When my dad was being recruited to the University of Utah from the University of Minnesota, I was 7½ years old.  There are a plethora of reasons why he decided to accept the offer, not the least of which was the closer proximity to both his and mom’s families in California.

At that time I had 3 older sisters, two younger brothers, a younger sister, and a baby sister on the way.  And, if you haven’t gathered this from previous posts, I was a *little bit (a-hem) of a worrier. 

I did not like change. 

Mom and dad sat us down in the gold carpeted living room that day in 1974 and told us we were moving.  Apparently everyone thought it was swell.  

Except me. 

My dad told me years later that I followed him into his and mom’s room with some very real consternation in my voice and told him in little seven-year-old Sally words that I. Did. Not. Want. To. Go.   

Like, for real.  And I had many reasons.

Dad, being the wise father of 8 he was at the time, told me something to the effect of “Ok Sal.  We won’t go until you tell me that it’s ok to go.”

That was 100% NOT true. He had already committed to the job and would not have let a child intercede. But, it was 100% wise of him to do.  Because I believed him.  He allowed me to feel like I had a say. 

Several years ago an orginization in Australia called KidsMatter did a little video series on why it’s important for kids (and all of us!) to have a say.  In it, a cute little girl says “I think it’s important we get a say because if the [school] did something we didn’t like and we had no choice, then we wouldn’t feel like we’re in this, like we’re welcome here. But if you get your say then you’d feel they’re letting you in and you feel like you’re meant to be here.”

I wish I could remember my little girl prayers from that spring.  I wish I could remember how I arrived at feeling ok about it all, how I decided I could get on board. 

My dad said it took me a few days – or maybe even a couple weeks – but I finally approached him and told him we could go.  I had my say.  

I’m sure he acted relieved and I’m sure he smiled.  

But the best part of the story for me came the next fall, after the summertime move, after waving goodbye to my best friend Christine through the back window of the station wagon with tears streaming down my face (just like in the movies), after getting teased for my little Minnesota accent, after learning how to open all the doors at my new school all by myself. 

The best part of the story for me, and the part I’m choosing to believe, is this:

In my second grade class that year, we made ladybugs out of rocks.  With paint and felt and pipe cleaners.  

And I gave mine to my dad.  And my dad kept it in every office he had until the day he died – 45 years later.  

Did he have a whole room filled with his children’s (very subpar) art projects?  No.  

He had one large yellow and black ladybug.

I like to think that he knew how hard that year was for me.  

I like to think he was proud of me for making such a hard and scary move. 

I like to think that that ladybug – for years and years – reminded him of when he made the smart decision to give his little girl a say.  

I can’t wait to hear about where you are having a say in your own life.  And where you’re offering a say to others.  And if you need help, I’ve had the best example – and some good practice. 

And yes, I still have the ladybug. 

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