Piece 2
Only a Fool Says "Don't Listen to a Child", Or, How My 6-Year-Old Son Made Me Wiser with One Simple Observation.
An Important Note
I live between five languages—English, Persian, Dutch, Albanian, and Arabic—and I publish in all of them. Each has its own thread. I think and write in each one differently.
So if you’re only subscribed to the general English list, you’re missing a lot—and if you’re getting too much Gibberish or Yiddish, there’s a better solution than tossing all my work in the trash (BTW you may find my work not your cup of tea, in that case please do so). Just click “unsubscribe” at the bottom of any email—it leads you to a settings page where you can choose exactly what you want to receive.
If my emails feel like noise, Just archive them. Maybe later you wanna read or listen to my work, otherwise, feel free to opt out—or even better, tell me. I’m trying to figure out who’s actually here, and I’m not looking for fake numbers to deceive myself with.
I publish irregularly. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it’s dry. That may change, but for now, that’s the weather. Like the weather in the Netherlands —Somehow unpredictable.
If you’re a family, friend, colleague, reader, or just curious, you’re warmly invited to comment, message, or share this little space. Maybe someone else will want to step in, too. We have enough space here!
My son overheard his mom talking to a friend. The friend mentioned that her husband was out meeting his friends.
My son paused, puzzled. Then he turned to his mom and said:
“But, Babi1 doesn’t have friends to go to.”
His words struck me like a quiet truth I hadn’t dared phrase myself.
I don’t really “go out/hang out with friends.” Most people I know are either family, or so close they’ve merged into that category. I don’t have that habit —the casual, aimless act of just being with friends.
His innocent point opened something in me. A void.
I almost cried.
I suddenly had clarity through his beautiful, curious eyes and mind.
I remembered my teenage years—before exile, before war, before the long detour from my homeland, before isolation and disconnection. Back then, I did have friends. I was part of a circle. That circle was scattered long time ago.
And I never quite built or develop a new one. A circle of friends to go watch football with, or to hang out with just doing nothing.
But then another thought came.
Maybe I didn’t feel the void because I was healing.
Maybe my beautiful, fulfilling family has been that healing.
Maybe, while building a solid foundation—of love, of safety, of home—I didn’t have space for this kind of longing.
Maybe it’s normal. It's not, but certainly reasonable and explainable.
When you’re focused on surviving, on parenting, on building something that finally feels like it won’t collapse—you don’t miss what doesn’t fit in that chapter.
And maybe now that I do feel the need… it’s not failure.
Maybe it’s the sign of something good:
That we made it.
We eventually bought a house.
We built stability.
We became a solid loving and caring unit.
And now?
Maybe it’s time to start re-growing other parts of the story.
Maybe this is my next step—my evolution, not my lack.
Babi is Daddy in Albanian. It’s Baba in Persian, Papa in Dutch. He calls me Baba, and refers to me as Babi when talking with mom and siblings, and as Papa with his Dutch classmates.