It Takes a Village...

Not only to raise children, of which I am painfully aware. Traipsing around the world, or our little piece of it anyway, with two small, mildly unreasonable, to put it mildly, minions, I have come to rely on the kindness of strangers. Whom I fondly call my Village People.

My Village People make the world safer for my children. They do. Sure it's easy, even commonplace, to view the world as an evil place with potential predators lurking around every corner and while, yes, I concede that danger is out there, it just seems such an awful and ugly way to navigate through life. And I've found that, when I look for it, nah, expect it, kindness prevails.

A few months back, when Zee was going through a particularly feisty phase, we were making our way through the grocery store parking lot and she, in a fit of rage, wrestled free from the kung-fu grip that is the customary hand-holding practice around here, and darted away. I stumbled forward trying to snatch her hood with the hand that wasn't wrapped around Bee, and...let's just say...the hood eluded my tenuous grasp.

Nearby a tattoo-laden guy, in his early twenties or so, was tinkering with his truck stereo, somehow without the aid of a step-ladder or a hot air balloon, and glanced our way. From his vantage point, about twenty feet in the air, or so it seemed, he saw what I did not. A car plugging along toward the very stretch of parking lot Zee was about to bolt into. Without hesitation, he tossed his screwdriver aside and jumped from his truck, leaping in front of the oncoming car with his arms outstretched.

Hands trembling, I quickly caught her and chastised, OH did I chastise, and I turned to him, choking back tears, and thanked Tattoo Guy profusely for putting himself in harm's way to ensure my little girl's safety.

He shrugged and said, "No big deal. She's just little," patted her on the head and went back to the task of loudening his stereo. Not that the loudening was necessary given the ringing in my ears I noticed as we, safely, rounded out our parking lot journey and entered the grocery store.

And I loved him. I love my village.

And now, because apparently I'm trying out for the Circular Thinking Olympics, the point of this post? Not only does it take a village to raise children. Apparently it takes a village for me to write. And so, whether it is a construction hat or headdress or a cowboy hat you don, if you're so inclined, I want to read you. I've come to realize that what I most enjoy about blogging is the Village feel of it. I know you and you know me. So, please let me know where I can find you. And I'll bring over some soup. Or something equally villagey.

I want to be one of your Village People. If you'll have me. Every village needs an idiot, doesn't it?