What Punk Taught Me As A Parent
Growing up in New York City, in the heyday of CBGBs, I used to cross the street to avoid punk rockers. It wasn't only the metal and follicular spikes that scared me, they exuded something very raw and angry. And I was likely an unappealing stereotype to them: a plaid-uniformed product of an all-girls' school, my Tretorns maybe a bit too clean. Better to keep a safe distance.
Until I gave birth to one. My third child was still a toddler when it became clear he was the punker his older siblings weren't. If they said something that even slightly smacked of pandering to his diminutive size or age, he'd look them right in the eye and tear up the artwork they'd just brought home. He took no prisoners.
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