We are all capable of horrible and beautiful things
I remember Mike from my Grade 8 class. He had a spiky, longer brush cut. His front teeth stuck out slightly. It was 1986. Bryan Adams and Corey Hart were big. So were the Beastie Boys.
Now, kids being kids (that's no excuse!), Mike got teased. Someone gave him a not-too-nice nickname and it . . .
My kids remind me of my little bro and myself
I still enjoy seeing my boys walk down the street to catch their school bus. I don't need to accompany them, but I love to sneak a peek from our picture window as they waddle to their stop. I imagine their conversations. Sometimes they jostle, punch each other playfully. Sometimes they race to the end of the street. I can't help but . . .
A fraudster tried to rip me off. I'll still tell my kids to give people the benefit of the doubt
I teach my kids that people are generally kind. Give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I'm a bit naive, but I choose to live this way.
I know it's not all rainbows and unicorns. There are bad people in this world. So I teach my kids to be skeptical, too. It's a good thing to know when to raise your shields.
One morning, . . .
Sometimes it's better to step outside our comfort zones
I find it hard as a parent to let my kids fail.
My son was getting ready for soccer practice. I used to remind him, item by item, to pack all his things.
"Do you have your water bottle? How about your cleats? Your shin pads? Ball? Socks?"
I got tired of reminding him. To be more accurate, I got tired of needing to know. One . . .
I damaged a friendship beyond repair. Years later something wonderful happened
This post contains course language, vulgarity and sexual references. Some readers may find certain passages offensive and/or distasteful.
SHE WAS A LOVELY PERSON AND FRIEND. But I had wrecked our friendship.
By no means was it intentional, she was more collateral damage than anything. Caught in the wake of my manic . . .
I wanted to stand in the same space my parents and brother used to, so I knocked on the door
The moment I stopped perceiving time as linear, a new world arose.
I jogged toward the little red bungalow. A man washed dishes behind the kitchen window, his silhouette bathed in dim fluorescent light.
This was my parents' home in the early 1970s, before I was born. Mom and Dad pointed it out to me a while ago. At the time, I . . .
I would love to stop feeding the consumerist orgy
"Are you ready for Christmas?"
I get asked this question often. I ask it, too. Around the holidays, it seems to be a run-of-the-mill inquiry, like "What's goin' on?" or "How are you?"
Christmas seems to be something we "do." We are busy "doers."
When I ask people how they're doing, a very common response is, "Good. Real . . .