The last sixth of the class I'm letting him climb up over the edge and jump in. He holds one foot up and squeals, he twists and curves and comes up and looks at me, all brown eyes and love.
His father, afterwards, "He wasn't too focused today, but that's okay. His mother and I both think arm strokes will take longer than kicks did. I think you have a good feel for when to push him and when to let him play."
I tried to explain to my mother today that I hate being home because everything is so negative. She couldn't understand what I meant. The more I learn about teaching children, the more I learn that you rule with love instead of fear, the more I see that my parents had no idea what they were doing. Knowledge is Power, sure, but no one ever tells you that Power and Sorrow are probably fucking eachother.