Thursday, July 20, 2017
Bathrooms . . .
I sit here listening to the News and the discussion about bathrooms and who should go in which ones.
And my first reaction has always been – who cares? A bathroom is a bathroom is a bathroom. As long as there are stalls for privacy who cares?
And then I pause . . . and reflect.
I remember being a little girl in my Detroit neighborhood. Such grand memories. We played kick the can and baseball and sometimes my girlsfriends and I played “house” up in my attic playroom . . . or on the porch. We were mommies and our dolls were our babies . . .
And then . . . I was a teenager and going to high school . . . and I had a boyfriend . . . and he was my forever love . . . and we went to dances and . . .
And then . . . I was a young bride . . . waking down the aisle of the church . . . promising to love and honor my husband . . .
And then . . . I was a young mother . . . with my firstborn . . . and second born . . . and third born . . . and fourth born . . . and then . . . on my own and working once again . . . and then . . . a grandma . . .
And then . . . I start to think of others . . . who never really knew who they were . . . or struggled trying to understand who they were . . .
And tears fill my eyes . . . and my heart wrenches . . . because . . . because that kind of confusion . . . anguish . . . was something I have NEVER had to come to terms with.