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It wasn’t too very long ago,
An attempt to make us agree,
A maiden by the name of Aidan,
Made for Annabelle-bunny a plea;
And this maiden lived with no other thought
Than to babysit the class bunny.
We were the parents, she the obsessed child,
Begging and pleading, and whining
To open our home to a bunny-not-wild,
But we feared our dog would be dining:
With a bark would send straight to heaven
Annabelle-bunny—the dog’s stomach, furry lining.
And for some reason mysterious, merely last night,
The mother of bunny-loving-lass,
Her head not screwed on entirely tight
Told the teacher of a third-grade-class:
“For a weekend we’d gladly take Annabelle home!
I don’t mind the allergens we’ll amass!”
The sign-up sheet met her penciled scrawl
To sponsor Annabelle-bunny’s weekend pass.
Why didn’t our daughter want to take home the class gecko, Sparkle? It could have at least saved me 15% off our car insurance.
Sometime, this fall, we will be hosting Annabelle, bunny extraordinaire, the cutest rabbit you’ve ever seen in your whole entire life for a weekend. At last night’s Back to School event, I was caught up in the sign-up sheet frenzy.
* I would thank Mr. Poe for his “Annabel Lee”, but I think he would want to distance himself as much as possible from my retelling…
The more I talk about how I dislike judgmental people, the more judgmental I find myself becoming. Armchair psychologists, go to work.
Yesterday afternoon we walked to school to pick up Aidan and Ryley. Many parents sat in idling cars, waiting for their children. It wasn’t a hot day, so the need for air-conditioning didn’t seem relevant. I was walking and thinking how foolish all the people in idling cars appeared. I wanted to bang on their windows and tell them to knock it off—they weren’t being wise with their fuel!
Then it occured to me: it is none of my business what they do with their car engines. It is their dime, their car, their air conditioner, their favorite song playing on the radio rendering turning off the engine nearly impossible until the song crescendos into its epic heights, taking the listener back to the school dance where they first fell in love with that kid that sat behind them in Trig.
I chatted with the other walking moms who hovered outside the first-grade pod door—great day for a walk! are you going to Back to School night? yes, my three-year-old dressed himself today…The kids burst out of the building like they were in an Alice Cooper “School’s Out” video.
Ryley didn’t seem to mind the prospect of walking home. Aidan was a little more miffed, but not to the point I wanted to leave my ears in the cafeteria’s dumpster as we walked away from the school. The promise of popsicles helped too.
Halfway home, Ryley said his teacher told the kids about a big flood that ruined some houses and made people have to live on their roofs. The people don’t have water or food. We can help them by sending money and clothes to them. I affirmed all his teacher said.
All the kids were listening to Ryley as he explained the situation.
Sam suggested we could send fireworks to the people.
Maybe, I told him, when they have something to celebrate.
Barbara Curtis, author and mother of twelve, has some great insights for helping kids understand Katrina.
The water is everywhere, but not a drop to drink. It is diseased with germs that cause illness. It is contaminated with toxic chemicals. It carries and submerges, eats away at wood and rots the formerly sat upon, gathered around, and treasured.
Water, which is often a metaphor for healing, cleaning, and restoration is responsible for unprecedented agony—both in the tsunami of the past December and the 300,000 lives lost in that catastrophy and most recently Katrina.
Last night hubby wrote a reminder, on his blog, about The Washing of the Water. Once those effected by tragedy both small in scope and beyond the scope find higher ground, they will attempt to heal. It is my hope they turn to the healing waters.
I’ve seen the tragedy politicized, blame thrown around (how can we blame anyone for a hurricane?), and outlandish conspiracy theories abounding. I have yet to see the Hollywood elite so quick to jump on the handwringing bandwagons start any telethons or fundraising drives. It is up to individuals, it seems, to step forward and help.
Even in small, seemingly meaningless ways we can reach out—donate what you can in goods or finances to various relief organizations. Be good stewards of what you have in your homes. Don’t consume excess energy. Yeah, I can be happy I have a full tank of gas. If someone needed it, though, I’d say “sure” and make my kids walk to school, uphill both ways, in the snow and barefoot.
We’ve been given so much. I know that. We all do. When we have laundry to complain about, or dishes to wash, or bums to wipe for the 10,000th time, I will remember I didn’t have to loot the diaper from WalMart, an act of desperation and shame (I have no sympathy for those who are looting Dyson vacuums* and plasma TVs).
So, in New Orleans, there are signs of the Healing Waters. Somewhere, they will find it in the flood.
*h/t Michelle Malkin
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