I am a talker. Actually, calling me a talker probably insults people who would typically bear this classification. I'm a verbal rambler. I'm a vocal assault. I suffer from linguistic diarrhea. OK, that last one might have gone too far. In short, there are very, very few situations that leave me speechless. There have been so few of these that I honestly believe that I could probably remember and relay all of them in a single blog. The fact that my kids have brought on most of these moments of dialectic paralysis makes this blog the ideal place to mention my favorite.
The Little People at our Hyvee
We used to live very close to a Hyvee. We shopped there regularly and since we had no money at all for entertainment, we often shopped in the evening as a Date Night. I know, with such a steaming cauldron of romantic possibility it's no wonder we have 13 kids. We also shopped in the evening because it was much less crowded. Mixing Romance and practicality is always a great way to stoke the flames of passionate love. Often on one of our evening shopping trips, we would encounter a family of little people. Actually, the mother and father were little people, but the son was close to six feet tall. The mother was a joyful and open person that seemed very approachable. This was unfortunate because her husband was remarkably rigid and imposing. He honestly looked like he was waiting for you to walk up and make a joke about his stature so he could finally launch into the tirade about the life of a little person in the shadow of the inconsiderate "big" people. The problem was, I longed to get to know these people.
I absolutely love to learn about people, especially when they are different than me and I can't dream of actually seeing life from their angle. An African American couple that my wife and I love dearly from our past befriended us because I openly asked him what it was like to be a black doctor. I asked if he ran into racism in such an educated and honored profession. He had a ton to say on the subject and was delighted to tell me stories about patients that had refused to be treated by him, and some of the awful things that people will say, and a few stories about people who experienced genuine heart change because he offered them quality care. He openly admitted that I was the first white person to ask him that question. I didn't even think to be embarrassed until that moment. So with this relationship in mind, I was anxious to befriend the little people. There was only one problem. Josiah was three.
The only thing that made Josiah's age an issue was that he had recently been watching Snow White and the Seven (freaking) Dwarfs. I realize that this sounds like a set up that is too cheesy for even a Disney movie, but I assure you, on my honor, that it is true. It seemed like every time I was at the store at the same time as my to-be-best-friends, I had my son in the cart. For the record, if you don't have or know a three year old, know this, they have not yet developed the filter that keeps things in your brain from pouring out of your mouth. It seemed that Josiah would not only never grow this filter, but would need an extra large and extra strong one when he did reach the age when this filter would form. So I got very used to playing a game I called, Dodge the Little People, when on a Date Night Shopping Expedition. I would turn down an aisle, spot the family I desired to introduce myself to, look at the foreboding scowl on the man's face, look into the big, round, innocent eyes of my son that seemed to be dying to tell me every little thing that they saw, and chicken out, turn my cart around and look for another aisle. This went on for months.
On the fateful night, I had dodged the little family several times, a skill that I was excelling at, and we were now standing in line waiting to check out. You guessed it, the little couple got in line right behind us. I turned around and caught a glimpse of them. The mother looked as friendly and happy as ever. The father actually had his arms crossed over his chest and a cartoonish frown on his face. I quickly turn around and as I had feared, Josiah was leaning to the side with eyes the size of grapefruits, trying to look behind me. I quickly stepped aside to block his view. My heart rate quickened. Josiah threw his weight in the opposite direction to see around me. I adeptly intercepted. Josiah threw a wickedly mature head-fake that I'm embarrassed to admit, I fell for. Josiah got a young eye full. He sat up straight and said at the top his little three-year-old voice, "Dad, that one must be Grumpy Dwarf!" The cashier dropped his head to cover his laughter. I turned to offer my explanation to the clearly wounded family, and saw the mother giggling reassuringly. With my confidence slightly bolstered, I turned to the father. There is no way to explain the anger, cynicism, sarcasm, and murder in the eyes of this man. He was waiting for my explanation. "Blame it on Disney", my mind shouted at me. My mouth abandoned me. That stalwart companion that had always stood and been true, jumped ship and fled. I turned back around, paid for my groceries and followed my mouth's example.
I learned from this experience that as much as I believe in openness, honestly, and authenticity, not everyone is ready for these things. Sometimes, saying exactly what you are thinking and feeling leaves you in a place where there is nothing to do but tuck your tail between your legs and run out the door.
Incidentally, from that point on, Josiah shopped blind-folded.
No comments:
Post a Comment