Perhaps the best essay on chess I have read this year.
Every time I start to write something positive about my kids I read it back through my self-effacing English eyes and think: bleurgh.
Some pawns about to get capped quick
Any praise tips so easily into the worst kind of parental bragging (“…and then Tristram counted backwards from 100 in Greek, missing out every seventh number! And he’s only two!”) It’s boasting of the worst kind – the kind designed to make other parents feel bad.
In order to counteract any possible threat of smugness, I then feel honour bound to point out that, for every one thing my kids are better than yours at, there’s two they’re worse at.
So much guilt, and I’m not even Catholic.
Then, I worry that…
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