Whenever I think of Texas I am reminded of that awful overnight layover in Houston in 2000 that ended with me wedged in a crowded terminal with a slow-talking couple and their large brood named Faith, Justice, Liberty, Freedom, and the smallest one saddled with Jubilee.
I was reading a news magazine featuring a dinosaur skeleton cover shot and young Justice, the older of the two boys (about 8), informs me matter-o-factly that “Dinosaurs aren’t real” and that I was a girl. His father pulled him away telling him not to speak to strangers. The oldest girl asks, “But, Daddy, what about witnessing?”
I wanted to hear his answer too, but as usual there’s never an answer to Fatherly contradictions.
Whenever I am reminded of (read: outraged by) Texas I buy a dinosaur book for a friend or neighbor’s kid. I’ve been reminded of Texas a lot the past few days and I think this week I’m going to donate a large chunk of elementary-level dino reading to the local holiday gift drive. The Toys for Tots collection at my office is next week too, so I’ve got to find some fun thing, like one of those young archaeologist kits where you dig your own dino and it makes a big mess and your mom gets real mad so you know it is awesome. (Everyone always donates toddler toys. What about the bigger kids?) One thing is certain though — I definitely won’t be hitting the Perfume & Spa Science section of Toys R Us. That makes me want to buy even more science books for kids. The cycle is maddeningly never-ending!
