I asked myself what I am doing to protect my own children from predators. Sure, I can start forbidding sleepovers. I can tell my kids that their body is theirs alone and no one is entitled to it. But what messages am I unwittingly sending them about how much they can trust me when they are hurt?
To a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
I struggle with knowing just how much of my son's personality I need to let develop on its own and what parts of it I should nip in the bud. I want him to remain a carefree little boy, but I know he won't. And as he makes the hazard-frought journey into manhood, Daddybeard and I will have to equip him for the world we brought him into.
I am not a fighter. If I say somebody’s about to “catch these hands” you can bet your last paycheck the most my hands are gonna be doing is typing furiously on a computer keyboard.
Miscommunicating in person the way we do takes a special mix of failed mind-reading and memory shortages, with a little selective deafness thrown in for good measure.