When I was nine years old, I wrote my first poem. My mother read the little poem and cried. "Buddy, it's a beautiful, beautiful poem!" My mother poured out her praise. "What time will Father be home?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him my poem. My father had begun his movie career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate my poem even more than my mother. I confidently put the poem right on my father's plate on the dining table. My mother said he would be home around 7. But My father got home an hour later than expected. He sat down at the table and noticed his plate. "What is this?" I heard him say. "Ben, Buddy has written his first poem. And it's beautiful, so amazing!" Mother said. "If you don't mind, I'd like to decide that for myself," Father said. I kept my face lowered to my plate. It was only 10 lines long. But it seemed to take hours.  "I think it's bad," my father said. I couldn't look up. My eyes were getting wet. "Ben, sometimes I don't understand you," my mother was saying. "This is just a little boy. He needs encouragement." "I don't know why," _ "Isn't there enough bad poetry  in the world already? No law says Buddy has to become a poet." I ran from the dining room, threw myself on the bed and cried. A few months later, I read that first poem. It was a bad poem. I worked up the courage to show him a short story. My father thought it was not good but hopeful. I was learning to rewrite. As I worked my way into other books and plays and films, I realized how lucky I was to have a mother who said, "Buddy, it's wonderful!" and a father who shook his head "I think it's bad." Both are love that forces me to improve. In fact, all of us in life need both loving force. From the passage, we can infer that Father is   _  .
loving and strict careful and strict careful and rude careless and strict