Scene: Getting 2.5 year old Daughter into carseat.
She: I'm not white.
Me (waiting): Okay.
She: I'm black.
Me: Actually, you're white and black and Indian, but okay...?
She: So you don't like me.
Other conversation ensues. The rest of the day passes. Wonderful Husband consults a biracial colleague then leaves work to be with us and figure out next moves. There is ice cream and talk about how many colors of skin and hair and eyes are in our family and at the ice cream store, and how much we adore (and like) her. He leaves. She goes on as usual. I avoid lethal injection by not physically ripping the hearts out of anyone who might have said anything like any of this to her, or who ever will, ever.
But the hole ripped in my own heart gapes. Fear and sorrow enter, and I pray that God is entering too.
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1 comment:
I don't often feel murderous thoughts...but am toward whoever (and how every many) communicated any dislike to our beautiful, wonderful goddaughter. Prayers and love and more love.
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