Usually people don't listen to me: I'm used to this.
As the fourth child in a loud and raucous household, I learned to shut my mouth.
My three older siblings would yell, "Shotgun!" and race for the front seat. I would say, "I want the back."
My sister continually cajoled me out of sodas and sweets by insisting that she have the larger portion. At the time she thought she was tricky; she knows now that I was just complaisant.
My daughter has recently developed an attitude of argumentation. "Why?" passes her lips instinctively after I ask her to go do something.
"Put away your sweater."
"Would you rather I throw it away instead?"
Whenever I tell my son, "Let's go change your diaper!" he runs away, laughing maniacally. Pajamas are a wrestling match.
But today I'm standing on a soapbox.
On our Everyday Mormon Writer website (where you can find a lovely new literary work at artwork every Friday), we've pulled out the soapbox. Unfortunately, it's only a metaphorical soapbox, a menu option on a website, not that good old fashioned wooden soapbox that would lift one above the crowd just enough to get the message out.
I'm hoping that my voice will carry. Maybe someone will listen.
Go ahead and argue with me, if you want.