It’s not that kind of parade.

Henry and I were snuggled up this weekend, watching the parade for a local community festival, when he yelled, out of nowhere, “It’s raining men!” Andy and I looked at each other, and I said, laughing, “No, Hank, it’s not that kind of parade.” So, of course, he asked, “Well, what kind of parade would you say that at?” You would think by now that I’d know not to make dismissive jokes in front of this child, assuming he won’t pursue the issue. Andy, matter-of-factly, replied, “At a pride parade.” Hank turned to me, and said, “What’s pride mean?” I told him, “If you are proud of who you are, then it means you have pride in yourself. And a pride parade is where groups of people celebrate being happy about who they are, and about who others are.” He thought for a minute, and then said, “I think EVERYONE should be in a pride parade, and be happy about themselves. Why not?” He shrugged, and turned his attention back to the events at hand.

I wish everyone had that kind of open heart.