I'd Tell You, But I Forgot.

The toughest part for me of being a working mom of a 2 year old (besides the tantrums) is the sneaking suspicion that I'm no longer interesting because I don't have (insert: time, money, energy, et. al) to do anything...well...interesting.

Or if I actually do get out of the house for fun, not errands or work, nobody knows about it because my brain is fried from exhaustion or I'm too distracted trying to keep this little person from killing himself to remember to talk about it when someone asks me what I've been up to lately.

Someday I'll laugh about it.

I read this blog (what I do when I can't sleep) where this guy said, 'Don't shame yourself for not being where you are "supposed to be." You are where you are; be in your actual life.'

Good advice, I guess; and way easier than trying to remember to tell people stuff.

Midnight Musing

I might be a bobble-head.

I realize that this may feel like it's coming out of left field to you, but I've had a great deal of time to think about this. I first considered it when I read an article about body proportions and perceived attractiveness. The study showed that when 100 pictures of people were flashed across a screen, the majority of those described as "attractive" were people with regular, symmetrical features and with heads that were proportionally large for their body sizes. The study also noted that most sex symbols and more particularly, movie stars, had proportionally large heads for their bodies. Also of note, they mentioned that large heads on small bodies present well on the big screen. Go figure, it all makes sense. Bobble-heads make the world of entertainment and sex appeal go 'round.

At the time I remember asking a select few loved ones if I had a big head. I'd become suspicious when I noticed that my face, at least, always looked big in pictures, especially if I was with another person. On more than one occasion, I was assured that, no, my head was no bigger than the average Jane's, so I let it go.

My loved ones are liars. Maybe they did it for my own good. They didn't want me to (pardon the pun) get the big head and start thinking I was a sex symbol or something, so they lied to keep me humble. Regardless of their reasons, man, they're liars, one and all.

I blame myself. The signs were all there. I already mentioned the pictures. I never like the way I look in hats. And perhaps the most damning sign of all, my son has a big head. In fact, he's in the 10th percentile for height among 2 year olds, but in the 85th percentile for head circumference. Future sex symbol in the making, folks.

Until recently, I blamed his father for this. He's got a big head. Lots of men in his family do. I come from a family of pin-heads so it couldn't come from me. Must be his genes, right?

Noooot necessarily...

Exhibit A

That's a big melon. I have to come to terms with it and raise my head (slowly and with great effort under the weight) to accept my plight.

All hail bobble-heads! Long may we rave.

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.

Frazzle Dazzle

Due to childcare issues beyond my control, I've needed to stay home with the man-cub for the last two days. He's been frustrated with the amount of attention that I've been devoting to my work and has decided to let me know it.

He just put his entire foot into a glass of juice. That I was drinking. On purpose. My only response has been to consider drinking what's left in there. You know, so I don't waste it.

I think it's time to go back to the office now.

Hope Is a B!@#*

I watched The Shawshank Redemption for the first time a couple months ago. No…I wasn't born under a rock. I’d tried to watch it a couple of times over the years, but never got very far. I couldn't handle how unfair it was. No matter that Morgan Freeman is a cinematic god or where IMDB ranked it on its Best Movies of All Time list, I couldn’t get through it. This time, my boyfriend (who loves it) razzed me enough that I submitted to sit through the whole movie with him. I cried the whole time. It was all still there—the blunt portrayal of prison brutality, the misuses of power, the miscarriages of justice, the sadness—and I’ve finally figured out what bothered me most. It was the unrelenting thread of Hope, against all reason.


I hate to be a downer, but I’ve been angry at Hope for a long time. She makes it worse and sometimes, I wish she’d go away.

I've seen loved ones disappointed to be living lives off course of where they hoped they'd be. I've seen a friend start a new career with ideals, talent and work ethic enough to change the world, bogged down by office politics, adult mean girls, overwork and the tension of work/life balance. I’ve watched a dear friend watch as those she loved married and started families of their own, while this secret wish of hers hasn’t been granted. I've watched a sister wait months for a call about adopting a newborn. I saw her joy in finally being chosen by a birth mom. I participated as she loved her sweet baby as if she came from her own body and I watched her struggle to survive the pain and disillusion of each day after the child was returned to her birth family, while everybody else in the world went on with their lives. I've listened to a friend try to make sense of the roller coaster that is her new marriage. I’ve listened as a beautiful friend described her hopes for a child that she hasn’t been able to conceive, apologizing for the tears and the naked longing in her voice. To them all, there is nothing to be said, except, “I wish you had what you long for. You deserve it more than anyone I’ve ever known.” I understand longing; I’ve lived most of my life aching with it. Often, I don't sleep for it. I blame Hope for the sleepless nights. Maybe if we didn’t want IT, whatever IT is, so damned badly, we could get some sleep. We could be happy and content where we are, instead of grieving what’s lost, what’s revealed as impossible/impractical/insurmountable or what’s simply out of reach.

As a Christian, I know there are answers to comfort me. I can recite them if prompted and mostly believe what I say, but I'm being as honest as I know how to be when I say this stuff is way harder in practice than in theory. In the real world, marriages end in divorce. Children die before their parents. Mean people win. People cheat, lie and steal from others. People I love let me down and hurt me in ways that leave slow-healing wounds. My mistakes get bigger, and the consequences cast a broader wake. The pain of disappointed hopes sends us to therapy, to the bottom of pill bottles, to affairs, or to religion. But against all odds, Hope hangs on.

When the world says, “Give up;” Hope whispers, “try it one more time.”

Hope had been playing the same broken record in my heart for years and now I have to hear it from Hollywood, too? That’s why I couldn’t stand the movie! But this time, it got through. The message didn’t change; I did. In watching others struggle and looking inward at my own journey of Hope, I am finally developing the depth to see that the redemption part of the story is only possible if you don’t give up Hope that it’s possible. Even since I started writing this post, I’ve grown. Choosing not to give up hope on your heart’s deepest desire might be the bravest thing any of us can do in this life. While theirs are not my stories to tell, I can attest to the beauty that can come from continuing to reach for what Hope tells you is possible. Andy Dufresne’s words are certainly true, when he writes:

Remember…hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.

Hang in there, friends.

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.

An Ode to Mothers of All Kinds

I would be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to mothers, in all their many forms, on this, our special day. Mamas of the world, this one's for you.

To the stay-at-home mama whose gynecologist appointment might be her only chance for adult conversation before her husband comes home, you teach me humor, even if the laughter has a bit of a hysterical edge to it.

To the mama who works all day outside the home, you teach me to multitask. Two full time jobs with no days off is tough, but damn, you make it look easy!

To the mama who found conceiving to be harder than she expected, you teach me patience.

To the foster/adoptive mama who loves her child as if he were born from her own body, you teach me generosity.

To the mama who has buried a child but lives and loves on, you teach me to stand up under the weight of the world.

To the mama with no children who smiles when someone offers to let her babysit their children for extra money--even though she's 30-something, owns her own home and vacations overseas every year--you teach me graciousness.

To the mama who molds children who aren't hers all day, often with no thanks from their parents, you teach me that sometimes it's worth it to grin and bear it. Would I put up with that crap for somebody else's kids? I hope so.

To the single mama who struggles to be both mom and dad, succeeding at it more than she fails, you teach me there is transcendent power in a mother's love.

To the mama of a child with special needs, you teach me not to take a single victory for granted and that self-pity wastes time. You're too busy helping your child figure out how to take the world by storm for such things.

To the grandmother who over the table of an imaginary tea party is asked, "Nanna, did you ever have any children, back in the olden days?" simply smiles and says, "Yes." You are a sensory delight for a small person. Your years of stories for history, your silver hair for brushing, your soft waist for squeezes, your cheek for kisses and your lap for cuddles are some of the best memories I have of being a kid.

All of you have mothered me by the examples you set when you didn't know I was watching. If I manage to resemble you in any, small way, I will be better for it. So, today, as I get cosseted and celebrated for doing nothing more than what each of you has taught me to do, I tip my mama-tiara and tap each of your beautiful shoulders with my scepter in gratitude for your courage and faithful service.

God bless you, you beauties. Happy Mother's Day!