Something to Cry About

I swear, every single day, somebody gets on Blue Ivy's internet to complain about having to put up with something, such as other people's children in public spaces, and well...I understand. Truly, I do since I have a child who is the absolute most on her good days. So yes, there are times when want to I release her into an unsuspecting world, and just walk away like Angela Bassett in this scene because some of y'all deserve ALL of this smoke.

But I know better.

I have written on this topic several times, and I already know that I won't say anything that will convince any of these bitter lemons and short-tempered man-babies that there are times when kids will be kids and sometimes, you just need to join the madness. Not in every situation, but more often than not, this demand that children be seen and not heard in public is unrealistic. Ask me how I know.

Currently, I am holed up in our hotel room writing because it is quiet up here. I would like to chill poolside with a beverage and watch my daughter play, but there are several factors that make that expectation impossible. For one, we are staying at a hotel that allows pets, and after ten minutes of exposure to that the other day my allergies went into overdrive (even after I had taken my meds). The only available pool is indoors, and because it is Spring Break, there are other people staying here with their children and dogs (it isn't warm enough for them to play in the outdoor pool). After I got splashed several times, the last thing I need is a new computer because somebody's cannonball got a little too close. And finally, since I am writing, I need to situate myself in an environment conducive to that, which is not in a room full of screaming children.

So let me rewind that for you so that I make a few things clear: (1) yes, I should be able to sit poolside to get some work done if that is what I want; (2) and children also should be allowed to play in the hotel pool as rambunctiously as they like because that is why it is here. In weighing my rights versus those of the children (while not even addressing the pet issue and why y'all feel the need to impose them into every situation), the bottom line is that I will be just fine if I opt to stay in my hotel room. I have a lovely view of the Bay from the balcony. There is no need for me to complain or to get indignant because this is one of those scenarios when I have to accept the situation for what it is and deal. 

That is called being an ADULT. If you are above the age of 21, you are legally required to get used to having to do this on a daily basis.

I saw that video of the passenger who got upset about the crying baby on a plane, and I read some of the predictable commentary about bad children/parents, and I read the sympathetic commentary about traveling with children (including those with special needs). Well, I have an opinion to share on the matter because there are broader points that needs to be made. We live in a society. We have public venues and spaces where all kinds of people are going to interact and engage. If you can't handle a few minor inconveniences without losing your shit, then YOU are the problem!

Let's chat a bit about how folks traveling on airplanes have all of these issues with being considerate of families. When did we become so self-centered? Like why all of the resentment towards someone who asks if you would mind switching seats so that they can sit with their kids? You are allowed to decline the request, and I certainly do not condone what happened to this person. However, I do have to ask if this is the hill you want to plant your flag on--the one where you insist that you would rather sit next to my squirmy kid for two hours while I am seated two rows back? Alrighty...

I have read treatises on social media about how annoyed people get when asked, and how they believe that saying no makes them some kind of hero to other self-righteous assholes. Bravo. Let me offer the alternative perspective of what it entails to travel with children (or adults with special needs) and the absolute nightmare it is to try to arrange for seats together. A few years back, I had to find an affordable flight for my parents and me to fly out to Las Vegas for my brother's wedding. At the time, my Mom was still mobile, but definitely beginning to have more cognitive issues due to the progression of her Alzheimer's. It was important for us to have a layover, because at the time I thought that would help us manage her needs. 

I began my search for tickets a few months in advance, including the fare watcher so that I could buy at the right time. And that was a game of cat and mouse because there were times when the flights were affordable, but the layovers were ridiculous (like flying to Boston from DC, then flying to Chicago, and then to Las Vegas in a 10-hour stretch). Other times, I found the right flight, but not one with the seats together (only middle seats). Literally one month before we needed to travel, I finally found the best accommodation, which included an acceptable layover but with only two seats together. I took it and figured that was better than nothing. I do not recall that I had the option to pay extra for a third seat, which is sometimes available atop the other fees I paid for checking my bags; however, on all four flights it was occupied by a solo traveler who wanted a window. It worked out for me to sit with my Mom while my Dad sat by himself, but I still was anxious the entire time both ways. 

A few years later, we had a similar issue in trying to book three seats together to travel with the Kid, who was still in baby carrier mode. Again, the best we could get was two seats together. So this claim that parents (and caregivers) have to do better at planning is the kind of entitled booshay that grates like nails on a chalkboard. Like yeah, I can plan my life around watching airline fares and seat assignments or I can look after my parents, raise my kid, and hope that we get seats together on the plane. I've never felt entitled enough to ask that someone change seats for me to sit with the Hub, but I would think that if someone asked me, I would consider it a small kindness that might get repaid in some karmic way.

Of course, I know that ain't how Karma works. I could write a book about the rudeness and nonchalance I was subjected to when the Kid was still stroller-age from people standing in the curb cuts to having to heavy doors not held open for us. Most relevant to airline travel, there was the unforgettable flight home from Chicago on September 11th when I was subjected to additional TSA searches because of the snacks I had packed for her in my carry-on. I followed the guidelines, but because of the date and heightened airport security upon our return, her applesauce and Cheerios set off every red light on the monitors. After they went through every single thing in my bag, they took the stroller and had me carry everything that would have been attached, including her in the baby carrier. The Hub took what he could, but that still left me with a backpack, a 50-lb carrier with a crying child, and about 5 minutes to reach our gate. NO ONE helped us, except for the gate agent who allowed me to board with the priority group of passengers after I asked (but just me and the Kid). Of course, our seats were at the back of the plane, so when I got back there in the vicinity, I put the carrier down in an empty seat and loaded our stuff into the overhead. I thought I was at the right row, so I settled in to try to calm my child, who at this point had been crying since the TSA drama.

As the plane filled with people, the Hub boarded in what must have been the last group. Ahead of him was this woman who stopped at the row where I was seated with the baby. She glared at me and complained that I was in her seat. Apparently, my seats were one row back, but she insisted that I needed to move with the baby carrier from the seat that she had paid for. And guess what happened? The flight attendant made us move, even after some kind Samaritan offered to switch seats with her so that I could stay put and try to calm the baby. That kind-hearted person then offered the Hub his seat so that we could sit together, and once we got re-situated, the Kid calmed down for a bit when she saw him. But as soon as that plane took off...baybee it was a long two-hour flight. 

I had snacks. I had toys. We tried using music and apps. We held her. I tried to nurse her. When the plane hit turbulence, we had to put her back in her seat. Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I had ALL the things and NOTHING worked. She kept crying until the plane landed in DC. So I can imagine that someone on that plane could relate to how the shouting guy felt, because I heard the other passenger grumbles about why we couldn't get our child to calm down. I can also relate to any humiliation felt by a parent or caregiver in that same situation.

In my child-free era, I recall taking a flight from somewhere back to DC and there was some kid (not a baby) who made a ruckus the entire time. I mean, he was non-stop active and it was super annoying. I need to search through my old tweets to see what I said about that because whew, it was a lot. And I remember thinking how his mother should have made more of an effort to keep her kid from being that kid...but then Karma showed up in 2016 on a two-hour flight from Chicago to DC.

And let me tell you, that was bad, but my daughter's meltdown in the Atlanta airport in 2020 was 10x worse. I am surprised we didn't go viral from that drama.

So if you want to judge me for not being the kind of parent your Big Mama was, go back and ask her how she handled travel with your family on long trips. I had to think back and guess what--we didn't fly anywhere when we were kids! My Mom flew to Michigan with my brother and me one time (more than 40 years ago), and since I can't ask her how that went, I can only imagine it must have been a nightmare she refused to repeat. All of subsequent our travel was by car, and I remember how she would pack everything--snacks, books, puzzles, etc., to keep us from complaining of hunger and boredom. And it didn't matter because we were kids, and that meant we were always hungry and bored. Because of that, I'm pretty sure that your family probably didn't travel by airplane as much either. 

There are plenty of other reasons why there are not many comparable travel scenarios from my Gen-X past, but suffice it to say, kids have always been annoying on trips. There is an entire genre of movies about road trips and Dads on family vacations because that is how we rolled (yes, Black families too). Rest stops, weird roadside attractions, and regional amusement parks were integral aspects of those trips so that we could burn off that excess annoying energy. How and why the world shifted towards more airplane travel is beside the point, but it is a more efficient way to travel long distances so that means more children commingled into more public spaces. Why that is so much more of an inconvenience than people's need for emotional support animals is beyond me...

And here is where the people who don't have children or whose children were allegedly perfect angels chime in with their two cents to opine on the obligation of parents to intervene to protect the quiet enjoyment of other adults in public... And yeah, you can throw those pennies in the fountain and make a wish, lady! So that you can enjoy your flight in peace, YOU need to be better prepared. You paid good money to be on that flight in that window or aisle seat, so it is not my problem that you didn't anticipate the various scenarios you might encounter on a public mode of transportation.

If the only person you have to worry about is yourself, then do that. If you forgot your anxiety meds or didn't buy an adult beverage when it was offered in-flight, that isn't my kid's problem. I'm not drugging my child to calm your nerves. If you didn't invest in noise cancelling headphones or didn't bring your tablet with your favorite movies/shows downloaded for the duration of the flight, that sucks for you. In addition to packing, I was up half the night making sure that I had various entertainment options, electronics fully charged, and had generally planned for every possible contingency. AND, I had to pack for two people in one suitcase that needs to weigh less than 50lbs to avoid paying another fee. So if you can't accept that there are reasons why a baby might be crying for 45 minutes straight despite a parent's best efforts to soothe them, and your reaction is to match that energy by shouting expletives, thereby forcing the plane to land in a different city, YOU deserve all of the infamy that comes from being that dude.

No, the world does not have to accommodate any of us. I would be a lot less miserable if people didn't assume that everyone wants to be around their pets, but apparently that isn't realistic anymore. So I take allergy medication with me everywhere. Because I know that my child can be a lot, I load up my ginormous Mommy bag with puzzles and games to keep her occupied. I recognize it is my responsibility to manage my stuff, and the only assurance you have is that I will try my best. Deal with it or call the manager, Karen, but just know that there might be a day when you will be in my shoes. I pray that someone extends you a bit of grace instead of a load of grief.

Final word, bruh YOU are the reason why everyone had to de-plane in Orlando, not that inconsolable baby! As annoying as 40 minutes of crying must have been, nobody expected the plane to land in a whole different city to calm a child, but they had to do that in order to shut your grown ass up. So I don't care how many people offered you virtual high fives in defense of your tirade after the fact, because if I had been on that plane, I would have been pissed to have ended up in Orlando instead of where I was supposed to land. Here's the key difference between you and the baby--crying is the worst thing that child did. An unruly adult passenger on an airplane post-9/11 poses a far greater threat, so you deserved to have been arrested on principle even if all you did was yell profanities. YOU created an unsafe environment for everyone on that flight by refusing to control YOUR temper.

Even if the crying was excessive, your "adult" response was to bully the flight attendants because you couldn't yell directly at a frantic mother with an inconsolable child. None of these folks coming to your defense on social media would trade places with you nor would they contribute to your bail had you been hauled off to jail.  I don't know what you deserve for being an asshole, but may you be forever known as a Cowardly Lion who woke up cranky from his nap, undone by the cries of a baby.

Mothering Expectations

In spite of my whining to the contrary, I actually do have Mommy friends, but as they are veterans with tweens who are way too busy to usher me through my Toddler madness, we rarely get to connect. Recently, I had the chance to catch up with both of them (OK, I probably have more than two Mommy friends, but this is my blog and I'm sticking with that number for the time being.)

Anywho, my talks with both of them happened to occur within the last week, one taking place earlier on the day right before I ended up watching Bad Moms; the other within a few days of when I started writing this post-Mother's Day piece. Well, I'm back to make a grand, omnibus statement that attempts to unify all of those random situations, so here goes:

Expectations. Lower them. Trust me.

Mother's Day
I feel the need to admonish everyone to just settle for something simple and uncomplicated. Just get dressed in something nice for church; kindly accept the flower(s) that you are given by that fine deacon/trustee/young preacher at the church; go out to eat somewhere with your family; smile appreciatively at the homemade card/gift your kid(s) gives you; and accept that your husband/significant other/baby daddy will disappoint you if you were hoping for some grand gesture. Not because he is insensitive (although in some cases he most certainly might be an asshole), but because he is generally clueless.

Let's refocus our energy on making Mother's Day a celebration brought to us by our children, and not by the men who are to blame for making us mothers. Yes blame, because once we adjust our language to acknowledge them appropriately, then we'll know better than to presume much appreciation from the guy who has just as much trouble finding matching clothes as his children. Just remember that come Father's Day and buy him another tie. Problem solved.

Mommy Shaming
I had just finished posting a feel-good piece about coming to this place of peace with Mother's Day, and as I went to post it to the FB page, I saw a message somewhere that triggered my need to write this apology truth. Because I am that messy mommy that some of y'all talk about. And as my child is a reflection of me, then I guess she is a hot mess too. On most days I am cool with that.

I admire how disciplined and courteous your children are in public. As you already know, my daughter can be extra...and I've gleaned much from your FB musings of disapproval. Not directed at me personally, but generally to the world about what your kid(s) better not do in public; meanwhile I let my child scream at the top of her lungs in the middle of the Macy's. And no, I did not spank her, shake her, or do anything other than let her cry until I realized we had another errand to run. Then I led her out of the store as her tantrum continued. So if you happened to be in the vicinity of that scene and posted a video of it on You Tube, be sure to spell my name correctly.

Because for all of that lovely Mommy wisdom I see on FB, I know the truth. Children are irrational, unpredictable, sweet, charming, cute, and insane. Your cherub was once like my Toddlersaurus, or perhaps s/he isn't there yet (just you wait). And it's okay because she'll be two until she turns three, and I've been told that's another ride through the carnival fun house. Then God willing, one day she'll be 22 and I will invoke the memory of these epic meltdowns to get her to plan a decent Mother's Day outing...

Mom Squad Goals
So yeah, I have two Mommy friends. And I got to hang out with one for about an hour before she had to dash to pick up her kids from school. I got to speak to the other one for about an hour before she had to dash to attend to some function with her kid. So I guess the theme of those encounters is that in the real world, Mommies don't have a whole lot of time to sit and chat because we are always in transition about to do something for our kids.

And so I will stop envying those pics of happy carefree mothers I see hanging out after spin class at the bar drinking mimosas because those gatherings are probably staged. Ain't nobody got time for that, between filling out forms for preschool, taking the kid to the dentist, spending an hour in traffic to get across town for an event that only lasts 45 minutes (and you were late because there was no parking so you only got 30 minutes worth), and rushing home before 9 so that no one judges you for being that messy Mom whose kid has no real bedtime...

But hey, can we commit to getting coffee at least once every two to three months? Or a drink if you can hide a flask in that ginormous Mom bag (I saw a cute collapsible one online, just in case).

Movie Review: Bad Moms
Which brings me to the penultimate point where I take the advice of my Mommy friend and offer up movie reviews as a feature on the blog. I finally saw Bad Moms on Showtime and to borrow a phrase from Charles Barkley, terr-bull.

I just watched a clip compilation on YouTube to confirm my initial reaction...and yep, in a nutshell predictable, funny in parts, yet the kind of sophomoric stupid that we've come to expect from a certain genre of comedy <---whoa, did that sound like an Ebert review??? Wanna know what I thought was the dumbest part? The fact that there will be a sequel.

Conclusion
I used 'God willing' in a sentence. Expectations officially lowered.

Mommy Needs Vodka

Am I the only mother who needs a drink by 11am on a Sunday morning because as you were getting ready for church, your toddler decided to (possibly) swallow her earring and then throw a ridiculous tantrum because you asked her to tell you what happened?

Yeah, thought so. It is just me.

I could recount all of the steps that led to that fateful I-NEED-JESUS-OR-A-G*DAMN-DRINK moment--right when we finally got in the car to go to church, but really, does it matter? As someone said to comfort me, I have a two year old.

The Hub hears my complaints and stares as if I am speaking jibberish, then he defends her by reminding me that she is a two year old. Yeah. MOFO I know how old she is. I was there when this chick was born (it was my vagina, by the way). I am here with her all day, every day when her two year old shit riles up and becomes these ridiculous tantrums at the worst possible moment.

You are here for all of the cuteness.

You are here when she empties out each of her toy boxes that Mommy has organized and sorted according to type...and then barely plays with them. You are here when she takes every crayon and draws all over everything, except for your stuff. You are here when she drops and spills food all over the floor leaving a residue of sticky shit all over said floor that you never sweep or mop because you fear that she might impale herself on the broom handle (by the way, I'm convinced you don't actually know how to use either a broom or a mop, but I digress). You are here for the chaos that you allow her to leave behind for Mommy to clean up.

So let's get something clear if y'all want this child to see three: Mommy will not live with two chaos Muppets!!!

No, I am not raising Animal. Or Oscar (because this house will not be a fucking trash can for the rest of my life). Or Elmo (who is not perpetually cute). At some point, this Toddlersaurus needs to get it together or she and her beloved Pushover Papi can go live in the shed.

Who's buying the next round?

Dear Daughter

Well, it is almost Mother's Day again, and as usual my emotions are all over the place.This year I am making the difficult decision not to spend the day with my extended family, so I want to explain that to my daughter in this letter.

Dear Daughter,

We will be spending Mother's Day at church in the morning, then at the ballpark, and then at some random restaurant that your father selected to make up for the fact that we will be at the baseball game. We will not be spending it with your Gamma and the rest of the family.

This decision does not require too much of an explanation because I can quickly and efficiently tell you that I just do not wish to spend the day with everyone else. I do not wish to worry about whether my Mother is eating and then spend half the time attending to her, then you, and then come home hungry and exhausted. I do not wish to pretend that I am on the best of terms with everyone assembled, and I don't want to give anyone the excuse that my presence made it necessary for them to back out at the last minute. And in the midst of family drama, I am not interested in being congenial around strangers.

For the first time, I am going to claim that Mother's Day is for me, too. I am not going to walk around in a tiara or a sash that declares me to be Mother of the Year (because we know that I am not, especially after my recent FB posts). I am not expecting any special gifts or extra niceties, nor do I intend to demand anything to prove your love to me as you get older. I just want to spend the day with my family engaged in an activity that we enjoy.

It would be nice to have a spa day or to receive some really nice, thoughtful gift. It would be nice to do more than eat out. It would be nice to receive a bouquet of flowers or a box of candy that won't get consumed by someone else. It would be nice to spend time with my extended family under better circumstances. It would be nice if your abuela was still alive or if your grandmother could notice you. But life is not always nice.

Dear daughter, beyond the celebration of this day, I want you to know how much I enjoy being your mother, even when you drive me insane (as evidenced by my recent FB posts). I think that for me, honoring this day will be more about taking time to appreciate why this journey is so special. And in so doing, I can spend time with my mother and not hang on to any lingering resentments from Mother's Days past. Because Lord knows, this has been an unpleasant obligation for the past 20 years.

Yes. I have hated Mother's Day ever since I came home from law school.

Our first Mother's Day occurred a month after you arrived and while it was nice to be surrounded by family, it was more about celebrating you. Last year I was frustrated at your father for some reason. So this year I have adjusted my expectations. It is just a day. So if it is to be memorable occasion, then I need to make it special for myself by choosing to just enjoy the day. Maybe in the future, that might mean something different, like special activities that you and I enjoy on our own.

I have finally come to a place where I can make peace with my Mother. It is because of her that I am here, but it is because of you that I can celebrate this day. I've had anxiety for years that I was not the ideal daughter, and the truth is that I may never be. However, I am a good enough daughter and for too long I have been awaiting validation without realizing that on my own. The expectation should always have been for me to simply be present...grand gestures are nothing if there is no substance in the movements. And I guess it took having you to realize that.

So dear daughter, YOU are enough. Remind me that I wrote this in case you feel unworthy or that you need to do something to impress me. You are here. The other day you sat still long enough in play group to have your hand painted for my Mother's Day card. I appreciate that because you hardly ever sit still for anything other than your favorite TV shows. You are the most on every level--rambunctious, emotional, frustrating, spirited, thankful, intelligent, sweet, adorable...I could keep going, but you need aspirations for when you turn three. Your life gives me every reason not to lose hope in my life.

I have no idea if my Mother ever felt that way about me, but I know how I feel about her so it doesn't matter. I may never be able to write a tribute grand enough to describe her, but I think the point is that I would be able to write something to express what she means to me. She means the world to me, just as you do. Since some sentiments aren't easy to compress into 800 or so words, I will just say thank you.

Back to Wonderland

We hosted the Toddlersaurus's 2nd birthday party on Saturday and this year, I have no complaints. In hindsight, I accept that last year's party went about as well as could be expected and hereby rescind every negative and frustrated emotion I have attached to that event. Because I have now accepted one of the great lessons of life: Kids just want to have fun. And they will find a way to do so, regardless of the amount of money, time and effort spent.

Yet, it took another visit down the rabbit hole for me to get this. I had been so disappointed by the execution of my whimsical plans last year, so knowing that there was a second literary trip to Wonderland, I decided to revisit the theme. And for the record, I had a good plan: we had craft tables, a photo station, an interactive story time, and plans for a game of kiddie croquet. We rented a community center so that we could have adequate space for kids to move about and play, which also gave us a suitable indoor alternative in case of bad weather.

So of course, it rained. Again. Despite weather reports ALL WEEK that called for rain in the evening, not during day. So it was worth the month and a half of waiting it took for the permit request to be approved, with just two weeks to move full speed ahead. Which was just enough time for the Hub to order the food while I did everything else. However, it was not enough time to see to certain minor details, such as ordering personalized M&Ms in our theme colors to give away as favors. (For perspective, I spent two months obsessing over the same party theme last year and didn't even consider such details.)

So I improvised. Instead of personalized M&Ms, I found an unopened bag leftover from Easter. And my child, who has never had access to that much candy in her entire life, just inhaled them and ran around in circles. Which meant she never made it to the craft tables. However, several of the other kids did participate in the crafts, and none of them minded that the rose bushes I asked the Hub to draw looked nothing like the rose bushes from the Alice in Wonderland template I showed him. I won't say what they looked like before or after the party...

My photo station went unused until one little girl decided to don the Queen of Hearts cape. She also waved around a toy sceptre and proceeded to act the part of some Disney sorceress that I'm sure she's seen a thousand times, which was fantastic! But no one else ventured over to admire any of the cool props I ordered from Amazon. Or to pose with the picture frame I designed with different motifs from the story--the one that the guy at the art store got me to pay a five dollar cutting fee for a job I probably could have done myself with my old x-acto knife. Totally neglected.

I never even got a picture of my child with any of the handmade props I designed because she never broke stride from running around in circles. And as for all of those homemade props and decorations, including the clever arrow signs? Completely unnoticed alongside the reused decorations from last year's party.

The night before the party, I was packing the trunk with the decorations and other things and left it open while I went into the house for something. I guess I took too long because when I went back to the car, some kind asshole had relieved us of the juice boxes and a case of iced tea. Right there in front the house with the front door wide open and with Hub right there in the living room. And me right there in the backyard emptying the dirty water from the cooler that I didn't use because I ran out of time to clean it. Yep.

I could keep on going but because my blissfully hyped daughter spent the entire party running around in circles, followed by an entourage of other happy, restless children including the cousin that she rarely sees, nothing else really matters. Apparently it was everybody's nap time, so those non-personalized M&Ms in the wrong colors worked like a charm to keep them awake and busy until my story lady arrived. By the time she was all set to read, everybody's sugar high had begun to wear down so they had just enough energy to barely pay attention. Of course, my child sat still for exactly 30 seconds before she wiggled herself down from my lap to the floor, where she spent the remainder of the time scavenging for more stray candy and goldfish crackers.

I guess this is why they say the best laid plans of mice and Type-A moms...because the rain never stopped (so no croquet, although it wouldn't have mattered because our balls and stakes had disappeared with the juice boxes). My grand scheme, careful attention to detail--none of it mattered. The children had a great time, as did my Dad, who has texted me at least three times to tell me so. My Mom was able to sit through all of that chaos and not get agitated. I didn't lose my temper with the Hub at all. The rec center guy was kind enough to give us an additional 15 minutes to finish cleaning. I had a great crew of friends who came to help us set up, and another great crew that helped us to clean. The Toddlersaurus received a lot of love from folks who braved the weather just to spend two hours watching a group of kids do what they do best.

As for me, back from my adventures in the rabbit hole, back from the other side of the looking-glass? I'm good. And since we keep getting bad weather, next year's theme will be from the Wizard of Oz...

The First Day of the Rest of Her Childhood

Today I took the first steps toward signing my soon-to-be-two year old daughter up for summer camp and it was traumatic.

Not because I am anxious about her going away to camp (which is really just four weeks of structured day care), but because I sat in a room with a group of my peers and felt like I was back at law school orientation.

Let me begin this by telling you about the day I declared this child needed something constructive to do this summer...I believe it was a month ago after I had yet another very long day with her that ended with me feeling utterly exasperated. It doesn't matter what happened, but at some point she drove me to the brink and I made that fateful decision.

And it must have been a few days before/after that I received a text from my line sister about swimming classes. And then her follow-up text telling me that the classes were full and that we might have to try for another session. And I am unsure if that happened right around the time the Hub sent in the first permit request for her birthday party (for which we are still awaiting official approval), because we want to avoid a repeat of last year's rain drama. And in the midst of trying to manage her life and development, I have been dealing with a whole lot of other stuff.

So by the time I actually sat down to find an affordable summer camp that takes 2-year olds, I initially thought I wouldn't find anything. But fate intervened and I found a program, submitted the request form, and then got a call the very next day! We were on our way.

Then this morning everything went wrong as soon as the Hub thought he was offering me a compliment by telling me that I looked like a Mom.

The quick details: I left my wallet behind, then sat in traffic, arrived late and sweaty because I couldn't find the entrance, and then left feeling like I had just been through law school orientation. Which you know, I did 20+ years ago, and I remember leaving that session feeling like I had been to my first day of boot camp. I was overstimulated and overwhelmed, only to get to the Babe's play group to hear that we might need to consider getting special services (again).

So I'm sitting here feeling like a failure. I have one job. Actually, I have several jobs, but I am not winning on any of them right now. And just like I felt on my first day of law school/boot camp trying to process how only one of the three of us would make it to graduation, I am in over my head. For the record, I barely made it through law school, but I am here so I guess the same must be true of parenting. Which is not the most encouraging analogy...

Of course, the pressure I feel to meet or exceed certain expectations is largely internal. I just wanted to find something for my kid to do this summer. I also need a little time from her for a few hours a day to focus on my Mom and other aspects of my life that have been neglected. I might dig out my resume and see what is out there. I might make some progress on decorating her room. I may finally clean up my house. I might get to a spa for some of that self-care folks keep talking about.

And she might come back to us with more advanced language, potty-trained, and better disciplined. I could stay in my feelings and question why every other child seems to be progressing just fine with their nannies at the library story-time while my child spends that time running around in circles. Or I can just buck up and let the experts intervene. I can do what I failed to do 20+ years ago in law school and admit that it might all be just a little too much for me to handle by myself. Not because I am not smart or earnest enough, but because I have a lot going on and if my daughter needs to reach certain developmental milestones, then I need to do whatever it takes to ensure that she does.

I am a lawyer, not a child development specialist. That is why we say it takes a village to raise a child, and now is not the time to become the idiot.

Modern Inconveniences

So here's another life-is-hard-outchere-in-these-streets-for-a-new-mother rant...

I desperately needed to decompress from some of the stress I have been experiencing (and unleashing on others), so I decided to take in a few movies this week. I wanted to see one film in particular today because it has a limited release. So last night I took out my movie app, found a theater, selected the appropriate movie time, and generally planned my day to balance appropriate child-centered activities with a little Me-time.

On a typical day, my child is well-behaved. I can take her to most places and expect that she will not cause any major damage to property. That being said, she did not cause any major damage to property despite her unusual rambunctiousness. So I am not here to complain about her; I am here to complain about everyone else.

We started the morning with the aforementioned child-centered activity, which was story time at the local library. On a typical day, she would have expended a great deal of energy before, during and after story time sufficient to allow me to have enjoyed the matinee while she napped. In the event that she was not asleep, my plan B was to provide her with her own popcorn and snacks to keep her occupied until the end of the movie (which was not that long). And I chose the Monday matinee, so what's the worse that could happen???

Well, I saw about 20 minutes of the film before she got antsy, needed to be taken to the bathroom, proceeded to squirm and wiggle, and then she needed be taken to the bathroom again. She also decided to chat and sing and chat and sing, so I never made it back to my seat.

This is where the veteran parents should offer to deconstruct what went wrong for me so that I know how to plan accordingly next time. But I suspect most of them will simply offer me a knowing shrug, pat me on the head, and assure me that I will be able to sit through a movie again one day. The film will air on TV at some point, so I'm cool.

What was not cool, however, was the judgment of the other patrons, beginning with the person who felt the need to shush every time my kid made even the slightest sound from the moment we took our seats. And then the look of disgust that one couple flashed at us as they left the theater (while I was standing outside in the lobby). And then the way that it seemed like EVERYONE was so fucking offended that I had the gall to bring my kid out in public!

Apparently no one has enough patience, tolerance or compassion for anyone or anything that disturbs how they wish to experience life. Meaning, I can never venture outside of predesignated kid zones without suffering the consequences of rudeness, impatience, and lack of common courtesy. Had I brought a howling dog to the movies, I would have generated less ire.

So allow me to issue my sincerest apologies to any parent whom I might have maligned in my BC (before child) past. I regret if I ever shot you an annoyed glance when your child whimpered a little too audibly or if I got testy if you took too long to bring their tantrum to an immediate end. Let me also remand any final judgments I might have made concerning your lack of complete control over any number of situations. Like any judge presented with new facts, I have reconsidered my initial verdict and have found in your favor because you were doing your best...children are unpredictable and quite possibly insane.

And to those who have forgotten what it was like to be the parent whose entertainment options on most days was limited to whatever animated character the kid demands to watch over and over again, it is a minimal inconvenience to simply be kind. Be understanding. You got to see the movie--I paid $11 to watch my child run around in circles out in the lobby.

On the way home from this debacle I recalled how I humiliating it was for me on that flight home from Chicago when my daughter essentially screamed the entire flight. I have no idea what was wrong and trust me, I tried EVERYTHING I could think of to quiet her. I felt horrible even though we had to pay extra to sit together and when I accidentally sat in the wrong row with my inconsolable child, some woman insisted that I move because I was in her seat.

I don't want the world to cater to my needs; I just want to feel that my existence is not a societal inconvenience. Like if you are standing in the curb cut when I am approaching from the opposite side of the street with the stroller, MOVE. Make room on the elevator, ask me if I am waiting for the larger bathroom stall before walking past me, and seriously, can someone hold the damn door open for me instead of letting it slam in my face!?!

The Weary Blues

Toddlers are...

And I wouldn't trade mine for anything. So instead of complaining about the little cherub (because right now, she is amusing herself with the training potty, the box it came in, and that donut stacker toy). We didn't make it to play group today because I haven't been able to get myself together since Sunday. At least I finally got a shower.

I have had a crappy week and I am in no mood for anything. I barely want to eat. I just want to sleep. I imagine all mothers hit this wall where every little thing becomes annoying and difficult, but my blahs aren't about dealing with the Babe. It is about my mother.

Today is her 70th birthday. I thought that I would organize a party for her, but she has been out of sorts since Christmas. The details are all over the place, but suffice it to say that between some of her health issues and the accompanying family drama, I have absolutely nothing. Other than a card.

Since I missed playgroup I should be getting us ready to go out to wherever my Dad wants to take my Mom for lunch, which is probably Red Lobster (my least favorite place to go with them) but I don't even have the energy to protest. I just want to go along to get along at this point. The Babe is partially dressed and playing with the potty while watching one of her shows, so I am taking this time to vent.

Let's start with the Babe and our adventures in potty training. I have no plan, no clue and no guidance because I have no Mommy friends, no Mom, etc. Yet, I thought that it might be time to start the process so I brought the toilet up from the basement yesterday. When she saw the box, she decided to push it into the dining room to use as a prop for whatever imaginary game she was playing that involved needing a box. This morning I got the bright idea to introduce her to the toilet while watching Sesame Street, and so far, she gets that she is supposed to sit on it. Or stand on it. Or get her legs stuck in the hole where the bowl is supposed to go.

I pulled up a video that claimed to offer the secret to potty training in three days, but after wasting ten minutes watching an animation about a woman who allegedly perfected her method after she spent $329 on a pair of black silk Prada pants only to realize that she was selling a book and not providing any actual tips, I am sitting here now half dressed and even more flustered and overwhelmed.

I don't want to finish getting dressed. I don't want to leave the house. I don't want to bother with potty training. I don't want to go to Red Lobster. I don't want to sit through another wrenching lunch experience with my Dad, Mom and her home care aide. I don't want to see my mother wearing an ankle boot (she sprained her ankle somehow...but I won't even ask how that happened since she doesn't do that much). I don't want to be confronted by another family member's passive aggressive accusatory bullshit.

I don't want to celebrate my mother's 70th birthday today.

I am not being selfish, I am just being honest. I love my mother and know how blessed I am to still have her given the dreadful prognosis of early-onset Alzheimer's. I know that I need to take every possible moment to celebrate her, what she has meant to others (like her former students who took us to see Fences), and what she has meant to our family. We should all be together, but we aren't.

However, I do not wish to waste another day in my house and watch my child spin herself into butter because she has cabin fever. So I am about to shut this computer off, finished getting dressed, head over to my parents' and go to lunch with them at Red Lobster. I will give my mother her cards, listen to my Dad talk about westerns and politics, then wait around for my Niece so that she and the Babe can play together. I will muscle through the day even if it takes every ounce of strength because today is not about how I feel or how pissed I am or about how mad or pissed anyone else might be with me.

Happy 70th Birthday to my Mother!

Post-Partum is a Bitch

I know that I have been doing a lot more political writing lately and while I cannot promise that the inspiration to lash out every other day or so for the next 1456 days will subside any time soon...I can promise an eventual return to our regularly scheduled programming. And I guess I have been writing quite a bit about motherhood as well, so let's just say that I will surprise you one day soon with a piece about mascara, my cool new flats, or the Oscars. Right now I need to vent a little about motherhood. Again.

So nothing crazy or out of the ordinary occurred today until this evening when the Babe screamed like a Banshee after her bath for ten straight minutes. But that is becoming normal, so today's gripe is about how my body is still not right and this kid will be two years old in April. Like seriously, why come no one told me that post-partum would become the norm for my life? I will keep this brief because it is a little TMI, but I itch! I leak! I have creaky joints! And for the first time in my life I HAVE PMS!

So apparently, I will NEVER recover from this???!!! 

I know some of this is old age. Which is why I give everyone who asks when I plan to have another child the serious side eye. I am 43 years old. Mama is tired so this kitchen is closed. But some of this is straight up gangsta Big Sister Mother Nature hazing, and giving me the side eye as if to say "Heffa, you know you should have had that girl back in the 90s. You could be laughing at her post-partum a$$ right now!"

So to Janet, Halle Berry, Kelly Preston and any other woman who wants to have a baby after 45, go with God. And if you are over 40 and pregnant with multiples...you really need Jesus.

And in my best Forrest Gump voice, that is all I have to say about that. Go on back to watching the New Edition movie.

Marching Forward - January 21, 2017

Note: This piece has been edited to correct some inaccuracies in the original post and to provide some additional links for further study.

After the election, when it was announced that there would be a Woman's March on DC, I dug in my defiant heels and refused to even consider participating. Like many black women I know, we were pissed when it was revealed that one of the larger voting blocks to support #45* was educated white women.

And despite various news reports and queries about my intentions, I had not given the March that much thought until last week. I heard discussions of the city's plans for managing the swarm of expected protestors and listened to testimonials by women intending to wear pussy hats at the demonstration. I was prepared to ignore those reports until this past weekend.

I belong to Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. which just commemorated 104 years of existence. Two other black greek letter sororities, Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc. and Zeta Phi Beta Sorority, Inc., also commemorated their founding this past weekend. Each of us boasts strong legacies of service and political engagement. In fact, all nine of the historically black greek letter organizations can claim this same legacy and mission.

In particular, though, it was in reflection of the first public act undertaken by the 22 women that founded my organization, that has me reconsidering my initial denouncements. These students, along with civil rights activists Mary Church Terrell and Ida B. Wells Barnett, participated in the Women's Suffrage March of 1913, which occurred the day before the inauguration of President Woodrow Wilson. Thousands of Deltas staged a reenactment of that historic event as a part of our centennial celebration back in 2013.

From newspaper reports I know that those 22 women were not entirely welcome at that suffrage march. They had to march in the back and as Dorothy I. Height, one of our past presidents once told us, they were admonished to "go back to your kitchens" because it was inconceivable that black women would join such a crusade, let alone be allowed to vote. So in some sense, history could be seen as repeating itself as black women and other women of color find themselves not fully represented by the goals of this upcoming march.

No, we have not been asked to march in the back and I am pretty sure that anyone who suggests that we ought to go back to our kitchens will suffer the same fate as some woman named Heather W (who mused aloud about slavery and needing a maid and got DRAGGED on the Facebook)...but we have been relegated to supporting status because when the march was announced, we were not among the organizers. The march for people of color was convened for MLK weekend by Rev. Al Sharpton.

I still have a lot of mixed feeling about this Women's March, beginning with the level of attention it is getting precisely because of that other march that took place here just last weekend. I am assuming that most media outlets find the Women's March more compelling because the Reverend Al is essentially Chicken Little when it comes to organizing protest marches. Perhaps there is some newsworthiness in the historical parallels to the original Suffrage March, especially given #45's past statements about women. There are a lot of reasons to be skeptical that this will simply be another "inclusive" photo opportunity that accomplishes nothing for women of color except more marginalization.

But I am going to set aside my doubts and join the effort. On Saturday, we will actually be out of town for the Abomination, but there will be satellite marches and one happens to be taking place near the hotel where we will be staying. And despite my plans to take the Babe to see a show, I will see if there is some way for us to take a slight detour so that she and I can take to the streets together.

I wrote a note on Facebook to some friends that I suspect will get ignored by those who are either heading out of town or are as ambivalent as I am about the outcome of this march. One of the points I tried to make was the necessity of having women of color in the number so that we cannot continue to be ignored. As much as we love them, men of color are NOT going to address women's issues--they are race MEN. Far too often, we show up and do the heavy lifting for both race and gender issues, then watch as others reap the benefit of our sacrifices. It can be a 'fool me once, fool me twice' kind of scenario for many of us. Yet, no one can overlook us if we show up and demand to be seen.

My Founders comprised a small delegation in that Suffrage March, but they showed up. I mentioned to my friends how there have been small numbers of black and brown women in rooms full of white women...and how no one deigns to treat them like washer women and kitchen help. So, even if it doesn't result in that much initial progress, we still need to be visible. The glass ceiling that Hillary didn't break is still there, covering us all.

I want my daughter to remember this period of time only through pictures. In a few years, she can ask me about the pussy hats (although I probably will not wear one), and I hope to be able to say that it was in response to a stupid remark made by someone whose tenure as President was limited to just four forgettable years. I can tell her how this most recent wave of activism began with the release of Hidden Figures a film about three female mathematicians (members of AKA) who did the calculations that helped to make space travel possible. I can tell her about our disappointment about the 2016 presidential election, but how we were encouraged by the Senate elections of Kamala Harris (CA), Tammy Duckworth (IL), Catherine Cortez Masto (NV), and Maggie Hassan (NH). I will tell her why she should always be a proud Latina like Justice Sonia Sotomayor.

I will tell her how her future was shaped by the women who showed up anyway, got into the room, and were heard.

(*Side note, I want to give credit to my line sister RB who identifies the incoming President by that number designation. Of course, I might use different versions of his name and will use various portmanteaux to ridicule him whenever possible, but out of respect for the office that he will assume tomorrow, I will use #45 for my serious critiques of him and his policies.)

Call of the Wild

I don't need to tell anyone who has a toddler that this has been quite a year. I've probably already told you several times that I am in way over my head. To borrow a phrase from my Spelman sister DYN, parenting ain't for pussies! So if the Babe makes it unhurt to midnight tonight, I ought to do a cartwheel. In fact I need to do an Olympic caliber floor exercise.

Yesterday could be categorized as an epic Mommy fail because I had good intentions that went awry as soon as I took my eyes off the kid for a few minutes. I was on the phone in the bathroom, she opened the door, and then she walked off with her toothbrush and toothpaste. I am unsure how much time elapsed, but when I last saw her she was watching TV.

I wrote this recap on the FB page, so feel free to enjoy the short version.

Now here is the long version, augmented by several of the details I omitted. So I mentioned that I was in the bathroom and the she had taken her toothbrush and her toothpaste with her into my bedroom, found a quiet spot on the floor in front the TV, and was busy watching whatever was on PBS Kids for a few minutes while I was on the phone. Right there, several veteran parents should be shaking their heads.

For the rookies, you need to know that my first mistake occurred long before I left the Babe to her own devices. My first mistake was to get the Babe dressed and ready before I got myself dressed and ready. You see, my plan for the day included a few errands on this side of town before we were to be at my parents' house by 2pm. I had my itinerary mapped out, I was showered, so I just needed to get dressed and to pack the car.

I was dilly dallying on the phone and it was about 11:30 when I realized that she was too quiet and discovered her covered in toothpaste. We didn't leave this house until 1:30. My FB status update came just before 2pm while I was waiting in line for gas at the Costco. I had just texted my Dad to let him know that I was on my way to the house per our understanding that I would relieve my mother's caregiver because my brother was out of town. I also texted the caregiver to let her know that I was running a little late. In response, she asks me to get a few things.

Mind you, I am sitting in the car with a finally napping toddler, watching the parking lot at the Costco fill with folks anxious to stock up for the holiday weekend. 

Windows on the World

This might be the first time I posted the same piece on both blogs...the reason being that I had two and a half (three) glasses of wine and a whole Xanax last night when I started writing...

I had plans to leave the house today for a reason other than to try to get this child to sleep. She did sleep, but only during the Window.

Parents know what I mean. There are these rare opportunities of time called Windows, that must be used wisely, or else you end up un-showered, unshaven and dressed in pajamas or sweats all day. These Windows are like anomalies in the space-time continuum when you can get a very specific task completed while the Babe is asleep--until it closes and then you are back on her time. In my world, the Window only lasts for about 90 minutes.

Last week in Chicago, I was blessed with a Window. The Babe was restless and needed her nap, I had an errand to run, so I strapped her in the stroller and rolled out. First errand completed, but of course, this chick did NOT go to sleep, so I had to think of a Plan B--an impromptu trip to the mall. She found her second wind, so I let her run free around the Nordstrom until she began circling the stroller. I let her climb aboard while I took a spin through the food court. She was still sitting upright as I searched around for an elevator, but just as I found it and leaned over to press the button, the Window opened! I made a mad dash back to the hotel.

My official apologies to the Planned Parenthood activist in the wheelchair, because yes, I really do support your cause, we do give money, but no I had NO time to talk because you were cutting into my Window. By this time, the Babe had been asleep for maybe about 20 minutes. I needed a shower, to get the room in semi-decent shape since the cleaning service had not come while we were gone, and time was a-ticking.

Yesterday as usual, the Babe was refusing to nap and was literally spinning herself in circles fighting valiantly to stay awake. So I loaded her into the car and with no particular destination in mind, got ready to leave the house. The mailman saw me and trotted up to me with a package. Bless his heart (and I do not mean it in the snarcastic way), he hands it over and says I see you are about to roll out with the kid, good luck Mom. I'm guessing he recognized the exasperated I-need-tranquilizer-darts-NOW, or maybe he knows all about creating the Window.

This might be the only parenting advice I ever offer because I am THAT hot mess mom: the one who barely makes it to story time even though it is a 15 minute drive away; the one who takes her kid to the matinee where they show rated R indie films and is not the least bit ashamed; the one who believes cheerios eaten from the floor must have special powers. The Window is real.

And a word to anybody who writes one of those mommy-war envy pieces about wishing she could stay at home and get stuff done while her kids napped...again, one word: Window. Lady, I don't get anything done unless I get that Window. (Except right now since I have turned the Babe over to her father for the day). Your lovely fantasies about immaculate homes, well-balanced dinners already prepared from the slow cooker, Martha Stewart decorating projects, and Hallmark card moments of hugs and kisses...yeah, right.

Let me go take a shower.

Bad Mommy Days

If I were to sum up my impression of motherhood these last few weeks in two words, they would be tub poopie. Or I could go with no nap. Or if you prefer something more general then it would be MOM DOWN.

In this latest episode of Busy Bad Mommy, the Babe developed a high fever out of nowhere last Monday so she and I spent the entire day curled up in bed. I nursed her, gave her juice, tried several times to give her Tylenol, and even took her outside for fresh air. My Aunt and Dad checked in periodically with advice, but by 9 o'clock when the Hub got home from work, her fever had not broken. Around the same time I received a call from a cousin who asked me the most obvious question...which I could not answer because (head smack) I never took the Babe's temperature!!! So in my frantic attempt not to look like a complete moron, everything went haywire and we ended going to the ER. This is me at 3am right before we were released:

Diagnosis: too much wax in her ear.

The next night at bedtime she began screaming for no good reason after she had been asleep for about an hour. Her father came in and declared that he had it under control but she continued to shriek as if she was on fire. So I loaded her into the car for a ride around the neighborhood, which worked for about 5 minutes until we got back to the house. She went to sleep eventually (probably after my Xanax kicked in).

I recently saw a documentary on the Kennedy family and of course there was the always-smiling Ethel Kennedy with her 11 children. And I wondered aloud, how in the hell? I know they had nannies and servants and other kinds of help, but I struggle to manage one tiny little kid.

Mind you, I used to be great with children. My cousins can attest to that. My Niece has generally been easy to manage. The NY contingent of nieces and nephews love me. Even the new Baby Niece and I get along quite well. But with my own child I am out of my league.

For obvious reasons there is no asking my mother for advice. But even if she could offer me some motherly wisdom, she would not. She would ridicule my inability to do basic things like prevent the kid from eating cheerios off the floor. She would declare how superior she was as a mother, call me a silly girl, click her ruby heels, and take off on her flying broomstick. In her place is her sister, my Aunt, who also flies in on her broom to occasionally chime in on my ineffectiveness.

Surrender Dorothy...

There are no other close family members to offer me much advice or support. My Dad was away in graduate school during my early childhood, so apparently his memories of me began around the time I hit puberty. On the Hub's side, all of the nieces and nephews are grown (and his mother was around to assist). He has several friends and coworkers with young children, but I do not.

So, if I wanted advice, I would have to turn to the village council of senior mother figures. And based on my past experiences with a few of them, I would rather just clean up tub poopie. Remember how the pediatrician looked at me like I had six heads when I said yes, the Babe still nurses at nine months (now 16) and no, she is not in daycare? The play group nannies brag about successfully sleep training their charges at birth, while I wrestle with the Babe to take one nap. The library nannies, who always arrive early for story-time to secure the best spots at the front of the room, look upon me with annoyance whenever the Babe wanders too close to their well-behaved charges. And the FB mommies who work several jobs, have successful side hustles, and pursue advanced degrees, while I am a SAHM with a blog no one reads? Yep, lots of support there.

I do have good Mommy moments (I do, I do, I do, I do). After all, I was clever enough to buy her shoes with squeakers and she is reasonably well-behaved in restaurants. Perhaps we should spend a lot more time at the mall.

I know this time will pass quickly and one day I will look up and she will be a teenager. And then if I'm lucky, she'll call me on the phone one day with questions about her own toddler (and thanks to this blog, I will not be able to lie).

Busy Black Baby

I am writing this at the end of a very intense week of over-scheduling myself and the Babe, with moderate success. If you are reading this on Monday when it posts (or thereafter) it is entirely possible that I will not have learned my lesson and will either be at a library story time or a funeral. In either event, the entire month of May has been one grand experiment at trying to be that perfect, always-have-a-plan Mommy.

Let me rewind to the beginning of the month when I was having one of my self-pitiful panic attacks about being a bad mother. This was how I comforted myself after the Babe's birthday fiasco and how I chose to address some of the conflicting emotions I was experiencing at the approach of Mother's Day (still writing that piece) and well, whenever I convince myself that I am under-doing it...

I began plotting and researching ways to enhance the Babe's social development. I investigated home schooling; purchased tickets to child-centered performances; populated my calendar with free cultural events for us to attend; finished her passport application; am taking an eight-week class on baby language development; am also learning some American Sign Language to teach her so that we can communicate; and plotted every library story time within a 15 minute drive from our home. And I still have another full week left in this month!

Mind you, no one has suggested that I am over-doing it, yet.

And no one will because I have learned that motherhood is a competitive contact sport (like roller derby without the skates and the skimpy outfits, but in heels/sneakers and classy sweater sets/yoga pants). The goal may be to raise a decent, honest kid, but there are so many, many ways that simple plan can be derailed. No one expects half of this effort from fathers, but we all recognize that the success of one's child(ren) is wholly dependent on how intensely the mother pursues every possible opportunity to gain an advantage. Do not be fooled into thinking otherwise.

For example, the husband and I took the Babe for her 9-month checkup and let's just say, we left that appointment feeling like illiterate teenage parents. The doctor suggested that there might be some language delays and it immediately tripped the Hub's inner defensiveness switch, which led us to investigate a variety of services and programs for which we were ultimately deemed ineligible. And that might have been the end of that line of inquiry, except by chance we took advantage of another opportunity that convinced me that we have been seriously slacking!

Of course which is not true, but clearly my job as a stay-at-home-parent is not merely to keep the Babe from killing herself. It is to expose her to any and everything she is missing by not being in day care, which in addition to communicable germs, is pretty much everything. So she goes to play group once a week to see and play with other children. And upon that foundation I began formulating a master plan which is what led to the creation of a massive color-coded wall calendar in my kitchen filled with daily Babe-centric activities and events.

The fact that I am exhausted is irrelevant. The fact that she might be overwhelmed is too bad since she cannot protest, yet. The fact that this is only the beginning and that things will become much more complicated and involved as she gets older is well, LIFE.

When the Parenting Advice You Read on the Internet is Bull$

Again, another post on parenting:

So I was just reading an article someone posted in a parenting group that claims giving kids timeouts is bad--in fact, any form of punishment is bad.

A few weeks ago before we took the Babe on her first plane ride, I bought her one of those bookbag harnesses so that she would not wander too far away from us, just in case. A few days later I read a few articles on why these "baby leashes" are a bad idea. And then there was this segment on the Today Show.

Articles tout the merits of breastfeeding, then lament the pitfalls of doing it on demand. Other articles deride mothers who send their children to day care before six months of age even though most working mothers barely have enough paid leave to stay away from work for more than three weeks. I once read an article that argued whether maternity leave was necessary since mothers have access to breast pumps (covered by insurance, just like those two days spent in the hospital after popping the kid out).

I am sure that I could find an article that encourages parents to leave their children in the backyard to be raised by wild deer, supported by the quotes of so-called experts who would claim that deer have a better track record of raising offspring than human beings. Yep, tell that to the dead fawn carcass you drove by last week...

ALL OF THIS IS BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULL to the S to the H to the I to the capitol letter T to the third power!!!

I have been a parent for a little over one year. My sweet, darling little cherub of a child destroys books, bullies younger children, and has trained her father to let her do whatever she wants. She bites when she get frustrated, laughs when I sign different commands at her, and is generally a certifiable nut case. So all forms of punishment are bad? Cool beans. Inbox me your address and I will gladly send her over for a play date.

Mind you, I am not complaining about my kid. I love her to the moon and back and would not trade her for anything, not even a mild-mannered version covered in chocolate and whipped cream.

But umm, yeah you can kiss my bumper with any advice to reason with a pint-sized master manipulator-manipulatrix. No one is going to raise a perfect child. Our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents raised us just fine without the benefit of all these expert opinions circulating on the internet and most of us are fine. Sure, we have issues that require a little therapy or maybe a lot of Jesus to manage, but so did everyone who came before us.

Bad parenting advice will result in your child being featured as the lead story on the evening news, worse in a chalk outline, or much worse dancing on a pole. Not one of these folks offering opinions on what is best has the slightest clue what you endure on a daily basis from that sweet little maniac in the other room. Remember, these same folks coined the phrased affluenza.

And that is my rant for the day. My break is almost over; the kid will be back soon...

Motherhood Year One: The Birthday Party

It always rains in April.

Even when the weather reports say otherwise. And then it does not rain on the day it was supposed to rain, which ruins your timeline of tasks that need to be completed by the day that it was not supposed to rain. So you shrug and accept the updated weather predictions that the rains will come overnight, and you go to bed hopeful that you can execute your plans the following morning. But the next morning it has not rained and the weather reports have been revised again...the sky is overcast and now the weather readers are saying that the rain is expected to start soon and clear by mid-morning. Except the rain waits until mid morning to start. And not as a sprinkle or even a quick passing shower, but in a steady not-letting-up-anytime-soon kinda way. And then you react because all of your grand plans and ideas have to be rethought to accommodate the rain. (And for the record, it is not a good idea to suggest that I cancel or just get over it.)

Because you had a vision and a dream and then grand plans to make all of  it happen. Your firstborn child--la Princesa, the Diva, the Conqueror, your Mini-me will only have her first birthday party once. And you, her Busy Black Mother, who was born to plan parties (especially parties with a storybook theme), have been planning this fete since you and the Babe finished reading Alice in Wonderland back in January. And that vision included having a Mad Hatter's tea party outside in a yard that would have been decorated to look like Wonderland with activities that were carefully planned to take place in an outdoor Wonderland!

Yes, weather is always an uncertainty. Although this Busy Black Mother was diligent in checking the weather forecasts (which initially did not call for rain), there was an indoor contingency plan...but the execution of that plan was hampered by all the stuff that clutters the parents' house (and all the chaos that goes on there). And then there is Newton-Murphy's Law to the Third Power, which I have not written about in a while, but if you understand the general concept of being a Type-A, chronically over-scheduled Busy Black Mama, then of course EVERYTHING THAT COULD GO WRONG ABSOLUTELY DID!

But, my squad came in and they worked it out. And the Hub only irked me a little. And the Conqueror had a great time, along with the other kiddies.

And yes, the sun finally came out.

Year One

The Babe had a birthday over the weekend and I guess until she is old enough to understand, it was just another day in a white dress at an adult event for her...

We spent the weekend in Atlanta to celebrate Founders Day at Spelman. Almost no one was there, even though it also was the installation weekend for our new president. So the Babe got to run around and play on campus, while her father insisted that Cornell was still an option for her higher education...(silly rabbit).

Anywho, I had intended to write a post in the days leading up to her big day about all the things I learned this first year as a mother. Well, I don't remember everything that I planned to say, but here goes:

1. The first year will go by in a flash. But not until after you've passed that crucial three month mark, because I think that in the first three months I was out of my mind (the kid was too), and then all of a sudden, each month went by rather quickly and before I knew it, I was dressing the Babe in a white dress and watching my Hub crumble into a million pieces because it was so hard for him to believe that his sweet little girl was no longer a baby but a little headstrong child, chasing kids dressed like superheroes through the park.

2. Only other mothers understand your pain. So do yourself a favor and join a group of mothers. If you can find one that services the mothers in your neighborhood. And well, since I have yet to find a group, then go with whatever you can find, even if it is on Facebook and half of the posts are (insert your own assumption here).

3. Never say never. There is a cute commercial with a guy who goes through a list of nevers and then he finally settles on accepting the fact that he is that Dad with two kids and life is actually not that bad. Realize NOW that whatever you said you would never do, you probably will (except maybe something really bad or extreme...but then you might have the odd fantasy #ijs)

4. Wine is your friend. Period.

5. You ARE your mother. Whatever childhood trauma your mother subjected you to, you will repeat on your child in some spectacularly different, yet surprisingly similar way. It will not be apparent until after you have done it and realized, oh my goodness, my mother did/said this exact thing to me when I was (whatever age). It is the real Circle of Life.

6. Your child is a maniac. For whatever unknown reason, s/he will do unexplained crazy things, like eat Cheerios from the floor or carefully discard undesirable snacks in favor of something else (probably Cheerios, because they put something in them that all kids love) and it will only make sense in their own rationalization. Why my daughter prefers her snacks from from the floor, I have no idea, but if I tried serving them from the floor I have a feeling that would not go over too well...

7. Sesame Street is the GOAT. If you don't already know this, SMH.

8. Disney is the devil, but you will make a deal with the Mouse. Just accept that fact. You will begin planning the trip as soon as your child stands too close to the TV during an episode of Doc McStuffins or Sofia the First or Jake and the Neverland Pirates or even one of those really stupid shows aimed for older kids like Jessie or Liv & Maddie. The fact that I know about these shows kinda proves my point (and yes, I am plotting to take the Babe by 2020).

9. Your kid has way too much crap. There are clothes s/he will never wear. There are toys that s/he will never take to. S/he will receive unexpected stuff during this first year that you will struggle to figure out where it should go. S/he will destroy some of this stuff; s/he will ignore half of this stuff. My child now has an extra table and chair set, for example...

10. They are beautiful when they are asleep. But that only lasts for a few hours a day...Buckle UP!

The Mayo on the Sandwich

I took my mother to church on Palm Sunday. And this is not an exaggeration, but I must have told at least 50 people that the Babe was at church with her father, which was met with looks that ranged from disappointment to disbelief. The one notable exception came from a woman who declared with a sigh of understanding, you are the sandwich--between baby and mama. I smiled and led my mother to a seat.

But I am not the sandwich. I am the mayo (or mustard if you are counting calories).

I have read all about the struggles endured by women in my generation, those caught in the middle of being caregivers for older parents while raising children. My own mother faced this same situation some 30+ years ago when my paternal grandparents got ill as I was entering middle school. It was a lot to manage, but we were old enough to help out, which is exactly what I did through my junior year of high school. The Babe is almost a toddler.

For all the cute jokes about how the Babe began walking to make way for the next little one (ha), methinks she realized that she needed to become independent sooner in order to keep me from going insane. She seems to instinctively know that Mommy is all over the place (spread thin like mayo or mustard), despite how helpful as her father tries to be...

I get all kinds of advice from well-meaning folks who suggest that my load would magically lighten if I simply: told others what to do; hired folks to take on certain tasks; adjusted my expectations; etc. All of that sounds great in theory. It would be nice if I could issue edicts that went unquestioned and were fulfilled according to my standards. But that would be akin to assuming that appointments could be made with just a simple phone call or that plastic could get clean without any greasy residue--impossible unless I do it.

This too shall pass and before I know it, the Kid will be old enough to read and appreciate this. Hopefully, she will remember that I did my best...and that the spread does more than just keep the sandwich from being too dry.

Join the Club

I was having a rough day: the Babe was busy and all over the place; the house seemed to look worse than usual; I had not eaten anything since breakfast; nor had I showered or changed clothes. I was feeling lonely and isolated and desperately needed an outlet, so I began searching the internet for playgroups or spaces where I could take the Babe, but also where I might meet and mingle with other women who could relate to my plight.

And I found something promising! But after a few clicks, I learned that there was an undisclosed cost for access, which might not have been a problem except that it seems ridiculous to pay for a class that meets early in the morning across town. So I kept on searching until I found a 'local' playgroup and was excited when someone emailed to acknowledge my interest, and got even more excited when I saw a follow up email this morning...

"Thank you for your interest, but we only serve this side of town. Try somewhere else, loser." (OK not an exact quote, but close enough. At least someone took the time to reject me.)

I might be overreacting, but this happens to me all the damn time. I look for services or activities for myself, my mother and now my daughter, and I encounter the same obstacles. Either I am not poor enough, or I live in the wrong neighborhood.

I told the hub, whose response was merely a shrug and an off-handed comment about not wanting to expose the Babe to such snobbishness, but as usual he missed the point. He has no idea how frustrating it is to feel so alone. All of my friends work. Only a few have children. My mother has dementia. The Babe is almost a year old and her most consistent playmate is me. And on most days, the only person I talk to is her.

Am I mad that the playgroup is restricted or am I jealous of those women on the other side of town? YES and yes. While I am always willing to take the Babe anywhere to leave the house, something tells me that I did NOT need the anxiety of membership amongst the Housewives on the Other Side of Town. There have to be resources and activities in my own neighborhood. Or I will just have to start my own group.

So stay tuned!

The Great Undone List

I love Christmas. I hate Christmas. Thank goodness it is over!

This year, I was excited because this would be the Babe's First Christmas. And I was until I realized that there would be several major things left undone such as the tree that never went up, the cards that were not sent, the newsletter still unwritten, the Santa Claus picture that we never got to take, and the house still a general disaster...

I could keep on going, but I had a revelation while driving to NYC of all the stuff I did just that day (Christmas Eve): wrapped presents, finished some last minute shopping, cooked two pounds of collard greens, mixed a batch of coquito, packed all of the Babe's stuff for the trip, showered and dressed for the family dinner, packed the car, and drove for 4 1/2 hours to NYC (including a 45 minute food stop and another 10 minute pit stop to change the Babe's poopie diaper).

I did not, however, put on any makeup. Nor was the Babe wearing the complete cute Christmas Eve outfit because of the unseasonably warm weather. And we really did not come bearing that many gifts. And I forgot to defrost the duck in the refrigerator for our return. So even when I manage to accomplish so much, I find a way to be disappointed when things are not absolutely perfect.

Thus, one of my resolutions is to give myself a damn break. I will eventually write and mail those thank you notes and I will order the baby announcements before her first birthday. And instead of a family Christmas picture taken in front of our perfectly coiffed tree in an immaculate house with matching cutesy pajamas with our names monogrammed on them...we will make do with whatever picture I have on hand so that the cards can get in the mail before Valentine's Day.

Along with being too self-critical, I need to work on my hyper-sensitivity to veiled criticisms and side digs. Why I give a figgy pudding is beyond me, especially since no one offers to help me prepare for the holiday and only this year did anything begin to matter to a certain person (as if the kid will remember). From now on, I will not lament any forgotten or abandoned Christmas traditions since I can create new ones, such as over-buying gift bags and tape on clearance at the Target.

There is a meme making the rounds on Facebook that urges folks to clap for themselves, and I have decided that not only will I applaud but I might take out a newspaper ad or rent a plane to fly a banner announcing when I've done an outstanding job...or I might just write about it here. The point is that I need give myself credit for being a boss, even when I fall short because when I hit, I am HOT. I am that chick--the Closer, Olivia Pope, Wonder Woman, Claire Huxtable, Queen B, Big Mama or whatever you call the woman who gets it done when it is on the line.

New day, new year, new me. Thank goodness the holidays are over.