index | archives | notes Monday, Jan. 21, 2008 6:44 a.m. << [ Warring ] >> When he steps in, his eyes are red and wet and he sinks to the bottom immediately. My Little Rock. The lesson is painful and not much teaching happens; he's in a bad mood so he spends half an hour throwing himself against me, and then away from me. Three new scratches and a bruised stomach later, I'm talking to his father, saying that even though today was a difficult day, his son is the reason I am still teaching. I've spent the last couple of nights in a row at a friend's house, sleeping on a pull out bed, wrapped together. He doesn't push or shove me into anything; a pleasant change of pace from every other boy I've ever known. My Little Rock, scratching and swinging, his father says he's going through his terrible twos even though he's seven. "He knows a lot now, but he can't express it, so he gets frustrated." Everyone is fighting the same battle. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org