The Battle Cry of the Tigger Mom
How I Learned to Accept Parenting Imperfection
Granted, I'm not exactly an impartial observer, but I mean, he counts to three for sure, to ten kind of, and (mostly) knows his ABCs. He's not reading War and Peace, but he does all right with Hop on Pop. What's best is that he loves books. He thinks they're something to discover and not to be drilled on.
Mostly, though, he excels in running around, chasing the cat, trying to climb the bookshelf, making funny faces in front of the mirror, blowing raspberries, splashing in mud puddles, rolling in grass and poking at snails. Clearly, he is a veritable genius at this thing called childhood.
I'm an only child who is mother to an only child, so I'm no expert here. But it seems that there is a strong undercurrent of fear—no, panic; no, outright terror—in fostering our kids' development. That fear is that if we don't make them disciplined academic achievers before they even hit kindergarten, and if we don't maximize the opportunity to stuff their heads with the exact right ingredients during those prime brain-building years, then forget it. They're doomed in this global economy. Part of the U.S. decline. Sentenced to life in serfdom.
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