I am grateful for every chance I get to dry my child's tears. I do not mind at all showing him a tree for the 100th time, not as long as he gazes at it in awe yet again. I love the sound of his soft vowels emerging from babble, as rounded and curved as the David. didn't someone care for this man when he was young? didn't they make a sock dance for him like a bottom-drawer gnome? didn't someone sing for him (badly) over and over, to make him sleep?
and how sick I am of people complaining about how hard their lives are (myself included). those of us with the resources to complain, almost by definition, are in no position to do so.
