In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,
* * *
What do moms fight about?
This one fights about the right to be more than a mother - to have an identity outside of the so-called mould.
I'm frustrated because I was raised to have many (perhaps too many) ambitions, and now I've got to tuck them into bed every night - as I tuck in the l'il women who have supplanted those ambitions.
I don't mind having to tuck the girls in, but I do mind having to suppress elements of my personality. Perhaps they hearken too much to a time long gone; but why must it be one or the other?
Some parents put their all into their children's up-bringing, and I'm truly impressed with the results. But I have a hard time doing it. Does that mean I'm a bad parent -- that I want about a third of my time, for myself?
Okay, so Islam is about being altruistic, true. And motherhood, is about sacrifice. Yes. But don't I have a right anywhere?
Is this a Western-influenced upbringing talking? A diatribe of the well-to-do mommy who has too little of substance to truly worry about (thank God); or do I have a right to have some time to recharge?
If only I could please everyone, equally, and not have to apologize for the li'l voice that struggles for a bit more than mommy duty.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Humanizing the mothers of Gaza: written by H.B.
"GAZA
I can't tear myself away from the T.V. screen. News clips of people, normal people, desperate people, devastated people.
Mothers crying. People bleeding. Body parts. Running, running. Men grabbing people off the streets & rushing to the ambulances, and bringing more and more people. The news reporter tells me that there's no more room in the hospital for any more people.
Little Bodies wrapped in white cloth. A father breaks down crying next to the body of his dead child. I think of my own children, in bed asleep. Thank God. I should go in. I should sleep. I got up early . . . I wonder how long they've been up. I wonder if they will sleep tonight. If they will wake up tomorrow.
A mother is talking, her face is wet and tired. Her eyes are puffy. "They took away my children. This morning. I have 3 daughters and one son left. They took my 5 daughters this morning." Her daughter talks about this morning. She was telling her sisters "we're all going to die."
Five daughters. Five sisters. Five. Who will they mourn? How will they mourn? When will they mourn? They have to keep running from the soulless, pilotless planes dropping randon bombs. But where to? Where do they run to?
"There's no safe place in Gaza, we've been told," an aid worker said.
I grab the remote. I want to see the coverage people are getting in Canada and the States. Is it like this? Do they see the suffering? Or is it watered-down, political collateral damage?
I'm searching for CNN. Finally, I find it. They're talking about Gaza, about the air-strikes.
They're being sympathetic with the Palestinian people. They talk to an Islamic Aid Worker who's barricaded into his house. At first, I feel relief - 'they're acknowledging them - these poor forgotten people who's humanity is so rarely portrayed'.
But wait, I watch longer. No, no. They're rolling the same 5 clips over and over again while they talk about the atrocities: a burning building, people standing and shuffling in the street, ambulance workers gathered around something, a clip of the hospitals, people in the street. Again and again. No close-ups of people. No sadness, no tears, no children, no breakdowns. The rubble and the destruction of buildings, of overcrowded hospitals. Where are the pictures that I saw on the Arabic channels? What about the mother who lost her children? What about the little boy crying & trying to run? The look in their eyes? The fear? The loss?
"Ninety-three per cent of communication is non-verbal," I remember from my university days in psychology. "Only 7% is the words that we hear".
I flip back to the Arabic channel. They are human beings and I must see their humanity. I don't know, after what I've seen today, how I'll sleep tonight. No. I know, deep down, that even if I stir for an hour or two, eventually, in the safety of my home, and the warmth of my blanket, and the company of my children, sleep will come.
How will they sleep, without safety, without shelter, without having had dinner, without knowing wen the next bomb will drop, without her daughters, without her husband, without his baby, without their their father? After they have seen today, how will they ever sleep?"
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Back to school is over
In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,
* * *
"Yellow line, yellow line, yellow line is calling," sings one little boy, the song weaving its way around his friends, falling over each other as they put away books and toys in the li'l corner that is a respite from the routine of the day.
The children, some dressed in uniform, others in bright clothing, their hair well-groomed (well, the girls, anyway), squirm as they try to still limbs to sit correctly on a yellow line that creates a square at the front of the bright room. In front of them, the white board boasts flashcards showing pictures that start with "C","A", and "O", as well as clear pictorials on what to do or not to do in Kindergarten.
As the class settles down, the usual interruptions erupt.
"Teacher, teacher, bathroom."
"Teacher, teacher, howa darabni," (he hit me, in Arabic)
"Teacher, ma ha nafa'al?" (what are we going to do?)
My colleague is a dedicated educator with little experience but a determination to transform these runny-nosed, fidgety, Arabic-only-speaking kids into refined pencil-holders who, at the very least, understand "go to your cubbyhole; get your bag for going home."
We've made incredible progress.
At least two boys who had probably never seen other children had finally learned to interact with people their size - the first used to poke others, put his finger in their hair, and start fights - now he is as docile as a cat in the sun, and just as adorable. The other, a slow and clearly underdeveloped boy who's grip on a pencil is softer then a paralyzed mouse, at least follows the other children into the line-up and knows when to go the bathroom.
Is this a place for development or for catching up?
The stronger kids, physically and mentally, are the ones whose parents obviously show some interest in them. They are the ones with confidence, drawing swirly lines, firm lines, filling up photocopied stars with their certainty. The others don't want to fill in the star on a personality test - or their lines are cautious, even scared.
Who these people will one day become is being shaped before our very eyes. The angry little boy, whose mother admitted comes from an area where tempers constantly flare, will learn to keep his emotions under control here, and not fly at his companion for taking the horsey.
The girls with the overprotective mother, aunt, will learn that no one will feed them here; that they needn't wait for anyone to do their work for them. It's the law of the jungle - okay, okay. A baby zoo.
The children are oblivious to the bell that interrupts an impromptu puppet show about sharing. The kids don't notice, but soon they are cut off from the activity and herded off to the bathroom, and then snack, another unscripted moment that lets them be themselves. The remainder of the time, they are colouring and tracing and sometimes trying to write letters that are really, really hard for their inexperienced hands.
And, as one peers up helplessly at me, the same one that gets angry real quick, and says, "Miss, I can't do this," I wonder whether throwing in all these children into one place and asking them to walk the same pace, to the same finishing line, is really the best way to teach them anything.
My own daughter's attention span has shrunk considerably, but is that my fault? Is it the daily videos she watches when I need my break -- seven hours with over two dozen 4-year-olds needs some kind of rejuvenation -- or is it that activities don't finish naturally, that -as John Taylor Gatto, a public school teacher and author notes in his book 'Dumbing us down' - the school bell creates artificial interruptions and creates disjointed individuals who never really think what they are doing is worth finishing.
And what about her English - not improving in a room full of ESL students? What about the kids in my class who understand the language but have to speak in snippets so the other children understand - if they bother to speak at all? What about the fact that everyone moves at the same pace, even if some have long outpaced the crowd? What about the children who obviously need one on one coaching but will never get it - because it is impossible? And their parents are usually the least interested in their children's immediate needs - they put them in school, didn't they? Their responsible parents, aren't they? What more can a parent do?
And on the other side of the class, the homeschooling option gleams, and deep down inside, I pray I'll have it in me to one day take over the education of a child that needs to move beyond four walls, no matter how honourable the intentions.
* * *
"Yellow line, yellow line, yellow line is calling," sings one little boy, the song weaving its way around his friends, falling over each other as they put away books and toys in the li'l corner that is a respite from the routine of the day.
The children, some dressed in uniform, others in bright clothing, their hair well-groomed (well, the girls, anyway), squirm as they try to still limbs to sit correctly on a yellow line that creates a square at the front of the bright room. In front of them, the white board boasts flashcards showing pictures that start with "C","A", and "O", as well as clear pictorials on what to do or not to do in Kindergarten.
As the class settles down, the usual interruptions erupt.
"Teacher, teacher, bathroom."
"Teacher, teacher, howa darabni," (he hit me, in Arabic)
"Teacher, ma ha nafa'al?" (what are we going to do?)
My colleague is a dedicated educator with little experience but a determination to transform these runny-nosed, fidgety, Arabic-only-speaking kids into refined pencil-holders who, at the very least, understand "go to your cubbyhole; get your bag for going home."
We've made incredible progress.
At least two boys who had probably never seen other children had finally learned to interact with people their size - the first used to poke others, put his finger in their hair, and start fights - now he is as docile as a cat in the sun, and just as adorable. The other, a slow and clearly underdeveloped boy who's grip on a pencil is softer then a paralyzed mouse, at least follows the other children into the line-up and knows when to go the bathroom.
Is this a place for development or for catching up?
The stronger kids, physically and mentally, are the ones whose parents obviously show some interest in them. They are the ones with confidence, drawing swirly lines, firm lines, filling up photocopied stars with their certainty. The others don't want to fill in the star on a personality test - or their lines are cautious, even scared.
Who these people will one day become is being shaped before our very eyes. The angry little boy, whose mother admitted comes from an area where tempers constantly flare, will learn to keep his emotions under control here, and not fly at his companion for taking the horsey.
The girls with the overprotective mother, aunt, will learn that no one will feed them here; that they needn't wait for anyone to do their work for them. It's the law of the jungle - okay, okay. A baby zoo.
The children are oblivious to the bell that interrupts an impromptu puppet show about sharing. The kids don't notice, but soon they are cut off from the activity and herded off to the bathroom, and then snack, another unscripted moment that lets them be themselves. The remainder of the time, they are colouring and tracing and sometimes trying to write letters that are really, really hard for their inexperienced hands.
And, as one peers up helplessly at me, the same one that gets angry real quick, and says, "Miss, I can't do this," I wonder whether throwing in all these children into one place and asking them to walk the same pace, to the same finishing line, is really the best way to teach them anything.
My own daughter's attention span has shrunk considerably, but is that my fault? Is it the daily videos she watches when I need my break -- seven hours with over two dozen 4-year-olds needs some kind of rejuvenation -- or is it that activities don't finish naturally, that -as John Taylor Gatto, a public school teacher and author notes in his book 'Dumbing us down' - the school bell creates artificial interruptions and creates disjointed individuals who never really think what they are doing is worth finishing.
And what about her English - not improving in a room full of ESL students? What about the kids in my class who understand the language but have to speak in snippets so the other children understand - if they bother to speak at all? What about the fact that everyone moves at the same pace, even if some have long outpaced the crowd? What about the children who obviously need one on one coaching but will never get it - because it is impossible? And their parents are usually the least interested in their children's immediate needs - they put them in school, didn't they? Their responsible parents, aren't they? What more can a parent do?
And on the other side of the class, the homeschooling option gleams, and deep down inside, I pray I'll have it in me to one day take over the education of a child that needs to move beyond four walls, no matter how honourable the intentions.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
i'm back at work on Saturday....: )
. . .couldn't help it. They're short on teachers & I couldn't say no. Pray for me.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
To working-out-in-the-real-world mothers everywhere
In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,
* * *
How do you do it?
For one brief day, nay - for a couple of hours, I joined the countless mothers who balance work, home and family on top of their heads, hips or fingertips and I came home absolutely drained.
Okay, perhaps it had to do with the nature of my stint. A junior kindergarten teacher's assistant on the second day of school. Sounds easy enough, but let me (finger) paint the picture for you:
"Waaaaah!!!!!!!"
"He cries and cries like that and then he throws up!"
"I want my baba, I want my baba, I want my baba!"
"Okay kids let's colour -- oh, you don't understand English -- uh....."
Whimper, whimper.
"Bathroom, please."
"Oh, he's throwing up. Call the dada!"
"Tell the mothers to stop looking into the windows!"
"Mama, I want to go home, it's too noisy."
"We only have an hour longer. Should we play a CD?"
"The CD player says it's on but nothing is happening. . .what about the blocks?"
"Waah, I want the blocks!!!!" "No I want the blocks!"
Of course, to complicate matters, I had my youngest with me at the time, a two-year-old in the midst of a class of four-year-olds (though I suspect a few of them were actually manipulative ceo's in disguise), and she wasn't all that impressed that mom was running around calming child after child like a firefighter dousing flames that keeps leaping from house to house.
By the time I stumbled into our deliciously quiet apartment, my kids were pooped, I was pooped, and all I could think of was -- sleep. My husband was gleeful.
"Now you know! Now you know! Work sucks the life right out of you."
Yeah, yeah, okay, okay. Work is hard. VERY HARD - especially with children who need you in tip-top shape for the rest of the day. Thankfully, I had my sleep, but if I hadn't.......
And so I am brought back to women's studies class, first-year university, where there was only ONE student who had the guts to admit she WANTED to be a housewife. We all stared at her, mystified that anyone with choices would choose that one.
But oh, how wise she was. Isn't it better to be a full-time mom, able to chill out when the tension gets too thick and everyone's fighting over the one drawing board in the house and you just don't want to give in and buy another because how-oh-how-will-they-ever-learn-to-share? Pop in a video and escape with a cookie in the kitchen and forget all about their cares. . .
For a mom whose scrambling to get home on time to get dinner ready, homework done, kids bathed and dressed and ready for bed --- not to mention getting that quality time in somewhere - the thought of a cookie in the kitchen all by herself may seem awfully optimistic.
And yet, because of my upbringing (mentioned a few posts back), I still find myself harkening to the world of work - struggling to remain at home base where life is so much less stressful but somehow less satisfying. It seems I've got nothing to show for my day -- "what do you do all day, anyway?" Sigh. How to change society's view of the ever-important role of 'mom'.
Oh, working mothers of the world - I salute you. I admire you. I pray for you. But I surely do not want to join you - at least if I can help it.
* * *
How do you do it?
For one brief day, nay - for a couple of hours, I joined the countless mothers who balance work, home and family on top of their heads, hips or fingertips and I came home absolutely drained.
Okay, perhaps it had to do with the nature of my stint. A junior kindergarten teacher's assistant on the second day of school. Sounds easy enough, but let me (finger) paint the picture for you:
"Waaaaah!!!!!!!"
"He cries and cries like that and then he throws up!"
"I want my baba, I want my baba, I want my baba!"
"Okay kids let's colour -- oh, you don't understand English -- uh....."
Whimper, whimper.
"Bathroom, please."
"Oh, he's throwing up. Call the dada!"
"Tell the mothers to stop looking into the windows!"
"Mama, I want to go home, it's too noisy."
"We only have an hour longer. Should we play a CD?"
"The CD player says it's on but nothing is happening. . .what about the blocks?"
"Waah, I want the blocks!!!!" "No I want the blocks!"
Of course, to complicate matters, I had my youngest with me at the time, a two-year-old in the midst of a class of four-year-olds (though I suspect a few of them were actually manipulative ceo's in disguise), and she wasn't all that impressed that mom was running around calming child after child like a firefighter dousing flames that keeps leaping from house to house.
By the time I stumbled into our deliciously quiet apartment, my kids were pooped, I was pooped, and all I could think of was -- sleep. My husband was gleeful.
"Now you know! Now you know! Work sucks the life right out of you."
Yeah, yeah, okay, okay. Work is hard. VERY HARD - especially with children who need you in tip-top shape for the rest of the day. Thankfully, I had my sleep, but if I hadn't.......
And so I am brought back to women's studies class, first-year university, where there was only ONE student who had the guts to admit she WANTED to be a housewife. We all stared at her, mystified that anyone with choices would choose that one.
But oh, how wise she was. Isn't it better to be a full-time mom, able to chill out when the tension gets too thick and everyone's fighting over the one drawing board in the house and you just don't want to give in and buy another because how-oh-how-will-they-ever-learn-to-share? Pop in a video and escape with a cookie in the kitchen and forget all about their cares. . .
For a mom whose scrambling to get home on time to get dinner ready, homework done, kids bathed and dressed and ready for bed --- not to mention getting that quality time in somewhere - the thought of a cookie in the kitchen all by herself may seem awfully optimistic.
And yet, because of my upbringing (mentioned a few posts back), I still find myself harkening to the world of work - struggling to remain at home base where life is so much less stressful but somehow less satisfying. It seems I've got nothing to show for my day -- "what do you do all day, anyway?" Sigh. How to change society's view of the ever-important role of 'mom'.
Oh, working mothers of the world - I salute you. I admire you. I pray for you. But I surely do not want to join you - at least if I can help it.
Monday, October 13, 2008
What my five-year-old has taught me (so far)
In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,
* * *
In a few days, my eldest daughter will clasp my hand, and we'll head into the bright space that is her new school.
A whole world of learning unfolds before her. Or should I say 'us'. Already, I've been amazed at all the little one has taught me, including knowledge rooted in prophetic tradition, though she doesn't even realize it:
1- Give people the benefit of the doubt.
"Maybe they just didn't know," suggests my daughter, as she tilts her head to one side, eyes wide. We could be talking about anything - the garbage strewn on the street, the bad driving all 'round, the images of scantily clad moms in my parenting magazines. She'll find an excuse for one and all, reminding me of my own faults on this one, especially considering this lovely saying from Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him:
“If you hear about your brother something of which you disapprove, seek from one to seventy excuses for him. If you cannot find any, convince yourselves that it is an excuse you do not know.”Narration reported by al-Bayhaqî.
2- Be patient with li'l ones.
When the youngest of my two wants to change outfits for the fourth time in a few hours, it is my eldest who guides her back to her room to choose the clothing. She finds a way to put up with her persistent fashion needs, and I have to swallow my frustration. "Mom, she is just a baby," she says of her two-year-old sibling. Yes, sort of.
The Prophet said: 'He is not one of us who does not show mercy to our little ones and respect to our elders.' Reported in At-Tirmidhî.
3- Housework is fun.
Okay, I doubt I'll ever internalize this one, but you've got to admit, soaping up dishes isn't all bad if you really lather it up. "Mom, look how shiny this is," she'll say after spending five minutes soaping up a teaspoon. Ahh, to be young and without a care in the world. Why she wants to scrub the toilet, though, is beyond me.
"Cleanliness is half of faith," said the Prophet, according to an authentic narration.
Yeah, I know. It's the bubbles.
* * *
Speaking of learning, I was surprised to hear a recorded announcement running over the loudspeakers at our local grocery store encouraging parents to read to their kids. After complaining about the lack of commitment to reading in the Arab/ Muslim world a few posts back, I have to admit that I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. And I'm scheduled to visit a library one of these days with a lady who's actually been inside one here. Can't wait!
* * *
In a few days, my eldest daughter will clasp my hand, and we'll head into the bright space that is her new school.
A whole world of learning unfolds before her. Or should I say 'us'. Already, I've been amazed at all the little one has taught me, including knowledge rooted in prophetic tradition, though she doesn't even realize it:
1- Give people the benefit of the doubt.
"Maybe they just didn't know," suggests my daughter, as she tilts her head to one side, eyes wide. We could be talking about anything - the garbage strewn on the street, the bad driving all 'round, the images of scantily clad moms in my parenting magazines. She'll find an excuse for one and all, reminding me of my own faults on this one, especially considering this lovely saying from Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him:
“If you hear about your brother something of which you disapprove, seek from one to seventy excuses for him. If you cannot find any, convince yourselves that it is an excuse you do not know.”Narration reported by al-Bayhaqî.
2- Be patient with li'l ones.
When the youngest of my two wants to change outfits for the fourth time in a few hours, it is my eldest who guides her back to her room to choose the clothing. She finds a way to put up with her persistent fashion needs, and I have to swallow my frustration. "Mom, she is just a baby," she says of her two-year-old sibling. Yes, sort of.
The Prophet said: 'He is not one of us who does not show mercy to our little ones and respect to our elders.' Reported in At-Tirmidhî.
3- Housework is fun.
Okay, I doubt I'll ever internalize this one, but you've got to admit, soaping up dishes isn't all bad if you really lather it up. "Mom, look how shiny this is," she'll say after spending five minutes soaping up a teaspoon. Ahh, to be young and without a care in the world. Why she wants to scrub the toilet, though, is beyond me.
"Cleanliness is half of faith," said the Prophet, according to an authentic narration.
Yeah, I know. It's the bubbles.
* * *
Speaking of learning, I was surprised to hear a recorded announcement running over the loudspeakers at our local grocery store encouraging parents to read to their kids. After complaining about the lack of commitment to reading in the Arab/ Muslim world a few posts back, I have to admit that I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. And I'm scheduled to visit a library one of these days with a lady who's actually been inside one here. Can't wait!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Little ladies in waiting
In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,
* * *
"You need to learn to stay at home," was my father's mantra throughout my high-flying high-school and university days, when home was akin to a hotel. Many parents would sympathize.
Thankfully, my daughter's teen years are a long ways away, and yet I've become super sensitive to the mistakes of the past - mistakes in raising the little Muslim ladies of our communities and the problems that can result.
You see, I'd shoot back the following response to my Dad's plea - "Why? What for?" I could see absolutely no logic in the need to keep close to home base. I was a young, busy student, with tons of extra-curricular activities and a hectic social life, plus a part-time job throughout my studies. Picture perfect princess of the modern-day: Doting parents. Comfortable finances. Car. Next to zero responsibilities.
All fine and dandy 'till I got married. WOAH! Who rewrote the script? Daily chores? Thinking of someone else? Dare I say -- MOTHERHOOD!!!
Yikes. The shift was not pretty. It took a few years before I realized I had to think of a family unit - and I still struggle with it. My time. Time for me. My needs. My wants. Sigh. It ain't flying.
So what went wrong? Well, individualistic Western societies shoulder some blame. But what about Muslim parents who adopted an alien concept of female accomplishment? Even Western women of old used to learn to perfect their domestic duties, and to polish the additional artistic touches - piano, embroidery, singing and painting. Higher class ladies had social teas, and sewing circles. Not sure what the rest of them did. But I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with hopping on a horse and spending the day gallivanting around town for a school assignment.
Not to say that female education and emancipation is a bad thing. Of course not. Problem is, modern-day women are groomed for a different kind of life -- one that emphasizes their public role. Very little is said or done to prepare women for life as married women - for those who marry - and for motherhood, for those blessed with children.
So what to do? Time for emphasizing more than the typical school workload. Our daughters should love to cook, clean and take care of their little siblings. They should enjoy reading up on home remedies. They should love to sew their own clothing. Perhaps they should even redesign their homes. Point is, young ladies should be ready to make their home their main sphere of influence and enjoy doing it. Funny thing is, my five-year-old loves helping me out around the house. It comes naturally to her, and I think it is me who would potentially drive her into the arms of the modern-day woman's syndrome.
As for me, I've learned to stay at home and appreciate my Dad's prescience. I just hope my daughters believe me when I give them the same advice.
* * *
"You need to learn to stay at home," was my father's mantra throughout my high-flying high-school and university days, when home was akin to a hotel. Many parents would sympathize.
Thankfully, my daughter's teen years are a long ways away, and yet I've become super sensitive to the mistakes of the past - mistakes in raising the little Muslim ladies of our communities and the problems that can result.
You see, I'd shoot back the following response to my Dad's plea - "Why? What for?" I could see absolutely no logic in the need to keep close to home base. I was a young, busy student, with tons of extra-curricular activities and a hectic social life, plus a part-time job throughout my studies. Picture perfect princess of the modern-day: Doting parents. Comfortable finances. Car. Next to zero responsibilities.
All fine and dandy 'till I got married. WOAH! Who rewrote the script? Daily chores? Thinking of someone else? Dare I say -- MOTHERHOOD!!!
Yikes. The shift was not pretty. It took a few years before I realized I had to think of a family unit - and I still struggle with it. My time. Time for me. My needs. My wants. Sigh. It ain't flying.
So what went wrong? Well, individualistic Western societies shoulder some blame. But what about Muslim parents who adopted an alien concept of female accomplishment? Even Western women of old used to learn to perfect their domestic duties, and to polish the additional artistic touches - piano, embroidery, singing and painting. Higher class ladies had social teas, and sewing circles. Not sure what the rest of them did. But I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with hopping on a horse and spending the day gallivanting around town for a school assignment.
Not to say that female education and emancipation is a bad thing. Of course not. Problem is, modern-day women are groomed for a different kind of life -- one that emphasizes their public role. Very little is said or done to prepare women for life as married women - for those who marry - and for motherhood, for those blessed with children.
So what to do? Time for emphasizing more than the typical school workload. Our daughters should love to cook, clean and take care of their little siblings. They should enjoy reading up on home remedies. They should love to sew their own clothing. Perhaps they should even redesign their homes. Point is, young ladies should be ready to make their home their main sphere of influence and enjoy doing it. Funny thing is, my five-year-old loves helping me out around the house. It comes naturally to her, and I think it is me who would potentially drive her into the arms of the modern-day woman's syndrome.
As for me, I've learned to stay at home and appreciate my Dad's prescience. I just hope my daughters believe me when I give them the same advice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)