For several years we have conveyed to friends and family via email and FB the exploits of Brady's journey to find his voice. Though some of you have already read this, I hope this passage from Sept. 18, 2018 helps to lift the spirits of our newer readers.
Warning: total “Cat’s in the Cradle"
Backstory: For whatever reason, Brady and I have suffered through what ills many father/son relationships ... open communication. (Not the case for you and me, Bert).
While Danielle and Peyton have flourished with facilitated typing, Brady and I have been filled with anxiety for no known reason. I don’t know what to ask him, and he probably is afraid to disappoint me. Perpetuating a viscous cycle of typing tension.
Well, we started over again today with our typing coach, Morgan, and we had a great day. It’s back to basics, and I’m fine with that.
But then B sat down with Morgan to type his final thoughts of the day. That’s when the poet in my son comes out. The following in brackets are approximations by my recollection, but everything by Brady’s name is verbatim.
Brady: help me because i see future in typing.
(Morgan: you are doing an amazing job typing, Brady. And you are doing a wonderful job practicing with your sister and dad.)
Brady: i help me now i turn to try harder. i am typing to a crowd in my dreams.
(Morgan: Wow, that’s an amazing visual. Do you see yourself on stage helping others?)
Brady: my dream is to be hero.
(Dad: Brady, you already ARE a hero, son. You’re a hero now.) Brady: you real hero dad. ... and that’s when I crumbled
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