Like Harry Potter getting his friend Ron to think that a dram of Felix Felicitas was in his morning pumpkin juice, I knowingly planted a fictitious notion (one loosely based on an unrelated fact) into my son’s head tonight. My oldest has a heck of a time memorizing things: somewhat because of his methods, somewhat because he thinks he should basically have a photographic memory.
This generation of kids — a gross generalization that includes my own — has a crazy notion that they should be experts at any given task on the first try. This must be one of the consequences of the Internet savvy, video-game crazy, look-what-I-can-do-can-I-have-my-trophy-now generation. That tangent is for another post, though.
This summer I was watching my son and three of his friends playing an impromtu game of keep-away with a soccer ball while they were waiting for their turn at swim practice. There they were, four little eight year-olds running around in Speedos, kicking a soccer ball on the grass next to a swimming pool. They were weaving in and around moms sitting on towels and lawn chairs. They weaved around without a care in the world outside of their game. You could see the look in their eyes that nothing else mattered outside of their made-up game, and that was OK. They had laser-like focus on their game. They were being kids: pure and simple kids.
I finally saw the documentary
My oldest son is eleven. He wants to be a rock star. He enjoys music. He has a great thirst for learning about how music works. He actually does try to deconstruct
An interested reader recently had a pointed comment to last month’s post on routines.