I want to dream big, like when I was a kid
This post contains coarse language which may be offensive to some readers.
I used to dream big. Until I grew up. Adulthood is where my dreams died.
Lately, I've had inklings of creative momentum percolate through my brain. I can't deny this desire to be more than a rat in a race.
But it seems so hard to extricate myself from the . . .
My sons and I enjoy a professional development day together
Hear the swish-swish of their snow pants as we walk home from drugstore. Sun, so bright, reflecting off snow. Younger likes to hold my hand still, sometimes. Older walks ahead, blazing a trail on slushy sidewalk. We laugh, waddle, joke. Feel like a new dad, all over again.
Silver jet streaks above, double contrails painting . . .
We may engender a bit of clinginess, but I'll gladly take it
When my eldest son turned seven and we celebrated his birthday, I found myself daydreaming. I thought of the day he was born, returning from the hospital on a hot, sticky August night. My wife and I lay in bed and stared in joyous wonder at this newfound life we created. So small, so beautiful – so dependent.
She breastfed him, held him and . . .
At times I wonder if I made the right decision. Then a pot of potatoes boils over or a grilled cheese starts to burn
This essay originally appeared in The Globe and Mail on March 3, 2014.
The year was 1978. I was 4. The morning light muffled its way through my pale bedroom curtains and turned an opaque blue. My mother was lying beside me, smiling, the skin of her face so smooth.
I looked up at her and felt at ease, at home with the one who loved me . . .