Helping my son write is quality time together
Youngest makes his way downstairs and asks: “Dad, can I help you?”
“Help me with lunches?”
“I'm done. I did them while I made supper.”
“What are you doing?” he inquires.
“Can I write a story?”
“Sure!” I answer. He cuddles up beside me. “So, . . .
Disciplining other people’s children can be a dicey business
This essay originally appeared in The Globe and Mail on January 26, 2016.
Disciplining other people’s children can be a dicey business. I sometimes face this issue at our neighbourhood park, where I often take my kids after school.
I am a former teacher, so the playground is very familiar to me: It’s where a . . .
A story by youngest, as told to Dad
Plot developed by youngest, age 4 at the time.
"S, are you sure you don't want to play outside?" asked Dad.
"I'm going to stay inside with Fuzzy Bunny," said S.
"Okay, I'll be outside with J," said Dad. "I'll check in with you every five minutes.". . .
It was the height of hubris to think I could outwit my father
“When are you going to stop sneaking out in the middle of the night?” my dad asked, poker-faced.
The gig was up.
When I was a teenager, in order to join my friends for some late-night debauchery, I had to circumvent our home security system. I couldn’t risk waking my parents by disarming the alarm and leaving through the . . .
We watched the shooting stars
and heard the loons call;
you poked at the fire
and we heard it roar.
chocolate on biscuits;
into your mind, to
comfort you into old age.
Sitting by the campfire
staring at red hot coals,
. . .
Some bigots minimize their prejudiced behaviour with veiled remarks
Photo: Freeimages.com – Pat Herman
We sauntered along the sidewalk, mature trees overhanging narrow street, morning air already muggy. Aunty stopped briefly to chat with a friend. Built close to the road, their old Victorian homes foster interaction between neighbours.
“I'll meet you at the coffee shop,” she . . .
Bedtime rituals keep me connected with my children
When my eldest son turned seven 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, . . .