friend to children, part one.
This is the first of three blogs I plan to write about children, raising, and mentoring them.
I have been wondering, lately, if I am a friend to children. There's a woman in my life who is undoubtedly so--she has always been active with the children's population in her church, she adopted a special needs child, and she keeps toys in her otherwise adult-geared home for when the neighbor kids come over. Her academic interests are often focused on children and who births them and later procures them, as in the case of adoption. She told me once that her mother instilled these values in her, that children are an important investment for all people to sock some literal and metaphorical bank into.
The Sunday before Thanksgiving found me at the mall to return a purchase at JCPenney. The store was overrun with families and I was surprised to see so many people out so close to The! Biggest! Shopping! Day! Of! The! Year! Nevertheless, I gave a little sigh and got in line for the long haul. About five minutes into my wait, a voice came over the loudspeaker announcing a code Adam--a lost little boy of 10 years old wearing a white sweatshirt. No one really seemed to notice the announcement around me. I didn't see people scanning their immediate vicinity for the lost child, or murmuring about it or anything like that.
But they began to take notice as the announcement was repeated every three minutes and I could feel the tension rising in the store with each further repetition. I imagined that mothers and fathers and aunts and grandmothers were imagining their own children temporarily misplaced, or worse, stolen. For my part, I remembered what it was like to be lost in Woodman's (Madison's huge, cavernous and ridiculously busy grocery store) as a little girl, wondering where my mommy went and how I would find her again. The memories alone made me consider getting out of line and wandering around the store to scout out the little boy.
I could hear a collective, hopeful intake of breath each time the voice came over the loudspeaker, as though the people in the store were wishing the code was called off. Eventually, the child was lost so long they began (unwisely, in my opinion) broadcasting his first name. I commented to the mother in front of me that this particular detail didn't seem like a good one to release in the event that Ben was not among trustworthy adults. She nodded her head and murmurred in agreement.
Just as I reached the register, the Code Adam was called off. I had anticipated jubilation from those around me. After all, we had endured more than 20 minutes of a very public drama in which a child was lost in a very large department store, part of a very large mall in a very large city. But no--there was no clapping and there were few smiles. Everyone seemed to go on with their business as though Ben was never lost at all.
I left the store wondering if my anxiousness about his adventure meant I was a friend to children.
I have been wondering, lately, if I am a friend to children. There's a woman in my life who is undoubtedly so--she has always been active with the children's population in her church, she adopted a special needs child, and she keeps toys in her otherwise adult-geared home for when the neighbor kids come over. Her academic interests are often focused on children and who births them and later procures them, as in the case of adoption. She told me once that her mother instilled these values in her, that children are an important investment for all people to sock some literal and metaphorical bank into.
The Sunday before Thanksgiving found me at the mall to return a purchase at JCPenney. The store was overrun with families and I was surprised to see so many people out so close to The! Biggest! Shopping! Day! Of! The! Year! Nevertheless, I gave a little sigh and got in line for the long haul. About five minutes into my wait, a voice came over the loudspeaker announcing a code Adam--a lost little boy of 10 years old wearing a white sweatshirt. No one really seemed to notice the announcement around me. I didn't see people scanning their immediate vicinity for the lost child, or murmuring about it or anything like that.
But they began to take notice as the announcement was repeated every three minutes and I could feel the tension rising in the store with each further repetition. I imagined that mothers and fathers and aunts and grandmothers were imagining their own children temporarily misplaced, or worse, stolen. For my part, I remembered what it was like to be lost in Woodman's (Madison's huge, cavernous and ridiculously busy grocery store) as a little girl, wondering where my mommy went and how I would find her again. The memories alone made me consider getting out of line and wandering around the store to scout out the little boy.
I could hear a collective, hopeful intake of breath each time the voice came over the loudspeaker, as though the people in the store were wishing the code was called off. Eventually, the child was lost so long they began (unwisely, in my opinion) broadcasting his first name. I commented to the mother in front of me that this particular detail didn't seem like a good one to release in the event that Ben was not among trustworthy adults. She nodded her head and murmurred in agreement.
Just as I reached the register, the Code Adam was called off. I had anticipated jubilation from those around me. After all, we had endured more than 20 minutes of a very public drama in which a child was lost in a very large department store, part of a very large mall in a very large city. But no--there was no clapping and there were few smiles. Everyone seemed to go on with their business as though Ben was never lost at all.
I left the store wondering if my anxiousness about his adventure meant I was a friend to children.
posted by Alison Inaz @ 6:20 PM
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