My barely two-year-old nephew is taught not to cry when hurt. Not when he falls and stumbles. Not when he skins his knee or elbow. Not when he gets himself burned on the arm while playing beside a fresh-from-the-road motorbike. Not when he gets slapped on the bottom for being mischievous. Very early in life, he is taught that boys don't cry. About small stuff.
Indeed what does not make one cry makes one stronger. He can push cases of softdrinks from our front door to the back. And these aren't empty bottles, of course. He can also carry two (2) pet bottles of 1.5 liters of Coke, a bottle in each of his tiny arms; this over a 10-feet distance. And this after pushing a case of Sparkle and carrying four 1.5 pet bottles of Sprite one at a time. He gets bored carrying only a bottle at a time; a 1.5 liter bottle of softdrinks that probably weighs a third of his weight.
No, we don't allow him to do that everyday lest we be sued for child abuse. Oh the things that he finds amusing!
But he weeps when there is thunder and his Didi and Mimi are not around, shouting at the top of his lungs their names, asking them to come home. He weeps when his Miming and Mama Miming are growled at by Kunot. He weeps when you tease him by taking away his Buhbob pillow or his Buhbob shirt or his Buhbob cap or his Buhbob slee.
Tomorrow, Sheesha (as he calls himself) turns two.
How many 30-year old men can top that?
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