Maybe you missed it. I did at first. But my husband doesn't miss a thing.
"Did you read about China's earthquake?" he asked.
"No. Where was that?"
"Page 5, inside," he said.
"Huh," my reply.
"They think about 10,000 people died. Maybe more."
"You're kidding! First a cyclone, now this!"
I was troubled, sure, but did my best to redirect my thoughts. There was breakfast to finish, hair to brush and lunches to pack. It was not a good time to dwell on Asia.
However, a certain 7-year-old with piercing brown eyes was standing just around the corner, and she heard it all.
"Mommy, where was the earthquake?" Carrie asked.
"In China," I replied. "That's far away."
"Did people die?" she asked.
"Yes, Honey. I'm afraid so," I said.
"Did babies die?" she asked.
"I suppose babies died too," I said. "It was a sad day."
I didn't think it was a good time to also mention Myanmar's cyclone. Brown eyes pooling beneath furrowed brows told me she'd had enough for one morning.
Somehow we got through breakfast and out the door. And, later that day, my husband brought to my attention something else I'd missed.
"You know, Carrie's new baby doll is from Asia," he said.
"No. Those dolls are made in the U.S. That's why they're so expensive," I replied.
"No, I mean …didn't she choose the Asian baby?"
He was right, of course. I thought back to our spring break trip to Chicago and our first stop at the American Girl Store. Frankly, I was surprised my husband remembered anything about that venture, fixed as he was on getting out the door before his wallet completely evaporated. But Carrie had been determined to spend every bit of her souvenir money on the Asian Bitty Baby -- which she did, despite my protests.
"But Mommy, I don't have one like this," she explained.
"Carrie, you have lots of babies. How about a stroller or some clothes for the Bitty Baby Grandma gave you -- the one that looks just like you?" I suggested.
"No, I want this one. She has black hair and pretty eyes," she said.
"But, you've got babies all over your play room. You can't even play with them all," I said.
"She can be sisters with my other Bitty Baby. They'll like to sleep together," and that was that.
It's difficult to argue with brown eyes. Just ask my parents.
When I was little my dad invented the "clean plate club." It sounds like fun and games, but there was a catch: picky eaters got no ice cream. And I loved ice cream enough to eat almost anything. Almost … but not peas.
"I'd rather starve than eat peas," I said.
"You know, there are children starving in Africa," my mom said. "How do you think they would feel about a bowl full of peas?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Should we send them mine?"
My mom was not amused, but I was serious. I'd heard Sally Struthers pleading for money on TV. I'd seen the bloated bellies and bowls of mushy rice. Those commercials made me cry.
"You can't just send food overseas," my mom said.
"Why not?" I asked. "If everyone shared a little bit there'd be lots to go around."
"It doesn't work that way," she said. "Now, eat your peas."
Eventually I came to understand what mom's can't explain -- that there are pockets of poverty in the world so deep that countless cups of forgone coffee could never fill them. And that's because there are governments that put pride above principle and people.
But, somewhere along the way, I began to eat peas -- and even like them sometimes. They must be an acquired taste -- like apathy.
As the day drew to a close I decided I'd best take a look at Asia's devastation for myself. Turns out I was right: babies with black hair and pretty eyes died alongside their frightened mothers. I saw their faces and tiny bodies lined up in a row. And I was relieved that I could still be shocked to tears by something far away … just like a little girl with big, brown eyes.
Kristen Friesen is a wife and mother of three girls and lives in Grand Island. She grew up on Cottonwood Drive in Lincoln, where she learned much of what she passes on in this column. Contact her at hervoice@theindependent.com.
