My teacher told me this crazy story about where black people can’t sit on the bus.

Weird, huh?

And then some people marched and complained and stuff and then we could sit on the bus.  I think the guys’ name was Michael King, or something?

Martin Luther King Jr.

Yeah–how did you know?

I love wowing my six-year-old with my knowledge; she is always surprised when I know what she has been talking about at school, even though the first grade curriculum is somewhat predictable. Yet I admit some parental negligence: although my children are black and I think of myself as comfortable discussing race, I had not been eager to delve into our American history of slavery and segregation, and have procrastinated.  So my daughter and I had a nice little talk about when and where segregation functioned and how it sounds so silly to us now.

Which turned my mind to another topic I really ought to discuss with my daughter: the priesthood.  We have been to a number of baptisms and our friends have one of their parents perform the baptism and one of them speaks at the baptism.  When my daughter envisions her own baptism, she expects that I will perform her baptism.  Why wouldn’t she?  I read scriptures and pray with her.  I am the parent who takes her to church.  Doesn’t it make sense that I would be a significant part of her joining that church?  Sure it does.  Although she is a clever little girl, she just doesn’t seem to have noticed that the parents who baptize are the dads and the moms get to give the super-duper talks about the Holy Ghost.

Ugh.  I have no good answers for her about why she’s going to have to scrounge up someone else to baptize her, but I guess we should talk about it anyway.