Credit Where Credit Is Due Quotes

There’s a huge difference for taking responsibility for one’s actions, and taking credit, and in this scenario I think we need to give credit where credit is due. I won’t take responsibility for my teacher’s drinking problem, but I will take credit for it.

It seems unfair not to give credit where credit is due simply because one lacks a certain number of candles on one's birthday cake.

Credit is where credit is due and to honner the trixture whose illusions finally become true

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery until it involves plagiarism. Give credit where credit is due.

He had to give humans credit where it was due - they did seem to have a knack for building interesting places for cats to explore.

Buttercup sat up in bed. It must be his teeth. The farm boy did have good teeth, give credit where credit was due.

Shouldering the blame for failure and conferring credit where it is due comes rarely to most.

In our unconsciousness we take credit where no credit is due, oblivious to the real source of everything we pretend is ours—the sacred origin not just of religion but also of everything else, of science and technology, education and law, of medicine, logic, architecture, ordinary daily life, the cry of longing, the excruciating ache of the awakening love for wisdom.

I would never have met Juliette if you hadn’t left him.” He pointed at Søren. “Then shouldn’t I get some credit here?” Søren asked. “Oui, you get all the credit for being such an enormous asshole neither of us wanted to see you for a full year. “Thank you,” Søren said, saluting with his wineglass. “Credit where credit is due.

So maybe I just wanted to give credit where credit is due.

Folks don’t give themselves enough credit. The mother who endures cavities so her children can get braces. The father who works a dead-end job so his kids can have a roof over their heads. The daughter who sacrifices college so she can take care of her disabled mother. They are all heroes.

“You laid it on a little thick out there.” Morpheus clucks his tongue. “I performed masterfully,” he answers, at last managing to claim his hat from Chessie. “Right,” Jeb scoffs. “Pretty sure my mistreatment wouldn’t have sent you into hysterics, drama queen.” Morpheus smirks. “Fair enough. On the other hand, your portrayal of a brainless wind-up numbskull was spot on.” Jeb’s lips quiver, as if he’s fighting a smile himself. “You know, I still have enough paint to make that flyswatter.” “Tut. No need for violence.” Morpheus taps the dust from his hat and places it on his head. “I’m simply giving credit where it’s due.”

Focus,” Mary muttered, chastising herself and her wandering mind. From her stereo came the soothing sounds of monks, vocalizing an ancient hymn meant to bring one closer to enlightenment. Credit where it was due, they were pretty good. Mary couldn’t remember ever hearing a bad singing monk, though. Was it just a byproduct of monkhood that one gained a great singing voice? Or maybe they had auditions before one got in. “Great, great, you want enlightenment, but I’ll need to hear you belt out some show tunes before we let you in.” Were there scouts out there scouring the vocal talents of a new generation and recruiting them to top-notch monasteries?

That Castrima has lasted this far, a comm of stills who have repeatedly failed to lynch the roggas openly living among them, is miraculous. Even if “hasn’t yet committed genocidal slaughter” is a low bar to hop, other communities haven’t even managed that much. You’ll give credit where it’s due. It

Bernard: ... By the way, Valentina, do you want credit? - 'the game book recently discovered by.'? Valentine: It was never lost, Bernard. Bernard: 'As recently pointed out by.' I don't normally like giving credit where it's due, but with scholarly articles as with divorce, there is a certain cachet in citing a member of the aristocracy. I'll pop it in ad lib for the lecture, and give you a mention in the press release. How's that? Valentine: Very kind.

Have you not the mental capacity to think of something original, or give credit where it is due?

Oh, contemporary art, contemporary everything… Always giving credit where credit’s due.

But it was him, not God or any other... illusory power... who tore me away from that fire. I give credit where credit is due. One human being made a choice, he acted, and I owe him my life. No god killed my parents, nearly killed James, and spared me. I know that, and I can't go back and believe in things that I used to believe in.. or that I used to want to believe in. I don't know how much faith I had to lose that night, but whatever I have is gone now

Misner walked away from the pulpit, to the rear wall of the church. There he stretched, reaching up until he was able to unhook the cross that hung there. He carried it then, past the empty choir stall, past the organ where Kate sat, the chair where Pulliam was, on to the podium and held it before him for all to see - if only they would. . . . Without this sign, the believer's life was confined to praising God and taking the hits. The praise was credit; the hits were interest due on a debt that could never be paid. . . . But with it, in the religion in which this sign was paramount and foundational, well, life was a whole other matter.

Pride, we know, is an inflated view of ourselves—a false advertising campaign promoting ourselves because we suspect that others won’t accept who we really are.2 Pride is actually a lie about our own identity or achievements. To be proud is to live in a world propped up with falsehoods about ourselves, taking credit where credit isn’t due.

short, you shouldn’t be surprised if the world does the same thing. But the purpose of this book, and of this chapter in particular, is to help you set yourself apart from other people. Here’s a good way to start moving in that direction. We’re going to look at your most significant achievements in three different areas of your life: your work and career; your education; and your relationships with family and friends. We’re going to look at the things you’ve done right—and if you haven’t done some of them as right as you would like, these are also the areas in which you will commit yourself to doing better. These are things you deserve to be proud of—and if you’re not proud now, you have a great opportunity to change that. And remember, focusing on your achievements—past, present, and future—doesn’t mean you’re being egotistical or self-centered. It’s giving yourself credit where credit is due, and just being able to do that will immediately set you apart from the crowd.

Next Action When you’re avoiding something, try identifying the next action you need to take to move forward. Do that action. For example, if you have a legal situation and you feel overwhelmed about it, the next action you need to take might be something like emailing a lawyer friend and asking for a referral. If your garden has become overgrown with weeds, the next action you need to take might be locating your gardening tools. If your smartphone is acting up, the next action you need to take might be to run a backup. If you need to buy a new laptop, your next action might be to decide on your budget. Keep in mind that the next action you pick shouldn’t be too big. Generally, try to think of something you can do in 15 minutes or less. If you still feel overwhelmed, try picking an even smaller next action. To give credit where credit is due, the concept of defining your next action was first popularized in a productivity book called Getting Things Done. It’s a concept many of my clients have found useful.

In recognizing how thoroughly non-European science and technology have been explored, let’s also give credit where credit is due: By and large, it has not been Asian or Arabic scholars, fighting for recognition against European indifference, who are responsible for piecing together the record of accomplishment by non-European cultures, but Europeans themselves. Imperialists they may have been, but one of the by-products of that imperialism was a large cadre of Continental, British, and later American scholars, fascinated by the exotic civilizations of Arabia and East Asia, who set about uncovering evidence of their accomplishments that inheritors of those civilizations had themselves neglected. Joseph Needham’s seven-volume history of Chinese science and technology is a case in point.[10] Another is George Sarton’s Introduction to the History of Science, in five large volumes published from 1927–1948, all of which is devoted to science before the end of 14C, with the bulk of it devoted to the period when preeminence in science was to be found in the Arab world, India, and China.

Do you know where we are?” he whispered. “Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the dim window. “Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old quarters.” “But why are we here?” “Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms--the starting-point of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise you.” I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter. “Well?” said he. “Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.” “I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety,” said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the artist takes in his own creation. “It really is rather like me, is it not?” “I should be prepared to swear that it was you.” “The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon.

We can easily imagine a monetary organization which, by the exclusive use of notes or clearing-house methods, allows all transfers to be made with the instrumentality of sums of money that never change their position in space. If differences due to the geographical position of money are disregarded in this way, we get the following law for the exchange-ratio between money and other economic goods: every economic good, that is ready for consumption (in the sense in which that phrase is usually understood in commerce and technology), has a subjective use-value qua consumption good at the place where it is and qua production good at those places to which it may be brought for consumption.

Although his intimacy with Stephen Maturin did not allow him to ask questions that might be judged impertinent, it was of such a rare kind that he could ask for money without the least hesitation. "Have you any money, Stephen?" he said, the Marine having vanished in the trees. "How I hope you have. I shall have to borrow the Marine's guinea from you, and a great deal more besides, if his message is what I dearly trust. My half-pay is not due until the month after next, and we are living on credit." "Money, is it?" said Stephen, who had been thinking about lemurs. There were lemurs in Madagascar: might there not be lemurs on Reunion? Lemurs concealed among the forests and the mountains of the interior? "Money? Oh, yes, I have money galore." He felt in his pockets. "The question is, where is it?" He felt again, patted his bosom, and brought out a couple of greasy two pound notes on a country bank. "That is not it," he muttered, going through his pockets again. "Yet I was sure--was it in my other coat? did I perhaps leave it in London?--you are growing old, Maturin--ah, you dog, there you are!" he cried triumphantly, returning to the first pocket and drawing forth a neat roll, tied with tape. "There. I had confused it with my lancet-case. It was Mrs Broad of the Grapes that did it up, finding it in a Bank of England wrapper that I had--that I had neglected. A most ingenious way of carrying money, calculated to deceive the pick-pocket. I hope it will suffice." "How much is it?" asked Jack. "Sixty or seventy pound, I dare say." "But, Stephen, the top note is a fifty, and so is the next. I do not believe you ever counted them." "Well, never mind, never mind," said Stephen testily. "I meant a hundred and sixty. Indeed, I said as much, only you did not attend.

Poet's Note: Kindly do not use my poem without giving me due credit. Do not use bits and pieces to suit your agenda of Kashmir whatever it may be. I, Srividya Srinivasan as the creator of this poem own the right to what I have chosen to feel about the issue and have represented all sides to a complex problem that involves people. I do not believe in war or violence of any kind and this is my compassionate side speaking from all angles to human beings thinking they own only their side to the story. THIS POEM IS THE ORIGINAL WORK OF SRIVIDYA SRINIVASAN and any misuse by you shall be considered as a violation of my copyrights and legally actionable. This poem is dedicated to all those who have suffered in Kashmir and through Kashmir and to not be sliced and interpreted to each one's convenience. ---------------------------- Weep softly O mother, the walls have ears you know... The streets are awash o mother! I cannot go searching for him anymore. The streets are awash o mother with blood and tears, pellets and screams. that silently remain locked in the air, while they seal our soulless dreams. The guns are out, O mother, while our boys go armed with stones, I cannot go looking for him O mother, I have no courage to face what I will find. For, I need to tend to this little one beside, with bound eyes that see no more. ----- Weep for the home we lost O mother, Weep for the valley we left behind, the hills that once bore our names, where shoulder to shoulder, we walked the vales, proud of our heritage. Hunted out of our very homes, flying like thieves in the night, abandoning it all, fearful for the lives of our men, fearful of our being raped, our children killed, Kafirs they called us O mother, they marked our homes to kill. We now haunt the streets of other cities, refugees in a country we call our own, belonging nowhere, feeling homeless without the land we once called home. ------------- Weep loudly O mother, for the nation hears our pain. As the fresh flag moulds his cold body, I know his sacrifice was not in vain. We need to put our chins up, O mother and face this moment with pride. For blood is blood, and pain is pain, and death is final, The false story we must tell ourselves is that we are always the right side, and forget the pain we inflict on the other side. Until it all stops, it must go on, the dry tears on either side, Every war and battle is within and without, and must claim its wounds and leave its scars, And, if we need to go on O mother, it matters we feel we are on the right side. We need to tell ourselves we are always the right sight... We need to repeat it a million times, We are always the right side... For god forbid, what if we were not? --- Request you to read the full poem on my website.

Credit must be given where credit is due. European culture’s politicoeconomic system is wholly at fault for the importation of weapons into our communities. We neither own nor operate any of the 922 gun manufacturers who, in this society alone, produce over 1.5 million legal handguns for sale each year. We had nothing to do with the 250 million handguns already legally in circulation. No, they do not force our youth to buy guns. But their cultural imperative of violence has created and socializes them into an atmosphere where fear begets violence and violence begets more fear and more violence, and the methods and tools for quelling those confrontations become an increasingly more destructive interpersonal arms race. Europeans know that the death of a young Afrikan male is not simply his death. It is also the murder of every coming, exponentially growing generation of Afrikans he was placed here to begin the procreation of. There

onto the couch opposite his, noting the differences between this sitting room and the one I’d left. The colors were lighter and there were no weapons or barbaric shields over the fireplace. All at once, I hated the apricot and cream decor and the white hearth with the insipid oil landscape above it. This room lacked complexity, fierceness, passion . . . It lacked everything that Vlad was. “So he’s covering Gretchen’s expenses for the year.” Of course he hadn’t told me that. Vlad seldom mentioned his thoughtful deeds. “That’s very generous of him.” My dad glanced around pointedly. “He can afford it.” “He can also mesmerize her into forgetting she ever met him and drop her back at her apartment without a cent,” I said in a crisp tone. “Come on, Dad. Give credit where it’s due.” That salt-and-pepper head snapped up. “I do. He promised to bring you back safely and he did. He promised to let us return to our lives when the danger had passed and I believe him. But he refused to promise to leave you alone, and from how you look now, he’s made good on his intentions not to.” I was a grown woman, but I didn’t think I would ever feel comfortable discussing my sex life with my dad. In this case, though, he had nothing to worry about. “It’s

It seems unfair to give credit where credit is due simply because one lacks a certain number of candles on one's birthday cake.

How this peculiar grass, native to Central America and unknown to the Old World before 1492, came to colonize so much of our land and bodies is one of the plant world’s greatest success stories. I say the plant world’s success story because it is no longer clear that corn’s triumph is such a boon to the rest of the world, and because we should give credit where credit is due.

Ask a man to explain his success and he will typically credit his own innate qualities and skills. Ask a woman the same question and she will attribute her success to external factors, insisting she did well because she “worked really hard,” or “got lucky,” or “had help from others.” Men and women also differ when it comes to explaining failure. When a man fails, he points to factors like “didn’t study enough” or “not interested in the subject matter.” When a woman fails, she is more likely to believe it is due to an inherent lack of ability. 8 And in situations where a man and a woman each receive negative feedback, the woman’s self-confidence and self-esteem drop to a much greater degree. 9 The internalization of failure and the insecurity it breeds hurt future performance, so this pattern has serious long-term consequences. 10

Roots never get the appreciation that a flower does, but that doesn’t make them envious.

Let those flatter, who fear; it is not an American art.61 To give praise which is not due might be well from the venal, but would ill beseem those who are asserting the rights of human nature.… Open your breast, sire, to liberal and expanded thought. Let not the name of George the third be a blot in the page of history.… The whole art of government consists in the art of being honest. Only aim to do your duty, and mankind will give you credit where you fail. No longer persevere in sacrificing the rights of one part of the empire to the inordinate desires of another; but deal out to all equal and impartial right.… This is the important post in which fortune has placed you, holding the balance of a great, if a well poised empire.

Ask a man to explain his success and he will typically credit his own innate qualities and skills. Ask a woman the same question and she will attribute her success to external factors, insisting she did well because she “worked really hard,” or “got lucky,” or “had help from others.” Men and women also differ when it comes to explaining failure. When a man fails, he points to factors like “didn’t study enough” or “not interested in the subject matter.” When a woman fails, she is more likely to believe it is due to an inherent lack of ability.8 And in situations where a man and a woman each receive negative feedback, the woman’s self-confidence and self-esteem drop to a much greater degree.9 The internalization of failure and the insecurity it breeds hurt future performance, so this pattern has serious long-term consequences.10

Donald Trump spoke directly to people via his Twitter. He broke down the wall between people and the government. No one was doing that before. So, at least, we must give credit where it's due. Let's share love instead of hate.

We show faith in ourselves by setting clear goals. It is imperative that we acknowledge our successes and give credit where credit is due. More importantly, we must put failure into perspective. Faith in oneself and perceived failure are intimately connected. For many of us, when we think that we have failed, we lose faith in our abilities. The way I see it, failure is merely a tool by which we learn life’s lessons all too well. When the concept of failure is put into perspective, we are better able to acknowledge the wounds incurred in life. With positive attention, wounds heal and scars soften. Only then are we able to look through the pain and have faith in the good that resides within our hearts.

Whenever golden boughs spring from rotting tree trunks, mortal man has great difficulty in accepting their provenance. And yet the evidence of their eyes presents the blinding truth.

With all the discussion in the Black community regarding the need to create, foster and teach about generational wealth, let’s give credit where credit is due: Kobe Bryant put that agenda into action.

We receive gifts from God and use them to serve “in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ.” Honest service gives credit where it is due. Gifts are given by God and empowered by God to glorify God.

From a squalid izba to a space capsule—log cabin to the stars. You have to give these people credit where it’s due.

You…you’re an accomplished dancer,” she said, determined to give credit where it was due. “Surprised?” he asked. “I assure you, Miss Matthews, we Yankees do not all live in caves, coming out only to devour raw fish.” Before she could catch it, her mouth fell open at his gibe. “Are you making fun of me, sir?” He grinned. “Not at all. I was only teasing you, my thorny Southern rose.” How could one man be so infuriating? “I’m not ‘your’ anything, Dr. Walker.

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

By and large Western culture is a celebration of the illusion that good may exist without evil, light without darkness, and pleasure without pain, and this is true of both its Christian and secular, technological phases. Here, or hereafter, our ideal is a world in which ''there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away." To give credit where credit is due, it has been a grand illusion.

Dr. Longo studied the body’s natural ability to clean itself through a process called autophagy. The man is not a Christian, at least not that I know of, so he doesn’t always give credit where credit is due. However, his research brings to light the magnificent design the Creator used when He made us. “Autophagy essentially means self-eating. Autophagy kicks in after a period of not eating for between eighteen and twenty-four hours. After that, the body begins to consume itself for food.

If I Were Head of State (The Sonnet) If I were the head of state, my first act in government will be, to dissolve the government, and redistribute all powers of society, to experts in their respective fields. Civil servants and experts run a nation anyway, While brainless politicians take all the credit. Time to give credit and power where they're due, Putting an end to the circus of representatives. Instead of trading one incompetent fool for another, We gotta rotate the civil servants office to office. In a civilized democracy, civilians are the law, Never you forget that, never let anyone forget it! If I were the head of state, that is the end of state. Dictatorships empower leaders, democracy empowers citizens.

Of all organizations, it was oddly enough Wal-Mart that best recognized the complex nature of the circumstances, according to a case study from Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government. Briefed on what was developing, the giant discount retailer’s chief executive officer, Lee Scott, issued a simple edict. “This company will respond to the level of this disaster,” he was remembered to have said in a meeting with his upper management. “A lot of you are going to have to make decisions above your level. Make the best decision that you can with the information that’s available to you at the time, and, above all, do the right thing.” As one of the officers at the meeting later recalled, “That was it.” The edict was passed down to store managers and set the tone for how people were expected to react. On the most immediate level, Wal-Mart had 126 stores closed due to damage and power outages. Twenty thousand employees and their family members were displaced. The initial focus was on helping them. And within forty-eight hours, more than half of the damaged stores were up and running again. But according to one executive on the scene, as word of the disaster’s impact on the city’s population began filtering in from Wal-Mart employees on the ground, the priority shifted from reopening stores to “Oh, my God, what can we do to help these people?” Acting on their own authority, Wal-Mart’s store managers began distributing diapers, water, baby formula, and ice to residents. Where FEMA still hadn’t figured out how to requisition supplies, the managers fashioned crude paper-slip credit systems for first responders, providing them with food, sleeping bags, toiletries, and also, where available, rescue equipment like hatchets, ropes, and boots. The assistant manager of a Wal-Mart store engulfed by a thirty-foot storm surge ran a bulldozer through the store, loaded it with any items she could salvage, and gave them all away in the parking lot. When a local hospital told her it was running short of drugs, she went back in and broke into the store’s pharmacy—and was lauded by upper management for it.

Please give credit where credit is due. Are you up to code? With your content creation conduct? Honor the creators if you are going to use their content to promote yourself or your business to your audience.

He liked the look of his prosperous city, for whose wealth he gave himself complete credit where little was due.

Look. Don’t suck up to them or anything. It’ll just seem insincere. Give them credit where it’s due. Don’t compliment them for no reason. Just try to stop insulting them for no reason.

During his first summer in office, as if to demonstrate Elson’s claims, Eisenhower convened his cabinet to sign a document declaring that the United States drew its strength and vitality from the Bible. The following year, Congress added the words “under God” to the Pledge of Allegiance and put “In God We Trust” on the nation’s postal stamps (and, later, its paper currency). Lest anyone fail to give credit where credit was due, Elson dedicated his book to Eisenhower, “who by personal example and public utterance is giving testimony to the reality of America’s spiritual foundations.

Give credit where credit is due. Don't forget to thank GOD today, for helping YOU, to make it through.

Tirade Against “He Passed Away” You never hear it said, “He is passing away.” It is always a fait accompli. “He passed.” How I hate it. As if the body had nothing to do with it, as if the body hadn’t even been around at the time but off playing Scrabble somewhere, or having a drink while the tenant moved out. Dying is the body’s call, the shutting down of services is the body’s last bit of business. Give credit where credit is due. Honor the process. Consider the simple dignity of “She is dying.” Or “He died.” It is interesting to think of it as a verb.

Being a working mother back then was to be a double-agent; you lied for a living. A male colleague who announced he was off to his son's rugby match was a hero; a women who did exactly the same was Lacking in Commitment... In the end, what made me quit EMF was the thought that my kids were suffering from the punishingly long - unnecessarily long, stupidly, inhumanely long - hours I spent away from them. They needed me, yes, but it turned out I needed them too. And our family was running on empty and the only person who could fill that emptiness was me. ... Winter. It must have been because all the commuting fathers, who had come straight from the station, were hurrying in with their thick dark coats and their briefcases. Each man stopped to ask me where they might find their child's classroom, They knew the name if their kid - he, credit where it's due! - but generally, that was the limit of their knowledge. They didn't know who the child's teacher was, sometimes didn't know what year group they were in. They had no clue where the little coats and bags were hung up, or what was in those bags. And I stood there in that cold, dark playground thinking, how could this ever possibly be fair? How could a woman compete when men were allowed to be so oblivious? One parent not knowing who the teacher was, not knowing what went in the lunchbox, not knowing which child in the class had the nut allergy, not knowing where the PE bag was, or which stinky little socks needed washing. OK, one parent could be oblivious. But not two. One parent has to carry the puzzle of family life in their head, and mostly, let's face it, it's still the mum. Professionally, back then I was competing with men whose minds were clear of all the stuff that small children bring.

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again whom we love. And give credit where it’s due: not to my starched nurse, who taught me how to be bad and not bad rather than good (and has lately availed herself of this information), not to the Catholic Church which is at best an oversolemn introduction to cosmic entertainment, not to the American Legion, which hates everybody, but to you, glorious Silver Screen, tragic Technicolor, amorous Cinemascope, stretching Vistavision and startling Stereophonic Sound, with all your heavenly dimensions and reverberations and iconoclasms!

The temptation to let him shrivel up is heavy, but I also need to give credit where credit is due. He helped me with this project, so I should give him some water as a thank-you.