Practicing empathy means being willing to sit with someone in their discomfort. It means being willing to just be with someone, maybe not saying a single word or simply saying, that is so hard, that sucks, I can't imagine, ugh.
My day is a revolving door of administering antibiotics, Tylenol and ice pops while juggling a valiant attempt to work from home. I feel like Florence Nightingale with a laptop -- and a mission: To conquer strep for once and for all. Here's my plan:
You're beautiful and you will always be my baby. I love you more than you will ever know, and the bond we share can never be replaced.
When parents ask me how they can help their child be a songwriter, I pause. I don't want to hurt their feelings. Sometimes I'm afraid to tell them what I think. It may not be what they want to hear.
I often wonder what it would be like to meet that guy from the beer commercials, dubbed the "World's Most Interesting Man." Would we discuss politics? Cooking? Opera? Definitely not opera because that's a subject I know nothing about and, out of boredom, he would probably leave with that posse of women who accompany him in every ad.
Being direct doesn't always prevent tantrums. But it helps you teach the lesson you intended. For one thing, you avoid prying the toy from your child's hand -- the very thing you didn't want her to do.
This is the time of year that we think of others. We want the holidays to be memorable for those we love. Make it memorable for you as well. When you care for yourself, you'll enjoy the season without wishing for a quick ending.
The big kids took their turns. Scooping the ash, gently scattering it through the grass and flowers and underneath the apple tree. And then it was my daughter's turn. Here I am documenting this beautiful symbol of family. Of love. Of the passage of time. Of multiple generations of family.
Wouldn't you rather your children learn valuable lessons about spending too much for a junky toy now than wait and have them learn them as adults when the rent check bounces?
I wake up extra early today. The sun is just peering above the treeline and the air is already thick and wet with Indiana August. I stretch and pause at the edge of my bed just as I have 2,098 other times in this home. But this time it is different. This time it is the last.
Moving towards our kids is so important -- even more so in those moments when we feel it's the last thing we want to do.
My silence was deafening, to me at least. Do my girls have a dad who won't stand up to crap like that from archaic people who still believe a girl's chief purpose in life is to make themselves "cute" for boys?
My 3-year-old daughter has recently started asking me if certain characters in books and cartoons are boys or girls. After answering her questions, I ask her: "Why is that important?" I'm asking you the same thing now.
I have a son. I have a daughter. I want my daughter to have every opportunity my son has. Not more. Not less. Equal.
Claire, as a fellow soccer mom, I'm officially asking for an apology. Your Insane Asylum of Horror, had you let it stand, would truly have been the most frightening house in the neighborhood. But for different reasons than you think.
When you're in a live truck for your entire shift, you learn to use what you've got to get the job done. It doesn't matter what it is.