I have never, in my entire life, been as in awe of one person as I am of him. He does things his own way.
The box is tossed in front of the front door, the bag is almost completely empty, and, mixed between the pieces, are squashed particles of cereal dust.
My son turns television watching into an all-out physical event.
I didn’t get mad at him for an impulse that he obviously couldn’t control in that moment. I wanted to. A voice in my head said, “Yo. Freak out.”
The things I do for my son aren’t done for his recognition, appreciation, or even attention. They’re done because I love him.
They’re not here to make me feel better. They’re here to help my son.
Keeping his iPad away for the entire final day of Spring Break sounded crazy to everyone, including me, but it had to be done.
He’s not being rude. He’s being him. If you’re patient, though, he’s fantastic.
I may have helped, but his successes were about him doing it, not me teaching him.
In the end, I’m proud to say, no tables were flipped.