They're not born, they're raised

Nobody was born Canadian.

Or Muslim.

Or Buddhist.

Or Christian.

Or Wiccan.

Or American.

Or a leader.

Or a loser.

Or a Smith.

Or a Malkovich.

Or a Lundy.

Or a bin Laden.

Or a Burks.

Children are born. Then they are raised by the world around them.

They either learn to learn.

Or they learn to not learn.

They learn to love.

Or they learn to hate.

They learn to love their country.

Or they learn to despise it.

They learn to love and respect their parents.

Or they learn to hate and rebel and be as unlike their parents as possible.

They learn that family is the center of the universe.

Or they are without center.

They learn individual responsiblity.

Or they are forever blaming "them" for their problems.

They learn to work.

Or they are destined to beg.

They learn that happiness is in simple, free things.

Or they are forever lost.

They learn to cooperate.

Or they are forever at war.

They learn that only about 1/6 billiionth of this world is about them.

Or they carry a grudge for life.

They learn to give.

Or they learn to be takers.

Parents, it is up to us.

These precious things called children are our opportunities to make a difference.

And remember, they will have children. And so on. And so on.

There is no license to become a parent.

There is no prescribed method of raising children.

Just remember they are clay in our hands.

And souls for us to guide.

Crosby, Stills and Nash got it.

"Teach Your Children"

You, who are on the road,
Must have a code that you can live by.
And so, become yourself,
Because the past is just a good bye.
Teach your children well,
Their father's hell did slowly go by.
And feed them on your dreams,
The one they picks, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.

And you, of tender years,
Can't know the fears that your elders grew by.
And so please help them with your youth,
They seek the truth before they can die.
Teach your parents well,
Their children's hell will slowly go by.
And feed them on your dreams,
The one they picks, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.......