The Children’s Bereavement Center of South Texas, located in a low-rise suburb of San Antonio, has support groups for kids, adolescents and young adults most nights of the month, each addressing a different topic. Chronic illness. Murder. Suicide. Loss of a sibling. Loss of a parent. There are even “little people” versions of these groups, for children ages 3 to 5.
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Yesterday I was heartbroken. Today I’m angry. Teeth-gritting, hair-pulling, head-shaking angry.
Random thoughts that dart back and forth like the air hockey game my son loves to play. The gunman’s mother owned three guns, according to several news sources. One of them is a rifle, says a legal analyst. He’s careful to point out that it was not an automatic weapon like folks are mistakenly saying, though it is quite similar.
My son’s principal just sent an email asking parents to come get our kids—and exactly where to find them, as soon as dismissal time arrives in 45 minutes. Only two doors to the school are open now. She mentions scary things like “copycat crimes” in the wake of this morning’s horrific shooting at an elementary school in Connecticut. Considering the similar mall shooting in Oregon earlier this week, the news is particularly unsettling, if not downright terrifying.
When I went to my daughter's kindergarten orientation, the teachers said the kids would be studying reading and math, as well as Spanish, art, and music. There would be a poetry night and field trips. I wanted to ask if I'd accidentally wandered into a grad school!
Kindergarten has changed dramatically over the past decade. It's called the “push-down effect”: Academic content in all grades is being ramped up, making preschool the new kindergarten, kindergarten the new first grade, and so on.
I love my wife, Diane, like crazy. But I still wanted to pull my hair out sometimes.
What did we fight about? Money, for one. I was used to spending at will; she insisted every purchase be made together. Another flash point was the in-laws. They tended to butt in, and we weren't on the same page about them.
Diane pushed therapy; I pushed back. I hated doctor's offices. We had no time. So Diane, a Google fanatic, found a Skype counselor.
My daughter threw her first tantrum on my birthday. We were out at a restaurant, trying to celebrate, reluctant to exclude our eighteen-month-old by hiring a babysitter. Bad mistake: As soon as dinner arrived, she wanted out of her highchair. Then she started wailing, so my husband whisked her out of the restaurant. I ate a few bites of my dinner, alone, before I gave up and doggy-bagged the rest. Happy birthday? Yeah, right.