So we watched. Watched him gasp. Watched him call out for his Mama. Watched him go limp. Watched the footage of courageous citizen journalists who dared and cared to keep recording and filming while four white men with guns enabled the murder of a black man, handcuffed, on the ground,
a knee on his legs,
a knee on his back,
a knee on his neck.
We watched as this happened.
Because I could not allow them to not. There may be all kinds of thoughts and ideas and perspectives on how old kids should be before having to deal with heavy stuff. I don’t pay too much attention to it. I’ve talked with our kids from the time they were in the womb, through infancy and toddlerhood and early childhood all the way up to the ages they’re at.
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Becca and I split parenting and work. One works, the other schools, plays, and raises young minds and hearts. Then we switch the next day. We have done a variation of this for over eleven years and going strong.
Strong-ish?
I am not avoiding the phrase SAHD (stay at home dad) for any particular reason, other than the fact that it doesn't quite apply in our case accurately. We both raise children, we both work, we both stay home at some points and work at other points. It's great when there's one parent to work five days and one parent to stay home five days or whatever, but that's not us. We keep things hopping and make things work. Most of the time, mostly well.
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