Today I while I was in the car, worrying about its overdue oil change and squeaky suspension, en route to preschool and work, I listened to someone on NPR talk about how we hate things about our families because they remind us of ourselves.
"Yes, I know," I thought. "But, I wonder if there are things about myself that I like, that I have also seen in my mother at some point?" [I'm trying to be more positive, you see]
I remember when my parents lived in Ghana that my mother would drive weekly to the Post and Telecommunications building to petition for a phone line. It took her two years to get P&T to string a phone line to their house. Every week for two years mother drove there, and every week while she was waiting inside, someone stole the spark plugs from her Nissan Sentra. I remember proudly how little this phased her and how simple she made the business of banging the engine block with a rock to generate a spark seem. Would I have had the guts to drive around in a car I'd have to try and start with a rock and the help of a passer-by to turn the ignition key for me? Probably not.
At about this point Winton asked "Mummy, why didn't you drive to our school?" and I realised I had driven past the preschool by a good couple of miles.
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