2002-06-28
I told B how these books I read make me feel like a monster for working fulltime and sending the kid to daycare. He said, "See, that's why I don't read books."
He talked about the friends he visited last week, their take on parenting. They want their children to know that they are special and loved, but they don't want them believing they're the center of the universe and everything they do is wonderful.
We talked about what we want for Clay: for him to be kind and gentle. If we focus on that, B said, all the rest will fall into place.
I was not the kindest of children. I had a bit of superiority problem, a caustic side. The word conceited came up a lot.
In ninth grade, I had this young, handsome Viet Nam vet history teacher. I still remember his smell--coffee, cigarettes, and some kind of aftershave--and his voice. No one did not love him. I stayed after school one day talking to him, somehow we got into existential territory. He said, The most important thing is to be kind to each other.
I think I thought about the misfit kids, the ostracized ones, ones to whom I had not been especially kind. I said, That's so abstract.
He said, No, it's not abstract at all.
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