Welcome to Week 36!
A prologue of any kind will only reduce the impact of this picture.
Here’s the prompt
Illustration: Al Margen
What does this picture make you think of? The format can be a a story/poem/rant/anecdotes/journalistic coverage of events/ reflections as usual.
Pour out, and let it flow ….
LAST WEEK’S ROUND-UP
Hecblogger (Amit Agrawal) at
It was all too much. The piano lessons. Tennis. Soccer. Computer. Book Club. Guitar lessons. Math Club. He didn’t know how Kyle would stand it all without his head simply exploding. His head would have already exploded.
He hated what the world had done to the youngest among them, the innocent. They had no voice to protest the whirlwind of the modern age.
When did children get to be children?
Though, he supposed, nothing much had changed. Adults had always considered children something they owned, something to use.
‘This is my son, Lewis. He was first in his class in Mathematics and Social Studies. He won first place in the Tennis Tournament at the Country Club. Yesterday he finished writing an original piece of music for the guitar and piano.’
Was that being a child? Of course not. That was a child being formed into a small adult, way before the child was capable of being an adult.
Why were the youngest expected to carry the burden of their parent’s unfulfilled expectations? It your child wasn’t involved in at least ten different after school activities before the age of five, and the best at them, then you, as a parent, were considered a failure?
Why was status more important then freedom?
Children had to have chores, had to learn responsibility, but the world suffered when generations of adult children grew up without knowing how to first be a child. One couldn’t be an adult without having first been a child.
Sighing, he smiled down at his baby son, tucking the blanket gently around his tiny shoulders.
Kathleen would be downstairs, finishing up her coloring book. She’d been at it since arriving home from school, between running in and out and up and down like a wild pony. It was time to corral her and herd her to bed; one of the highlights of his night.
Turning off the light and leaving the door cracked, he headed down the stairs. Hearing his footsteps, Kathleen bolted, kitchen door slamming behind her, trailing giggles.
There were a lot of kinds of failure, he knew, but this wasn’t one.
No, not in a million years, was this one.