I LOVE This!

"When you get-give. When you learn-teach."
Maya Angelou's Grandma (whose name I will find)




"You will hear me protest but you will not hear me complain."
Maya Angelou (herself)


(Okay. I just want to say regarding the Maya Angelou quote up there...I like the thought. I don't really expect ever to be able to apply it in my own life. I'm sorry.)

Picnics

Ya know? Parenthood is no picnic.

You can quote me on that.

Children Should Be Seen And Not Heard...

I have always hated this phrase, I mean just HATED it. As a kid I hated it because the only time any adult pulled it out and dusted it off was when they wanted me to be quiet and I am not, and never really was, into being quiet. As an adult I hated it because I really love hearing kids talk, my own and usually other people's too. A few times I've run into REALLY quiet kids and well, it's always a little unsettling for me.

BUT... that being said...consider the following...

So, when Dobbie was pretty small, say threeish, I had to pay the taxes on the car. Everything goes fairly smoothly until we are pulling out of the parking lot. The people planning the parking lot of the tax building used all the foresight of umm...let's say the people planning the war in Iraq...(But I'm sure they gave it everything they had, right? On both counts. I mean what would be the motivation for poor planning?) Anyway, it's pouring down rain, the parking lot is packed and I'm pregnant and freezing. I'm well into backing up (read...more than halfway out with the wheel poised to begin straightening action) when I hear the sickening thud that means I have made contact with something I did not want to.

I check on Dobbie, who is just fine as we were only traveling at 1.5 mph, and turn to get out of the car only to find an angry BYU student in my face.

"Well, what are we going to do? We have to call the police. What were you doing backing up into me like that? I saw YOU! Why didn't you stop? It's fine for you, there's no damage to your car but mine's a mess!"

I climb out of the car and stand in the rain, staring at bumpers with Joe Bozo, who just never quits I tell ya.

"I saw you in my mirror while I was backing up and I tried to honk the horn and step on the brakes and pull forward..."

I was kind. I didn't even ONCE mention to him that he had failed miserably at all three things that he had tried to do...not even once... any of the SEVEN times he told myself or the cop this.

Let's jump ahead fifteen minutes. The cop has arrived. She is a lady cop. A pleasant, tall lady cop with short, curly hair who has sized up Joe Bozo and mentally given him the same name I have. She invites Dobbie and I to sit in the back seat of the police car and fill out our papers out of the rain. She has sent Joe Bozo somewhere else (out of her sight and hearing) to fill out his papers. She is on my side.

"Mommy," says a little voice, "Mommy." I look over. "Mommy, all policemans are mans, huh? All policemans are mans."

"Umm...no, Dobbie, there are all kinds of police. Men and women can both be police...people."

"No, Mommy, policemans are just mans." His voice is rising with the power of his conviction, a trait I believe he inherited from...me. He reiterates, just in case I didn't hear him correctly, "Policemans are just mans."

I frantically gesture at him to be quiet, hoping against hope that the all-seeing mirrors that I believe are standard issue in all cop cars are not catching my motion. "No, no, no, honey, that is not true. I don't know WHERE you got that idea (and I don't) but you are WRONG!" I say through gritted teeth.

Ahh, but this is not adequate assurance for my son. He stands up, sticks his head through the little window and turns his head to face the now-slightly-less-sympathetic lady cop. He is six inches from her face as he says, loudly and distinctly, "All policemans are mans, huh? Aren't they? Aren't they?"

"No, they are not," she replies as I pull him backwards by the seat of his pants. There is tension in the air now and I sense that there is a definite shift away from the theory that I am completely innocent and maybe, just maybe, a whiff of sympathy toward Joe Bozo? We finish the papers and climb out of the car, walk through the rain back to our car and head home.

I still do not like the saying about children being seen but not heard.

But I concede it might come in handy.

In car accidents.

Before We Go Any Further...

Just in case anyone aside from my sweet mother ever reads this blog you should probably know a few things. Or at least a few people. First, my hubby, known hereafter as El Guapo. We've been married for a little over twenty one years. He's from Peru which is why we occasionally eat tamales and salsa. We have four kids. Dobbie, 20, currently serving a mission for our church in New Zealand. (Sept. '09 can't come fast enough!) Buo, 16, (it means owl in Spanish) has some crazy cowlicks in the back of his hair. Petunia, 14, and too lovely for her own good. (or mine!) And of course, Maizie, 9, who makes our lives interesting EVERY SINGLE DAY! No, we don't have really strange taste in names, it's to protect their ANONYMITY! (or at least to guard what little pride we have left...)

Aunt Lelia's Legacy

Well...Where to begin? Usually the beginning works best. My mother was raised by an amazing Victorian woman, my Aunt Lelia. She was 67 when my mom,4, and uncle,3, came to live with her and 70 when she took over their care completely without help. Probably my earliest memories involve some form of the phrase "Aunt Lelia used to say..." (My personal favorite? "What would you like me to do? Stand on my head and spit nickels?" More on that later...) Anyway, I trace my own love of quotes to that sweet (and tough) woman. I collect them. I borrow them.I make them up.Thus...Aunt Lelia's Legacy. We'll give it a whirl anyway...