Wish I remembered his name...

As a kid I lived in varying inner cities.  We never stayed in one place very long and for some reason most of the places made little impression on me.  Just faint memories.  For a few weeks of my 2nd grade year we lived in a small apartment with my grandparents in Boston.  Each day I would walk a couple blocks, by myself, to a bus stop where I would attend a school that I can barely remember.  I attended dozens of schools before ending up in Oregon my 8th grade year so they tend to all run unclear in my mind.  What I do remember is this boy that would catch the bus with me.  He was quite a bit older than me, maybe 5th grade or so, and didn't speak a word of English.  For a reason foreign to my 7 year old mind this kid took a liking to me.  He would tease me and pick on me a bit, never unkind, just very attentive.  I really wish I could remember his name but for the sake of this story let's call him Carlos (I think this name is really close). 
This past Saturday during church the pastor was recounting a story of a time he was protected.  That another kid had made a commitment to protect him at the expense of himself.  It made me remember Carlos and I became really sad that I couldn't remember his real name. 
One morning before leaving to the bus stop my Uncle Freddy gave me a hug and handed me 2 bucks for cleaning my bedroom for my Abuela.  I remember feeling proud of myself and crazy excited that I had money in my pocket!  My parents would give me an allowance occasionally on a Friday (payday) but by Monday they were "borrowing" it back so a few bucks was a rare treasure.  I stuffed the bills in my pocket and made my way to the stop.  After a typical day at school I sat on the bus for the ride home and probably in my ignorance took my money out, probably to show off.. maybe hoping someone would ask me where I got it and I could recount how I did something great and was paid handsomely.  A few seconds later a big kid stood up in the aisle and started screaming at me.  I sort of went foggy but I remember a large angry boy towering over me yelling that I stole his sisters money.  I was so confused I think I sat there silent.  On this packed bus with a bunch of poor ghetto kids (to clarify I was also a poor "ghetto kid" so this is not an insult, it's just to give you a picture), no one seemed to care that a little 7 year old girl was about to get pummeled by a 6th grade boy and his sister who stood next to him pointing and screaming the whole time.  Finally as the kid was about to grab me the bus driver pulled over and yelled for us to get off.  We were really far from our bus stop.  Yes, this bus driver was about to kick off three kids in a random part of a big city to "deal" with the problem.  Just as I was about to stand up, crying, Carlos grabbed my shoulder and stood in the aisle of the bus in front of me.  I don't know what he said but he basically told the bus driver that he'd deal with my fight for me.  It was like the moment Katniss volunteered for her sister (Hunger games if you haven't seen it).  I instantly was filled with fear and guilt, but mostly relief.  As promised the bus driver yelled "get off!" and both boys, and the accusing sister, left the bus in a random part of town.  As we drove away I stared out the window and tried to watch, wanting to close my eyes and unsee it all.  Last thing I saw was the boys walking towards eachother, their hands in fists, angry-ready to fight expressions.  My stomach hurts just thinking about it.  Carlos had protected me.  Some little girl he barely knew who didn't even speak his own language.  That was my last day in Boston.  For reasons unknown to me, but very typical, we moved away that very night and by middle of the following week I was once again at a new school.. the new kid.  I never saw Carlos again... and I am praying to remember his real name. 

So I just started reading this book.

Lord help me.  Do I really want to know??  Uh...deep breath...yes, I do.  I am praying that this book gives me some insight into what's it's like to be married to me and how I can be a better non-naggy, nicer, more sacrificing (just typing that word engages my gag reflex, I think that's a sign) spouse.  I'll let you know how it goes.  Or maybe I should let Adam post about it.. hmmm, no way.  Thanks Kayla for the recommendation, I think :)

Lucky girl..

When I look at my daughter I often think "lucky girl.."  She has no idea how lucky.  In so many ways she reminds me of myself and I get to see what it would be like to grow up in a home where we fret about what to make for dinner or what movie to rent... and that's about it.  A place where her ambitions are encouraged and her opportunities endless.  As a kid I day dreamed of a life that much resembles my daughters.  I would fantasize about being able to sign up for whatever new thing was on a flyer in my back pack.  Ayva lives in an existence that is wide-eyed and wondrous and I can't even express how grateful I am for that.  This year she picked up the clarinet (she already plays piano) and last night she had her band concert.  Like me she can't here a beat without boppin' to it, even elementary school band music. 

Here I go...

I've always had this desire to write.  I am much less socially awkward behind a computer screen. This is my way to get down my thoughts on everyday life as well as document my family's "goings-on's" (not sure that is a word, but whatever).  We may have created a house hold of super scheduled kids (notice I did not use the phrase "over scheduled") but I think we thrive on being busy, we are bad at being bored.  If you'd like to know what's up with thebradfordfive I'll try and update this blog often.  That's my goal, atleast :)