitor. I know this because girl-child is nowhere to be seen when unwanted guest appears. But the most disturbing thing about this guest is that she looks almost identical to girl-child to the point where I often get them confused. It is most unnerving to greet what appears to be my lovely 10 year old girl-child only to discover it’s the ghastly look-alike visitor pouting back at me. Just as suddenly the guest disappears and my lovely daughter is back. It is most unsettling to wake up not knowing who will be in the house today– child or fledgling teenager.
Some days I’d like to toss this ghastly visitor out on to the street, but while I don’t wish to admit it, this guest evokes a few childhood memories in me. I too remember when nothing was right, my parents were so very uncool, and life was always unfair. Everyone in the world had every technical device that I did not (although in my day it was colour TV I coveted as opposed to Xbox and Nintendo DS). The entire world also got to hang out with their friends all weekend, where as I was unfairly forced to stay home and learn to sew or worse pull ragwort on the farm. How shameful it was to admit to my friends on Monday what I’d been doing in the weekend.
All in all life is getting a little more complex. Although I never thought this would happen, I find myself fondly remembering when the days were filled with feeding and potty training challenges rather than this growing psychological torment. Worst still I am told the visits will increase. I guess in time I’ll learn to get used to my new bolshie, stubborn guest. I may even get to quite like her.
.
We have a new guest in our house. A guest that no one has invited. She only visits now and again although her visits are becoming more frequent.
I am sad to admit that no one in our house particularly likes her. She is volatile, demanding, unpredictable, grumpy and often distracted. In her world of what is ‘cool’ its friends that matter and life is terribly boring without them. On her worst visits she has been known to slam doors, sometimes rattling pictures off the wall.
Interestingly our girl-child clearly does not like this visitor. I know this because girl-child is nowhere to be seen when unwanted guest appears. But the most disturbing thing about this guest is that she looks almost identical to girl-child to the point where I often get them confused. It is most unnerving to greet what appears to be my lovely 10 year old girl-child only to discover it’s the ghastly look-alike visitor pouting back at me. Just as suddenly the guest disappears and my lovely daughter is back. It is most unsettling to wake up not knowing who will be in the house today– child or fledgling teenager.
Some days I’d like to toss this ghastly visitor out on to the street, but while I don’t wish to admit it, this guest evokes a few childhood memories in me. I too remember when nothing was right, my parents were so very uncool, and life was always unfair. Everyone in the world had every technical device that I did not (although in my day it was colour TV I coveted as opposed to Xbox and Nintendo DS). The entire world also got to hang out with their friends all weekend, where as I was unfairly forced to stay home and learn to sew or worse pull ragwort on the farm. How shameful it was to admit to my friends on Monday what I’d been doing in the weekend.
All in all life is getting a little more complex. Although I never thought this would happen, I find myself fondly remembering when the days were filled with feeding and potty training challenges rather than this growing psychological torment. Worst still I am told the visits will increase. I guess in time I’ll learn to get used to my new bolshie, stubborn guest. I may even get to quite like her.
.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The Terrors of School Camp
‘You need to be at school for the camp at 6 o’clock.’ ‘The what ?’ ‘My school camp.’‘Oh hon you know I don’t do camping.’
Large pause – face starts to pucker like a shriveling tomato…
‘Okay, okay I’ll do the camp, although I’m sure I didn’t sign anything to say I would…’
The event
I don’t get there until the kids are getting ready for bed. It’s early yet and still time for a bit of fun – or so I think, until very nice teacher by day turns into big scary teacher by night. ‘Be quiet’ she roars (slightly ironic given the volume of her voice). You should be asleep. OMG its still daylight.
The parents stand around on one leg and then another. So what now? Wine? Beer? Scrabble? There is nothing for it but to retreat from the threat of mozzies and face a bed time I only usually dream about. And it would be a dream except (jaws theme music) I am surrounded by three eight year old boys. Aaaargh.
Can we tell ghost stories? “yea,’ says I far too enthusiastically for a mature adult. “Weeeeeell’ …..child one goes off on the longest, most tangential, unscary ghost story I have ever heard. Child Two has dropped off to sleep with boredom.
“Be quiet,’ booms scary teacher who has now transformed into Atilla the Hun. We all jump bolt upright including No2 who was asleep. “right’ says I ‘here’s my ghost story.’ ‘You can’t talk about blood,’ says one, “or ghosts’ says another ‘ or vampires. ‘ My creativity is stunted. Child one and two start to drop off to sleep.
‘What do we do now?” says child three (who happens to be mine). We could play with the torch. “Be quiet,’ roars Attila. Sighing, I use my number one method of trying to get to sleep – day dreaming in detail about the day I learn I have finally won lotto.
The night progresses.
‘Caaaaaas, I need to go to the toilet.” “Caaaaassss, I can’t find a torch.” “Caaaaaaaaaas, I can’t unzip the tent.””Caaaaaasss, my airbed has come down.” Casssss, can I get in with you.’‘ Absolutely not’ says I emulating Attilah the teacher. There IS a limit !
The night drifts on. In my dream world I have now won lotto and recklessly squandered the spoils.
A roar comes from outside the tent. Someone is playing the DVD of ‘Where the Wild things are.” “Or perhaps I’ve woken up in the Wellington Zoo. No, no, it’s the children in the next door tent. He,he,haw haw, giggle, chortle. Now that’s the kids on the other side. It’s in stereo. And its pitch dark. The time is 5am. It’s the middle of the night!
Where is Attila the teacher when I need her? Not a sign. Seems like it’s a hanging offence to talk after 8.45 but 5am is perfectly acceptable. I clamber out of the tent. ‘Be quiet - I’ve got sleeping children in here,’ I demand looking slightly ridiculous in my pink pyjamas. . “ha ha, chortle, chortle. ‘ I clamber back into my sleeping bag enraged. Child One has departed. I try to get to sleep but I am livid with the injustice of the situation. Why are early birds so righteous and night owls condemned?
Time to get dressed I hear one of the parents say. ‘It’s only 6.30!’ Child two and three sleep on.
I am furious and give in to the fact that I will no longer sleep. “I’m outa here,’ I say. I abandon ship. Go home and pull weeds out of the garden for an hour to release my fury and so as not to wake the rest of the family, finally shower and head to work for a strategic planning session with the board – a picnic in comparison with what I’ve just been through.
Next year their Dad gets the job.
Large pause – face starts to pucker like a shriveling tomato…
‘Okay, okay I’ll do the camp, although I’m sure I didn’t sign anything to say I would…’
The event
I don’t get there until the kids are getting ready for bed. It’s early yet and still time for a bit of fun – or so I think, until very nice teacher by day turns into big scary teacher by night. ‘Be quiet’ she roars (slightly ironic given the volume of her voice). You should be asleep. OMG its still daylight.
The parents stand around on one leg and then another. So what now? Wine? Beer? Scrabble? There is nothing for it but to retreat from the threat of mozzies and face a bed time I only usually dream about. And it would be a dream except (jaws theme music) I am surrounded by three eight year old boys. Aaaargh.
Can we tell ghost stories? “yea,’ says I far too enthusiastically for a mature adult. “Weeeeeell’ …..child one goes off on the longest, most tangential, unscary ghost story I have ever heard. Child Two has dropped off to sleep with boredom.
“Be quiet,’ booms scary teacher who has now transformed into Atilla the Hun. We all jump bolt upright including No2 who was asleep. “right’ says I ‘here’s my ghost story.’ ‘You can’t talk about blood,’ says one, “or ghosts’ says another ‘ or vampires. ‘ My creativity is stunted. Child one and two start to drop off to sleep.
‘What do we do now?” says child three (who happens to be mine). We could play with the torch. “Be quiet,’ roars Attila. Sighing, I use my number one method of trying to get to sleep – day dreaming in detail about the day I learn I have finally won lotto.
The night progresses.
‘Caaaaaas, I need to go to the toilet.” “Caaaaassss, I can’t find a torch.” “Caaaaaaaaaas, I can’t unzip the tent.””Caaaaaasss, my airbed has come down.” Casssss, can I get in with you.’‘ Absolutely not’ says I emulating Attilah the teacher. There IS a limit !
The night drifts on. In my dream world I have now won lotto and recklessly squandered the spoils.
A roar comes from outside the tent. Someone is playing the DVD of ‘Where the Wild things are.” “Or perhaps I’ve woken up in the Wellington Zoo. No, no, it’s the children in the next door tent. He,he,haw haw, giggle, chortle. Now that’s the kids on the other side. It’s in stereo. And its pitch dark. The time is 5am. It’s the middle of the night!
Where is Attila the teacher when I need her? Not a sign. Seems like it’s a hanging offence to talk after 8.45 but 5am is perfectly acceptable. I clamber out of the tent. ‘Be quiet - I’ve got sleeping children in here,’ I demand looking slightly ridiculous in my pink pyjamas. . “ha ha, chortle, chortle. ‘ I clamber back into my sleeping bag enraged. Child One has departed. I try to get to sleep but I am livid with the injustice of the situation. Why are early birds so righteous and night owls condemned?
Time to get dressed I hear one of the parents say. ‘It’s only 6.30!’ Child two and three sleep on.
I am furious and give in to the fact that I will no longer sleep. “I’m outa here,’ I say. I abandon ship. Go home and pull weeds out of the garden for an hour to release my fury and so as not to wake the rest of the family, finally shower and head to work for a strategic planning session with the board – a picnic in comparison with what I’ve just been through.
Next year their Dad gets the job.
Friday, April 30, 2010
You Better Watch Out (Santa Claus is coming to town)
You’ve done it this time Santa. Okay so it wasn’t all your fault, but you are partially to blame for the sea of paper, cellophane and screeds and screeds of packaging that we have been swimming in since your clandestine visit late in December. Yes I know I can also blame the childless Uncles, and Aunties who brightened our doorway. “I wasn’t sure what to buy so I just bought them twelve presents each,” and “I hope they don’t already have their own personal computer.” Well funnily enough they don’t.
So there we sat literally in a mountain of Christmas debris. What has happened Santa, that every dam toy now has to be opened with pliers? Not to mention that they all require at least six batteries (not included of course).
Don’t laugh Santa, but in an effort to ease my environmental guilt I got the rellies ripping wrapping paper and soaking it in water to recycle it into homemade paper. Unfortunately, distracted by the incessant rounds of eating, drinking and cleaning up, my good intentions were overlooked and the large gluggy mound of mould was poured into the compost when discovered several weeks later.
Underneath the piles of paper I still had the toys to contend with. And yes Santa, we are as guilty as the rest. We laughed with a few friends about how we used to excitedly open our sock (forget the Santa sack) on Christmas morn and scream in delight at the orange and the banana Santa had left. As a child however, the joy of discovering a brand new rag doll on the end of my bed was somewhat dampened by that fact that Caroline Boon got a whole set of Barbies AND a Bride doll. (Didn’t Santa get my letter?). It was neatly explained that parents had to contribute to Santa’s costs and Caroline’s didn’t have as many brothers and sister’s presents to pay for as mine did.
So what happens to all this stuff? Well, thanks to Chinese manufacturing, many of it has fallen apart after the first try and it joins the mounds at the landfill. Under the dark of night, double-ups can be swept away and saved for the City Mission box next Christmas, while the forgotten few get put away for a boring winter day. But the bulk will litter the floors of the children’s bedrooms until we buy some more plastic to house them.
So Ho, Ho, Ho Santa, next year can you bring me a solution to my consumer woes without ruining the kids Christmas?
So there we sat literally in a mountain of Christmas debris. What has happened Santa, that every dam toy now has to be opened with pliers? Not to mention that they all require at least six batteries (not included of course).
Don’t laugh Santa, but in an effort to ease my environmental guilt I got the rellies ripping wrapping paper and soaking it in water to recycle it into homemade paper. Unfortunately, distracted by the incessant rounds of eating, drinking and cleaning up, my good intentions were overlooked and the large gluggy mound of mould was poured into the compost when discovered several weeks later.
Underneath the piles of paper I still had the toys to contend with. And yes Santa, we are as guilty as the rest. We laughed with a few friends about how we used to excitedly open our sock (forget the Santa sack) on Christmas morn and scream in delight at the orange and the banana Santa had left. As a child however, the joy of discovering a brand new rag doll on the end of my bed was somewhat dampened by that fact that Caroline Boon got a whole set of Barbies AND a Bride doll. (Didn’t Santa get my letter?). It was neatly explained that parents had to contribute to Santa’s costs and Caroline’s didn’t have as many brothers and sister’s presents to pay for as mine did.
So what happens to all this stuff? Well, thanks to Chinese manufacturing, many of it has fallen apart after the first try and it joins the mounds at the landfill. Under the dark of night, double-ups can be swept away and saved for the City Mission box next Christmas, while the forgotten few get put away for a boring winter day. But the bulk will litter the floors of the children’s bedrooms until we buy some more plastic to house them.
So Ho, Ho, Ho Santa, next year can you bring me a solution to my consumer woes without ruining the kids Christmas?
Elbows for Dinner
‘I caught Granna out,’ said boy-child. Most school holidays my children spend a week with the grandparents. Each time they return they are further trained in the art of farming, have impeccable manners and are deeply grateful to be home. What’s Granna done?
‘Elbows on the table!’ said a very smug child. ‘I caught her.’ ‘But Mama’ he said. “It is the most stupid of all stupid rules. I mean who decided that putting your elbows on the table is bad? They could just as easily have decided it was good,’ he ranted. ‘Did the rule makers hundreds of years ago just all sit round and make up stupid rules about your elbows and your knife and fork. I mean who cares?
‘Well, it might seem stupid but all these rules are part of your heritage. Different cultures do different things that help define them. In some countries it is manners to burp loudly at the end of a meal – but please don’t try that out at Granna’s place.’
I had to laugh at boy-child’s vision of a committee of rule makers in a board room coming up with illogical rules but within days of this conversation I was reminded how important it is to hold on to the nuances of our culture even if they don’t make sense.
I had the honour of witnessing a long held university tradition – the graduation ceremony. Using boy-child’s logic, the idea of donning a funny cap and gown, which Monty Python could have had a field day with, and marching up on stage to get a piece of paper would seem absurd and pointless. And yet I found myself sitting in the audience snuffling into my sleeve with emotion. The ceremony marks the end of a long hard journey. It is not just for the recipient, it honours their parents and family for their support and most important of all, is a role model for children and other whanau.
In this particular ceremony each recipient spoke. Every time there was a story of how the seed to study was sown, of courage, sacrifice and hardship. Hakas were performed and waiatas offered up in celebration. They were doing these things because that is what they have been taught by their Grannas (and others.)
So while it is probably fair enough that an eight year old thinks its ridiculous to keep his elbows off the table, one day I hope he understands that one simple little ‘rule’ is a tiny piece in a large puzzle that makes up the special culture he is inheriting.
And while we should always encourage our children to question – sometimes the answer to whether elbows should be on or off the table needs to wait. And when it becomes clear I hope it is a chance for him to fondly remember a lesson learned long ago from another generation.
‘Elbows on the table!’ said a very smug child. ‘I caught her.’ ‘But Mama’ he said. “It is the most stupid of all stupid rules. I mean who decided that putting your elbows on the table is bad? They could just as easily have decided it was good,’ he ranted. ‘Did the rule makers hundreds of years ago just all sit round and make up stupid rules about your elbows and your knife and fork. I mean who cares?
‘Well, it might seem stupid but all these rules are part of your heritage. Different cultures do different things that help define them. In some countries it is manners to burp loudly at the end of a meal – but please don’t try that out at Granna’s place.’
I had to laugh at boy-child’s vision of a committee of rule makers in a board room coming up with illogical rules but within days of this conversation I was reminded how important it is to hold on to the nuances of our culture even if they don’t make sense.
I had the honour of witnessing a long held university tradition – the graduation ceremony. Using boy-child’s logic, the idea of donning a funny cap and gown, which Monty Python could have had a field day with, and marching up on stage to get a piece of paper would seem absurd and pointless. And yet I found myself sitting in the audience snuffling into my sleeve with emotion. The ceremony marks the end of a long hard journey. It is not just for the recipient, it honours their parents and family for their support and most important of all, is a role model for children and other whanau.
In this particular ceremony each recipient spoke. Every time there was a story of how the seed to study was sown, of courage, sacrifice and hardship. Hakas were performed and waiatas offered up in celebration. They were doing these things because that is what they have been taught by their Grannas (and others.)
So while it is probably fair enough that an eight year old thinks its ridiculous to keep his elbows off the table, one day I hope he understands that one simple little ‘rule’ is a tiny piece in a large puzzle that makes up the special culture he is inheriting.
And while we should always encourage our children to question – sometimes the answer to whether elbows should be on or off the table needs to wait. And when it becomes clear I hope it is a chance for him to fondly remember a lesson learned long ago from another generation.
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