Wasting

Lately, we’ve struggled with wasting things.  She’ll agree that a shirt is cool while we’re in the store, and then won’t wear it when it gets home. She’ll order a beverage with her meal and then not drink it.  These are such small things (the shirt in question was 3 dollars) but it’s important to me that we use what we have.

It also makes me sigh a bit because I know she’s adopting American attitudes towards things.  I fight that.  I remember the little girl who danced with glee over the purple sparkly shoes–the purple sparkly shoes that came from the second hand store. I don’t think there is a soul in Ethiopia who did not hear about those sparkly purple shoes before we left.  If they’d allowed pictures, I would have one of her demanding that the security guard at the embassy crouch down (gun in hand) to see the new chamas.

I don’t expect her to dance with delight over every T-shirt and lemonade, but I don’t want her to accumulate stuff just to have it.

So, I fussed over this recent pattern in my head on the way to her school today.  We were listening to Dan Zanes on the way there. It’s one of those mornings that makes you never want to move out of New England–cool but not cold, clouds

parading at regular enough intervals to make you notice the sky between them–perfect.

And I spent that ride, hermetically sealed in my car, windows rolled, halcyon sky bouncing by me, while a small miracle sang in the backseat.  We dodged potholes and waited for construction vehicles, while I burned up minutes worrying about wasted glasses of lemonade.

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