Daddy's Birthday Blues

The pilot died at 4 am.

Who's qualified to fix it?

Daddy's birthday blues.

Pancakes on the menu, again.

Somebody's gotta mix it.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Changing itty girl clothes with giant hands,

Potty training woes and Mama's demands,

These things can weigh pretty heavy on a man.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Long day on the grind, got a beer in mind,

Daddy's birthday blues.

Man, I've been beat up,

Can't wait to put my feet up.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Just settling down,

To smooth out that frown, 

When a tiny voice pipes from the calm,

T-Rex can't battle alone, his little boy moans.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Some time with his girl would do him just fine.

Daddy's birthday blues.
Uncork that wine, babe, it's just after 9.

Daddy's birthday blues.

The candles are lit

Strains of music fill the air

When baby's cry cuts through the bliss.

Hold off on that dance,

Teething killed the romance.

Daddy's birthday blues.

It don't seem this way,

In our busy day-to-day,

When the thanks seem as thin as your patience.

But I see what you do

And I thank God for you

Life with you is the only thing that makes sense.

You get better every year and I love being part of the journey. Here's to another year of adventure. Happy birthday, sweet man! XOXO

F*** Valentine's Day

I used to be a wallflower in the dating department--always on the outside, looking in. A late bloomer, I didn't date much in high school, beyond the requisite school dances and I definitely didn't "go with" anybody, like a lot of my peers did. At least, not on purpose. My accidental 15 seconds of being part of a high school couple is a story for another post. Anyway, back then my experience with love was pretty much limited to yearly unrequited crushes on guys who barely noticed me. College and most of my twenties were exercises in confusion and frustration as I tried on love in its various forms, never finding a perfect fit for myself, and Valentine's Day always made it much, much worse.

From the other side of that plate glass window, it seemed so great. All around me in school were girls who inspired deliveries of carnations and stuffed bears to 5th hour and song dedications on the radio. And later on, my coupled female friends got breakfast in bed, rose-petal strewn walkways, moonlit seranades, expensive candlelit dinners, long-stemmed bouquets and marriage proposals, while I sat on the sidelines, wearing black in solidarity with my uncoupled compatriots for another year, maligning the tyranny of the Hallmark Holiday and hating that fat baby with his bow and arrow, while secretly envying those who had someone to make a fuss over them, no matter how contrived.

My expectations for the day have mellowed with time and experience, but I'll admit, part of me still holds my breath in anticipation and anxiety, even though I haven't had to celebrate one by myself in a long time. I no longer expect to hold hands across a quiet candlelit dinner for two, unless I'm willing to eat after 8, when my son goes down for bed (I'm not) or to pony up for a sitter and an expensive dinner out (um...I'm not). I no longer hope for late nights in fancy clothes, new-release movies or moonlit serenades (it's cold in February. I'm not that mean), but after reviewing my last V-Day, I'm inclined to think I don't have it so bad.

This February 14, instead of breakfast in bed, I woke up (early) to a surly toddler who I got to wrestle into antibacterial ointment and an Elmo bandaid (long story). After that cold shower of an introduction, the day continued on its usual trajectory of crazy--shower, breakfast, fighting said toddler away from the iPad, into clothes and out the door, while rattling off the checklist of items that needed to go with us (laptop, purse, keys, valentines, daycare party treats, PHONE)--then, we were off. And only 15 minutes behind schedule. Blergh...

Instead of sonnets, I got a quirky e-card emailed to me while I was at work that made me laugh and roll my eyes--my favorite from years past is the one where a sheep with my man's voice whispered sweet nothings to me. It was so creepy and it was perfect. I didn't get roses delivered to my office because I prefer lilies and he prefers to choose them and to gift them in person to see my reaction.

Instead of a quiet candlelit dinner, I got a meal at home without flaming fire sticks for my kid to knock over, that I personally didn't have to plan, shop for, or prepare (sweet bliss). The Buddy spent most of his time singing songs and spinning in butt-circles on the floor while we ate. Between circles, he ate a few bites. Those facts, plus the wine (yay!), made all the crazy worth it.

By 8:15, I was cuddled with my love, watching 'Midnight in Paris.' By 8:30, I was asleep. But before I faded off, I remember saying, "Happy Valentine's Day, babe," to which he replied, "F*** Valentine's Day. We get all this love every day."

Not bad at all.

  

Fall

I love Fall. People can say whatever they like about the season--weather is iffy, season of decay, etc--but I love every blustery, cold morning/hot afternoon, layer-requiring, squash-eating, bonfiring, World Series watching, footballing, Halloweening, orange, red and brown bit of it.

We've already taken to the woods more times in the last 15 days than we did during the entire 3 months of summer, just because it's Fall so I'm more motivated to get out and commune w/Mother Nature.

Ahhh...the smell of rotting leaves...

Down In My Heart to Stay

I recently got to spend a kid-free weekend with two dear friends, Nikki and Angie. We hadn't seen each other for 2 years and are all so busy that regular phone calls aren't practical, but no matter how long the separation, we always pick up where we left off, as if no time has passed. I hit the jackpot with these two.

Adorable...

One of them is a social worker for the Federal Bureau of Prisons. She's gorgeous, smart as a whip, cares deeply about people and can find the redemption and humor in most situations. Everything I know about bad-naked, I learned from her. The other is a current stay-at-home mama and former Pediatric Occupational Therapist with a heart as big as her home state. She's also gorgeous, can spot a good beer at 20 paces and I've never cried alone in her presence.

We did it all and we did nothing. Apparently, girlfriending draws a crowd. We drew conversation from strangers wherever we went. :) We ate good food, drank good wine and beer, got mani/pedis, lounged in our jammies and talked until we passed out. Literally.

We also got tattoed.

The first stroke.

I've been talking about getting a tattoo for two years and thinking about it longer. It's been something I wanted to do but have always been a tiny bit too chicken-gutted to follow through on. The original plan was to get one on my 35th birthday. Instead, I got a baby. At 36, I was nursing, so it got pushed back again. By the time 37 rolled around, I'd pretty much given myself up as yellow-bellied and let it go, but neither of these chicks would let me get away with it. Soo...

We did it!

Did I mention that the offical girlfriend code also includes a clause that prohibits getting body art alone? It's a subset of the "no crying alone" clause.

It was so great! I give props to Sarah, our tattoo artist at Hearts of Fire Tattoo in Springfield, MO--she patiently accommodated each of our choices and gave creative ideas if we hit a rut. She was also quick and steady-handed. We got tattoos that reflected our personalities and that were meaningful to us, at a good price. My tattoo is Hebrew and is pronounced simcha. It means joy, or joyful. It's used in one of my favorite Old Testament scriptures, Zephaniah 3:17. The reasons behind the other girls' tatts aren't mine to tell, so I won't. :)

People say that getting tattooed is addictive, which could be true. Nikki was planning her second before the first was done, and this was Ang's 3rd rodeo. As for me? I think I'm probably good for now. I got the best of what I wanted out of that single experience and the body art is the least of it.

If You Only Knew Him

At the risk of being redundant, the Zimmerman/Martin trial shook some things to the surface in me, not because I think I know what the verdict should have been, but because I can't believe we're still here--it's the beginning of the second decade of the 21st century and skin pigment still drives public perception. It's wake is far-reaching and it's undermining what I'm trying to do, here.

You see, I'm an African-American mother trying to raise a 2-year-old, biracial man-to-be and I don't appreciate the roadblock in his way. I wish you knew him. His current favorite thing is to "help" mama and daddy--he throws things away, he unloads dishwashers, drawers and laundry baskets--whether we want him to or not. He gives great cuddles. He delights in taking running starts toward me, lips puckered, then making (often painful) contact with a decisive "mmuah!" to let me know I've been well and truly kissed. While that baby sweetness won't last forever, I will always remember him this way even while I thrill in watching him grow up. As his mama, my primary goals are to encourage him to love God, to work hard, to be kind and to leave a positive impact on the world. That's the most solid influence I have over who he will be and I hope some day to take pride in that measure of his success. What I can't control that will impact his success in life, perhaps unfairly, is the color of his skin.

I'm an African-American sister and aunt who hurts when my loved ones hurt. I wish you knew them. I have a father, two brothers and a nephew who were all raised to say please and thank you, to open doors for others, and to be respectful of people who have different beliefs than they. My heart breaks to imagine anyone distrusting them because their skin is brown. The only legitimate reason I have for distrusting my brothers growing up was my fear of being de-pants-ed in front of company. But regardless of that shortcoming, to judge them by the color of their skin rather than the content of their character cheats them of who they have worked so hard to become. I feel sorry for anyone who misses out on any opportunity to know these quality human beings. They are definitely worth the second look. 

We can talk about race relations in America all day, but the question I need answered will remain the same, as I'm sure it will for countless other parents of little boys at the mercy of the color of their skin. Knowing what I know now, how am I supposed to explain the world to my son and help him to find his place in it, when the rules might not be the same for him, even as they are for his blond-haired, green-eyed father? And how much longer do we have to wait for this particular scale to balance out?

I wish I knew.

Tonight, We Spun Tupperware

I wage a near-daily battle with mommy guilt.

I have to work to support us and I'm glad to do it. I'm also grateful that I have skills that someone is willing to pay me to use. A lot of people can't say that these days. But even considering that, it bugs me that I don't get much quality time with my boy during the week and that our weekends are swallowed up with errands and chores I couldn't accomplish during the week. And the time we do have (about 3 hrs a night between pickup and bedtime) is fraught with land mines.

Both of us hand it all out during the day--him with play and me with work--so by the time we're together, neither of us is at our best, to say the least. He's tired and crabby, I'm tired and crabby. And, I'm in a hurry (Ever tried to rush a toddler? How 'bout a crabby one? Yeah. Super fun). Because it takes the better part of an hour to get home at night and I KNOW he's going to whine and crab for his dinner until it's served, I get it started right away, leaving him to entertain himself as well as he can. I won't mention his hunger is because of his stubborn refusal to eat anything all day but crackers and Nilla Wafers at daycare. That's how generous a mother I am.

Anyway, we sit down to eat. Well, I eat. He makes a mess with some chewing and interjections of "nummy!" or, "no!" thrown in there. Then there's time for a bit of rough housing, a bath depending on the day of the week, a book, a prayer and bed. This is the Cliff's Notes version of the story. The unabridged version also describes tantrums, head bumps, diaper wars, messes and broken stuff (always mine). In my effort to take care of him, I might only make eye contact with him 4 or 5 times before I put him to bed. Even typing that crushes me.

I walk a fine line. On one side, keeping to a rigid schedule with him because every parent I meet, parenting book I read and motherly instinct I have tells me that structure and consistency give a child a feeling of safety and security, two things I desperately want to provide for him. Possibly because they're the only things I can afford. On the other side, giving in to the urge to let it all go, either from exhaustion or a simple desire not to plan every, blessed thing. I'm sure neither of those is good for us, nor are they sustainable over the long haul, so I'm working on finding some semblance of a middle ground.

Sometimes, though, through the white noise of all my struggles with balancing work and parenthood, there are moments of clarity. Moments where it feels like the stars align and I get it right. Like tonight, for example. Most of the time when I'm making dinner, Miles plays around my feet. He doesn't mind independent play as long as we're in the same room. I kind of like it, too. He mills around the room, moving all the kitchen-y things he's allowed to play with from place to place. He babbles, sings the ABC song, jumps in circles, dances and occasionally wraps his arms around my knees for a cuddle and a smile. He also empties the Tupperware cabinet. Nobody says Tupperware, anymore, they use Rubbermaid, you say? I say, get your own blog post. Tupperware is like Kleenex to me. It covers all plastic storage containers and also has the added benefit of dating me. But I digress. Tonight, I made a casserole, so after dinner prep, I had 15 minutes of oven time to kill. I looked down to find Miles spinning plastic bowls on the floor. With a flip of the wrist, he gets upwards of 30 minutes of cheap entertainment. He loves spinning things; especially circular things--bowls, lids, coasters--he's spun 'em all. I decided to join him. I didn't think he'd pay me much attention since he can be so focused on the task, but it turns out he was thrilled to have me--as a jungle gym, as an obstacle to dance around, a fellow bowl spinner and best of all, a lap to crawl into for a cuddle. He put down those bowls to snuggle and to play Name-That-Feature on mama's face. When we got to cheeks, he cupped mine with his chubby little paws, looked closely into my eyes, babbled something I couldn't understand and planted two, sweet kisses on my mouth.

I swear to God, that kid knows how hard I'm trying.

Memories

In a former life, a boyfriend of mine wrote me a love note with these lyrics:

Black is the color of my true love's hair

Her lips are like some roses fair

She has the sweetest smile the gentlest hands

And I love the ground whereon she stands

I love my love, and well she knows

I love the ground whereon she goes

I wish the day soon would come

When she and I will be as one

Such a sweet memory. The sentiment isn't bad, either...

The Ties That Bind and Gag

Family Ties is streaming on Netflix right now. I've been completely unable to resist the lure, mostly because I loved that show and everything it stood for, but also because I don't sleep all that much and it's a lot more wholesome than looking at porn.

As a kid, I remember being so excited to dive into the world of the Keatons each week. I have no idea what day it was on or at what time, but now, as I re-watch the old episodes, I vividly remember the feeling of comfort and security when, at the end of an episode, the family rallied around each other, safe in the knowledge that they would always choose home, family and each other. I remember it the way you remember and respond to the scent of the person you love most in the world. In the Keaton house, parents turn down high-powered jobs to spend more time with their kids, daughters chose not to quit school or to have sex too young, based on Mom's wise words, brothers blew off college interviews to help little sisters grieve first love, friends from all over the neighborhood were always in and out of the house and though Dad might have been tempted, he never cheated on the wife of his youth. No mistake was too big to be forgiven and no tragedy drove a wedge too deep. The Keatons were there to stay and we, especially I, believed in, and was inspired by, them.

That was the family I wished I could be part of and even secretly hoped I would someday help build. It's never been clearer to me than now, at 3 am, when I'm sitting hunched over my iPad, crying as I watch my favorite sitcom family parody my heart's tenderest wish. I know the show is cheesy. I know it's outdated. I even know that it's unrealistic. Families are crazy. Every, single one of them. Nobody's family is perfect and they certainly don't wrap up their problems in 24 minutes, with two commercial breaks. Also, there's way more zits and bathroom breaks and nobody's bathrobe is ever completely closed in real families.

Apparently, that hasn't stopped me from chasing the dream. I've come face-to-face with my secret hopes a lot since I got that positive pregnancy test result. I've run up against some hard truths since then, too. I've started my son off in life using the same formula that was calculated for me. The players are different, but the acting, much the same. I've realized that the line between arrogance and humility is only about 5 feet, 4 inches long--the length of my body, fallen flat on my face. I've realized that I somehow managed to fulfill the life I tried for so long to overcome. Damn.

I've tried to make up for and to cover over my mistakes since that day in October 2010; to give my son the best of what I wished I'd had as a child, what I wished I'd seen modelled for me so I'd know how the hell to do this thing as an adult. In the last few weeks, it seems to have come to a head, after an awful struggle. I've pursued hope, love, a nuclear family, even redemption, for all I was worth and for all my striving, I think the only thing I've managed to do is exhaust myself. I'm very tired. Too tired, anymore, to try to push against things I've never had the power to change or to control. I need all the energy I have left just to live the life that's been put in front of me.

At the risk of going back on my word not to show pictures of the cutest little boy on the planet on the internet, I'd like you all to meet my little family. I justify it because I'm in the picture, too. For protection.

We don't have the same last name. His mom and dad don't live together and are not committed to love each other, 'until death do us part,' and if he ever gets siblings to fight with, they likely won't look like him, but he's mine, I am certainly his and there's nothing I wouldn't do for him. We're not sitcom-perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but we're all in, 100% for each other.

I'm just gonna sit here and do that for a while. I'll worry about the other stuff, later.

Love Stinks, In the Best Possible Way

I've had a problem coming up with a hook for this blog. What can I possibly say that people want to hear, or haven't already heard a million times, in a million different ways? How can I make my blog interesting...creative...relevant?

My first idea? Dating as a single mom. Specifically internet dating as a single mom, which seems to be one of the few ways people like me with limited time and child care can meet other (sometimes) viable heterosexuals, except at church, or unless we live in hippie communes. I'm not knocking church. I love church. I even love a lot of the people I meet at church, but the idea of going there to look for a mate has always rubbed me the wrong way. I heard a pastor say that if you go to church to find God, it's likely that you'll find the other things you might not even have known you were looking for (i.e. community, friendship, a life partner). While that's very encouraging, I'm just gonna be honest and say that what I got out of that was church + God = mate. My over-simplified understanding of that formula has been making me uncomfortable ever since, so as a reaction, I go to church specifically not to find a mate. I don't think I've done a wedding ring check since the day I heard that sermon. I'm also not knocking communes. The idea of living sparingly, off the land, in community with others who share the fruits of our labors and barter for services that we each provide according to our individual talents is actually pretty appealing. Then I think how much I like shaving and wearing bras. And people who bathe, regularly. Maybe there are communes where people do those things, but...*shrug* I'm skeptical.

Eventually, I threw the dating blog idea out. I think they're only interesting to people who don't have to live the daily agony of dating. For the ones in the trenches, reading about other people's relationship hijinks can be like fingernails on a chalkboard. Maybe that's just me, but I still think that most singletons would stand with me when I say dating is a necessary evil that we do in order to get to where we want to be, which is in committed relationships. No one really wants to date forever, for it's own sake, unless they're lying to sound evolved. I'm not evolved. So, I've wracked my brain for a hook and finally accepted that I don't have one. This blog is really nothing more than random, neuronal firings that I occassionally have the energy to put in written form.

Today's firing, while not specifically about dating, is about love. In my 20's, I pretty much avoided it. I've always had lots of people that I care about, but most I kept at arm's length. Romantic love proved elusive, for reasons only my therapist seems to know. It's probably because I've always known on some level that I'm a no-take-backs kind of lover. Try though I might, if I let you into my heart, digging you back out again comes at great personal cost. I'm sure it's that way for everybody, but this is my blog, so it sounds like I'm the first person who's ever loved, I realize that. My point is that for most people, it's a worthwhile risk. For me, it's taken a while to believe that. Instead I pretty much chose a sterile existence--never risk, never lose.

Somewhere in there, though, I got all brave and decided to live the adventure. It has been a mess! You can't believe the mistakes I've made and the starts and misfires I've had. But, in many ways the messes haven't been all bad. I have loved some pretty incredible people, most of whom I still enjoy relationships with to this day. I hope that I'm a composite of all the amazing people who've poured into my life. I've loved true, I've loved hard, I've loved hopelessly, and most recently, since I became a parent, I've learned truly to love selflessly. It's been great, but I haven't known a moment's peace since. Instead of being comfortably insulated the way I used to be, I'm exhilarated, broke, nervous, joyful, heart-broken, concerned, over-worked, sleep-deprived, careful, celebratory, protective, wary, drunk, infatuated and covered in snot. All because I'm hoplessly intertwined in the lives of people who are living lives as risky as I have decided to live. It's a total cluster and I love every second of it. Mostly. ;)

Hope you're living and loving every second of your adventure, today, too.