Ten Years to Life

My daughter just celebrated her tenth birthday. I had wanted to write a long dedication in the days leading up to the big leap from single to double digits, but I got all caught up in my feelings. I am ecstatic. I am in disbelief. I am overwhelmed by a list of things to do for this "surprise" birthday party that I'm sure she'll be smart enough to figure out is really happening in spite of what I told her. (That it was cancelled because she got out of line, but how can I be expected to keep that kind of promise in anticipation of this particular birthday???)

And now, when I should be packing for a family trip, I am procrastinating to write about this pending major milestone, because this is a moment that deserves to be preserved and celebrated!

So let's start at the beginning: ten years ago in March 2015, I returned to this blog after a hiatus of two years. The last post I wrote in 2012 was on my 39th birthday. The first post I wrote in 2015 was to announce my pregnancy with just little less than a month remaining. At the time, I was still very unsure and uncertain of what was to come, including the gender of the child I was carrying. That was an intentional choice for reasons that I can only summarize as a delayed delusional denial--I was scared but unwilling to unpack those fears. Not knowing was a way of maintaining control, managing expectations, and like I said, delusional!

You can read between the lines I wrote in the few weeks before the Kid was born, including two pieces that were published hours before I went into labor. I had NO idea. Then the Babe was born, and I got caught up in those sleepless and seemingly endless post-partum days and nights. After a few months, it took more time to find both my motivation and rhythm to write. For example, when I wrote at the end of that year about Mommy-blogging, it was with the explicit intention of avoiding that lane and label. I was ambivalent about identifying myself as a "Mom" in the political sense, because I believed (and still feel) that it was necessary to embody many identities as a woman. 

Before I take you down that road, let's talk about my evolution over the past decade. 

First, let's acknowledge the transition from being pregnant (and still fertile) ten years ago to entering this new season of life called menopause. It is jarring. Literally, just a year ago, I still felt halfway normal, and now I don't. I have weird sleeping patterns, night sweats, and I am perpetually unfocused and cranky. As someone who never dealt with major PMS until after I had a baby, it is unnerving to undergo such drastic changes after so many years of knowing my body and how it worked. Now, I have no idea what to expect from one day to the next. Given my "advanced maternal age" when I finally got pregnant, I knew that I was on Team One and Done, but this change effectively ends the game.

Which brings me to the significance of this past year since the death of my Mom. Because if losing a parent forces a formidable life adjustment, letting go of the ability to have more children has me mourning another substantial loss. And for lack of a better way to describe this, it just feels cosmically unfair. My life isn't over, but this change puts the matter of my mortality on the horizon. I know, referring to menopause as the start of a death march is overly dramatic, but I can't help but to think that I am now counting down as opposed to gearing up. And that sucks.

Especially when your ten-year old is going through puberty. Because it suddenly registers what that all entails.

She's still my baby, but no longer a baby. She's still very much a kid, but she wants to engage in pre-teen things. Soon, that will become teen things, and before long, I will have a young lady making decisions about her future. So while I adjust to my own changes, I have to mentally prepare myself for hers. I know I've joked about that once or twice, but now that the time has come, and we are both in transition I'm not laughing. No, I'm not curled up in a ball, but I am trying to come to terms with this season of growth for her while trying to resist the fatalist tendency to regard this as a season of decline for me.

Ten years ago when my daughter was born, I had a dogwood tree planted in our front yard. I was following the example of my mother who had planted a dogwood tree in the front yard of our family home when we were kids. The tree at my parents' home started off small, but it grew and spread over the course of nearly 40 years to become a focal point of the yard. We took our annual Easter pictures in front of it and continued the tradition with younger cousins and grandchildren. 

Then about three years ago, I noticed that the tree seemed to be struggling, especially in the summers through successive years of drought. Since the tree had been resilient in previous years, we assumed it would recover, as it had each spring. Unfortunately, in the summer of 2023, only half of the leaves came back and one weekend, they all just dried up and died. I initially fretted this was an omen...

I had a tree specialist come by to conduct a post-mortem and we learned that the tree wasn't supposed to have been planted in full sun. It had survived a lot longer than it should have in the wrong location, so it wasn't neglect, but a combination of factors that had killed it. (Incidentally, two dogwood trees planted by a neighbor are also dying under similar conditions.) For a replacement, we opted for a sun-loving cherry blossom and planted another dogwood in a more temperate location. The new trees were planted in November 2023; my Mom passed three months later.

It didn't escape my notice that the cherry blossom tree bloomed the week of her funeral, followed by the new dogwood tree a few weeks later. Instead of regarding the death of that older tree as an omen, I have chosen to interpret my observations of all these trees as messages. The end of one life and the flourishing of another is the how this world turns. As painful as it was to accept that my mother's time was coming to an end, like the dogwood, she had lived a lot longer than expected under unsustainable conditions. Alzheimer's had taken so much from her and us...

I chose to have my daughter and niece read When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou at her funeral. I knew they were too young to grasp the significance, but I knew that it was important for two of her saplings to have a prominent role in saying goodbye. It was important for people to see life flourishing, planted firmly in temperate locations and blossoming. 

Ten years of motherhood. At times it seems surreal to recall that I had a very different life prior to the birth of my daughter. I had different dreams and aspirations. It was by random chance that I ended up on the path toward motherhood after I had determined that it would only happen by some divine intervention...and I guess, that is how I would define the sequence of events I shared in this post. If I didn't believe in miracles before, I sure do now.

It Takes a Village

Nearly 30 years ago, Hillary Clinton wrote a book It Takes a Village (1995), a phrase she borrowed from an African proverb. Because it was an idea being promoted by Hillary Clinton, the most polarizing woman in America at the time, there was partisan derision and a lot of noise about traditional family structures.

So the phrase and the sentiment were written off as a call for government overreach, and per usual, the inherent value of extended and more communal family structures were not celebrated until recently. Apparently, when conservative-minded men realize that it was a good thing that their Mamaws and South Asian mothers-in-law took an active role in raising their grandchildren, they get to take credit for articulating a role for post-menopausal women that no one quite knew how to previously define.

Initially when I saw James David's suggestion about enlisting the assistance of grandparents in childcare, I tweeted from a space of grief and frustration for my own situation. I don't regret sending this out, because it was/is my truth--I didn't get to rely on the support of grandparents in helping to raise my child in her formative years. In fact, due to a combination of factors, my Dad is only just now available to provide some support to us, which we appreciate and definitely do NOT take for granted as a given.

I want to provide some context and offer an expanded analysis of what he suggested by sharing more about my situation as both the beneficiary of grandparents who were very much involved in my upbringing, as well as from the perspective of a parent who did not have able-bodied caregivers at my beck and call. For me, and I suspect for a lot of my peers, this is a very complicated and sensitive issue. And what we need from policy makers, regardless of their politics and regardless of what kinds of family structures they articulate as ideal, is a lot more than suggestions based on nostalgia for a bygone era.

First, some perspective as this topic comes along at an interesting time for me. I hope to write more about this before the end of the year, but obviously, this has already been quite a year. As such, I find myself looking back and reminiscing, particularly on life as it was for me 40 years ago in 1984. That year was pivotal for me in so many ways, and for the purpose of setting the scene for this piece, it was sometime in the fall of that year when my paternal grandparents both developed chronic illnesses: my Grandmother had Parkinson's disease that progressed to a more disabling point and my Grandfather suffered a massive paralyzing stroke. Suddenly, our caregivers needed us to provide support and care for them.

Earlier that year, I graduated from elementary school, so there were already several changes underway for me. I was to start a new school without most of the friends I had known for the past six. The previous summer, our family moved into a new home and my youngest brother was ready to start school. To ensure that they were in school together, both brothers transferred to a closer elementary school. And if memory serves, my Mom was also reassigned to a new school, so everything was in flux. I recall that the school year began with promise, but things quickly unraveled by Thanksgiving.

Because life comes at you fast. 

My paternal grandparents had absolutely been integral caregivers to us in our formative years. Both were retired by the time I was born, so they had time to dote on us. I was enrolled at the elementary school two blocks from where they lived because pre-kindergarten was half day and someone needed to be available once my day was done. At the time, of course I had no idea that was the reason, but looking back I realize the dynamics of having a younger brother, a working mother, and a father who was living out-of-state to complete graduate school meant that we had to be in the care of hired or family help. 

I recall early on that my Grandmother would walk me home from school, but eventually, my Grandfather would park his blue station wagon directly in front of the building every day at 2:45pm to wait for us. It became something of a running joke among the school staff that no one else could park in Old Man Hawkins' spot. After he drove those two blocks, we headed straight to the kitchen where we got dessert for snack (I am not making this up) and it was glorious!

It was the beginning of second grade when the first series of major life changes began. My Dad graduated and moved back to DC; we moved into our own place; and my Mom announced that she was expecting another baby. My Grandmother seemed happy, but I overheard a conversation between my Mom and Aunt about how Grandma had expressed reservations about her ability to care for another baby. Years later I learned the reason was that she had been recently diagnosed with Parkinson's. So when my brother was born, Grandma helped out until he got to the mobility stage, then he went to nursery school. Granddaddy would get two of us from elementary school and then got my youngest brother from a nearby church. On off days, half days, and sick days, we were at Grandma and Granddaddy's house. 

Our maternal grandmother still worked a few days a week, but we also spent a good deal of time with her as part of an even larger extended family. Her house stayed full of extended family, and whenever the three of us were in the mix with the five to six cousins who lived with her, plus two of her grown sons, and a cat--you do the math! Of course, we grew up like siblings, so I recognize and appreciate the communal family concept James David alluded to in suggesting the participation of relatives in providing childcare.

But...and this is where my emotional tweet thread becomes relevant--not all families can rely on that kind of arrangement. A lot of people don't live near their families. For example, the Hub lives 250 miles away from his four siblings and I know plenty of people who come from families that are scattered across the country. Once upon a time, families used to live in closer proximity, but that is no longer a reality to be taken for granted. As you know, I went to college in Atlanta and at least half of my peers stayed down there for school, job opportunities, and the lower cost of living. Here in DC, most of the people I meet are transplants while many of the native-born Washingtonians (and yes, we exist) live throughout the DMV (District, Maryland, and Virginia area...pronounced urreyah). Which could mean that someone still owns and maintains Big Mama's house, but the various grandchildren, nieces and nephews, etc. could live just as many as 250 miles (4 hours) apart.

And as much as I LOVED growing up with all of those cousins, in hindsight that was a LOT on my long-widowed Grandmother! She raised eight children of her own, so perhaps she was used to that level of chaos, but to look back and realize she was in her 70s, and on any given day her home was inundated with half a dozen grandchildren. Now I'm convinced that is one of the main reasons why she worked until she was 80--so that she could get some peace and quiet!

But let's return to the point 40 years ago where my idyllic childhood memories took a dramatic turn. My paternal Grandmother had an operation from which her health never fully rebounded. My Grandfather was caring for her when he had his stroke. My Dad, an only child, had to figure out caregiving for two parents while raising three school-aged children. For a time, he stayed with his parents on the weekends. It was determined that we all needed to live under one roof, so we had an addition built onto our house. My grandparents moved in the year I started high school. 

The reality about depending on family is that circumstances change. What works in one year might not be feasible the next year. Before we moved into our own house, we lived with extended family, but that became unsustainable as everyone got older. Even in ideal situations, life happens and there have to be reasonable alternatives to fill in the gaps. For my parents, it meant needing afterschool care and transportation for my brothers while I became the classic Generation X latchkey kid. 

James David and his incoherent running mate can make off-handed suggestions about childcare costs that minimize the real-life struggles that so many people face because they have advantages that they take for granted. Donald Trump was, at best, an absentee father who never concerned himself with childcare because paying the nanny, the cook, assorted mistresses, while stiffing small business owners is just one of the perks of being a rich asshole. Usha Vance's mother, Lakshmi Chilukuri, took a leave of absence from her job for a year, and then she went back to work. I presume that when their subsequent children were born, the combined proceeds from his book sales, his Silicon Valley earnings, and his wife's law firm salary meant they could afford a nanny. And that's perfect if it worked for them. It's great that his mother-in-law had the kind of job that allowed her to return to it, unlike so many working mothers who barely get three months of unpaid leave. It's great when parents earn decent middle-class wages or higher. 

It's great when everybody lives nearby and stays healthy. My late mother-in-law lived in New York and as much as I would love to believe otherwise, there is no way she could have packed up her entire life to move here to DC. My Mom only got to assist with my Mean Teen Niece for a short time before we noticed things that revealed concerns about her health. The same way Parkinson's caused noticeable issues for my Grandmother, early-onset Alzheimer's had an immediate impact on my Mom. Like his father, my Dad doesn't seem to mind being Grand-Uber to his granddaughters because that's the extent of his childcare duties. 

It's great when every piece comes together seamlessly. Everyone gets along and there are no differing parenting philosophies. Boundaries are healthy and no one oversteps. Cultural differences are manageable and respected. No one is toxic or manipulative or duplicitous. Family gatherings are a lot like this iconic commercial:

Yeah...

For everyone else who lives in the alternative multiverse where monthly day care costs are equal to mortgage payments and relatives do not live close by, the village is where we must look for solutions. That might mean that the local church provides the day care because that is the most affordable option. Your kid might need to depend on the carpool driven by the parent still working from home who can provide drop off and pick up because their hours are more flexible. I read about 24-hour child care centers and on-site day care at certain jobs I think that makes a lot of sense for those parents who work shift jobs like essential health care workers. This notion that we can't afford to pay people living wages or that day care personnel shouldn't have to be certified when we are entrusting our children to their care is offensive. The kind of money we are willing to pay to keep our children distracted entertained as opposed to being educated, or kept alive...

Some of you know how this childcare issue impacted me, since I've written about it from time to time on this blog. I was a stay-at-home mother (SAHM), but not entirely by choice. I was assisting with the care of my Mom when I got pregnant. Even though I was already "working" from home, we added our names to the waiting list for the daycare center at the Hub's job anyway, just in case. Well, after two years (2 YEARS), there was finally an opening. We went in for the tour but balked at the strain it would put on our family budget. In the end, it made more sense for us to maintain the status quo and wait a few months for the Kid to become eligible for PreK-3 (which is universally available in our jurisdiction).

Hint, universal access to early childhood education is a policy solution. Proposing a tax credit for day care expenses is a policy solution. Suggesting that post-menopausal women ought to spend more time baking cookies and planting herb gardens with their grandkids is not a policy solution. Not unless you are willing to offer them paid family leave since many of our seniors still work.

Did I mention the dilemma of being a woman of a certain age who has both child-rearing and elder caregiving responsibilities? If not, I wrote about it a few years ago. And let me tell you that even with my Mom gone, my situation has not changed as much as you might think. My Dad will be 77 on his birthday, and he hasn't lived alone for more than 40 years. If I wasn't around, this man would live off of Jamaican meat patties and Arizona iced tea. At my Mom's funeral, I was cornered by some of his church lady friends who made it clear that they were going to hold me personally responsible if anything happened to him. And the last thing I want to do is piss off a bunch of Black church woman. 

I am not complaining. I am blessed that he is here and, as the old folks say, has a reasonable portion of health and strength. Instead, I will emphasize the fact that I am still amazed and awed by my Mom, who did all of this backwards, in heels, with a full-time job, and with two boisterous sons. But that doesn't take into account that my Mom had the benefit of a village. Once I let go of my Wonder Woman fantasies of her abilities and remembered that she had help, I've been seeing things differently. 

It is important to point out that none of us lives in the center of the village. We have a responsibility to support each other just as we are supported. This is true even when there are non-family members in the midst, because we are probably extensions of their village in some way as well. If we are late picking up our kids from day care, that makes those employees late for whatever it is that they have to do in their second shifts. If we spend most of our involvement with our child's school as adversaries, as opposed to advocates, then the result is a contentious environment that hinders learning. If you are blessed with parents who are able to help, by all means accept it, but know that the situation could easily be reversed with you and your children providing assistance to them. Sometimes that isn't possible, because let's face it, some of y'all took jobs in other parts of the country for reasons other than just the pay...

Instead of talking to economists and podcasters about issues like this, policy-makers need to talk to the people who are on the front lines. Like the working parents who need flexibility and more options. Like the people who own childcare facilities and have to navigate a complex regulatory landscape. Like the private nannies who deserve living wages and benefits. Like the single Dads who might also be working in the gig economy just to afford childcare. Like the women who have to balance elder caregiving and full-time employment. Like those grandparents who, having raised their children, have earned the right to decide how involved they want to be in raising their grandchildren. Talk to the people who actually live in the village.

Age Ain't Nothing But a Number

A lot of people are going to disagree with me on this, but I can deal with that, especially since most of them don't read my blog. But y'all really need to stop talking about people being too old for things. And you need to be careful how you ridicule people about their age. All of us were young once, and if you asked us what we thought about getting older when we were in our teens and early twenties, we had these very idealistic notions of living to 100, but no clue about what would happen between the ages of 40 and 99. Now that many of us find ourselves in that range, trust, we are rethinking and reimagining what "old age" is supposed to look and feel like as the years stack up and whiz by.

As many of you know, I am steadily walking on the road towards 50. God willing and if the creek don't rise (like the old folks used to say when I was younger), I will arrive at that golden shore later this year, and let me tell you...Baybee! While I never assumed I would not live to see this leg of the journey, I didn't see any of the stuff that would line my path. Like I had no idea what it would feel like to lose friends before they reached this same milestone. I had no idea what it would feel like to look back and recall things that happened 40 or more years ago. I have parents in their 70s, and I remember what it was like to have grandparents in their 70s when I was a kid. I have friends with grandchildren. Have we even discussed perimenopause? (As an aside, I am about to re-read and watch the new movie Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret because OMG, I have an eight-year old and it has been 40 years!!!)

I can clearly remember sitting in an elementary school classroom and being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Then I remember the moment when I was in college, sitting alone in Sisters Chapel and how it inspired my personal statement for my law school applications. I remember sitting in a lecture hall where a professor was explaining some arcane legal concept that sounded very much like he was speaking in a foreign language. But it was in that moment when I said to myself, wow you are really here! I was 21 years old then.

And then as if time suddenly sped up in a flash, I just read a FB post about a young man who had been one of my younger brothers' students in high school a few years ago. He just passed the bar! And it all seems surreal that just a few years ago, he was a high school senior escorting a young lady to her debutante ball, and during a break, he was chatting with me while I calmed my months old baby in my arms. I was at his college graduation that took place the weekend of my 25th College Reunion and chatted with him just a year ago about law school. Now that baby I was holding is almost as tall as I am and this young man is about to launch into the world. I tell you this because time waits for no one. YOU will be older sooner than you think in the blink of an eye.  

My issue is not hyper-sensitivity to the ways in which we seem to be at war against aging, because hey, I am in an intense enough battle against going grey. It is the utter disrespect and disregard for the elderly that has become the norm in this society. While I was agitated by statements that were made this past week about the President, my frustration has been building against this intolerance for years. It is beyond sad when compared to how other societies revere their elders, we make tasteless jokes about people forgetting their names and needing to wear adult diapers. Ha Ha, very funny...

Just wait until you become the punchline of that joke. Trust, you won't be laughing.

When the issue was our societal intolerance for children, I chimed in because I have a child and remember what it was like when she was younger, and the world turned a blind yet judgmental eye towards my perceived shortcomings. I was that mother on the plane, and I could share stories of other places where my child's behavior was less than angelic. Turns out, she has some neurodevelopmental processing issues, something I just learned. But nobody had time to show us any grace, except for ONCE at the Target from a cashier who immediately understood. Every other time, people have heaved and sighed or let her run into the street when I had difficulty managing her energy (but we'll address all of that another time).

Instead, let's talk about my experiences on the other end of the spectrum as a caregiver. I have been subjected to similar levels of intolerance when it comes to people's attitudes towards senior citizens. I have had people question why I took advantage of some innocuous perk, such as a discounted movie ticket or meal, and feeling self-conscious (as if my Mom hadn't earned her free drink or popcorn). How the same accommodations that I needed for navigating a stroller in public are even more necessary when pushing a wheelchair, and how people will still act like they don't see you. How this entire debate over providing public unisex family bathrooms is both short-sighted and unnecessarily transphobic.

Admittedly, I take particular and personal offense to the Alzheimer's and cognitive decline jokes made at the President's expense because I live with the reality of both. Y'all think these tasteless elder abuse comments are funny because you disagree with his policies? Meanwhile, on your side of the political spectrum, the front-runner is a caricature of a former wannabe playboy who is only a few years younger. What else suggests that there are discernable differences between the 80 year old man who stutters and the 76 year old man who thinks every woman still wants to sleep with him? 

The assertion by former Ambassador Nikki Haley that Biden is likely to die in the next five years is what prompted this rant. Because take a number lady, you could be dead in five years too! So could I. So could Donald Trump or anybody else for that matter. According to another saying from the old folks, no one knows the day nor the hour...

Let's revisit Haley's real intention in making that statement in a bit, because other people have been taking swipes and it should be unconscionable for this level of disrespect to be tolerated. I mean, why does the Speaker of the House, third in line to the Presidency, get away with making a joke about soft food without someone sending him jars of Gerbers smashed peas to represent the balls he gave up in every round of voting he lost to get that job? (Yep, I think I will do just that when I'm done here). Like really, Sir, you don't even have a fully formed spine the way you bend over backwards to appease people...

But it struck me how this level of disrespect for the elderly isn't typical in other cultures. In a week, all eyes will be on the British again as they set to crown their 74 year old sovereign, a role he inherited upon the death of his 96 year old mother. He will become the oldest monarch to ascend to the throne. Since I don't live in the UK, I can't know if people ever mocked Queen Elizabeth because of her age, but based on the outpouring of global respect that was shown at her passing, that would come across as unseemly. Other cultures demonstrate their reverence for their elders by giving them places of honor by respecting their life experience. In this country, we make jokes about dentures and walkers, while warehousing our elders in nursing homes and waiting for them to die. 

Whether that observation gets written off as a hyperbolic generalization or truth is based on your perspective. What I have witnessed firsthand in these the last 20 years of my adult life is the constant centering of self over everything else. We've become so ruggedly individualistic that we don't care about anyone, except for our pets. I could veer way off topic with examples, but just scroll through social media and take note of how many of these self-care gurus actually have families, let alone people who like them. Theirs were some of the loudest voices against COVID mitigation, those who thought that the risks were acceptable to cull the herd, and if that meant losing grandparents and other elderly relatives, then so be it. To quote their patron saint, Ebenezer Scrooge, "If they would rather die, let them hurry up and do it to decrease the surplus population."

Thus, when I see calls for Senator Dianne Feinstein (D-CA) to resign, yes it rubs me the wrong way. I don't know the state of her health other than the published reports of shingles. I understand that her extended absence brings the work of confirming federal judges to a halt, but the Senate has other constitutional duties to fulfill. And I think that if she has been in some form of cognitive decline since the death of her husband last year, she made the right call in choosing not to run for reelection again next year. However, we don't place age limits on public service, and she is the same age as Senator Chuck Grassley (R-IA), who just won reelection. I was a Hill staffer when the late Senator Strom Thurmond (R-SC) had to be escorted around the Capitol by his staff. Several Senators have continued to serve even as they battle serious heath challenges, and at least two very prominent ones died while in office. Just last year, another veteran Senator in his 80s broke his hip, and I don't recall hearing any impassioned pleas for him to resign before his term ended for the good of the country.

That doesn't mean that people ought to treat these jobs as lifelong entitlements, and I can respect the arguments made in favor of giving younger people a chance. I remember that fateful night in September 2020 when I saw the breaking news that Associate Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg had died. Lots of think pieces were written about her refusal to step aside and how that led to the current ideological leanings of the Court. Hard to say what the future might have looked like, and I'm guessing Ginsberg felt the same way right up to the moment before she died. And that is the actual point here: none of us knows the day or the hour, so as long as we're here, we have the right to give life the very best that we have.

That means we allow Clint Eastwood (92) to continue to direct films, if that's what he wants. If Rita Moreno (91) and Chita Rivera (90) want to stage a dance-off to see who the better Anita was in West Side Story, have at it. And we're not going to prevent Mel Brooks (96) from doing whatever the heck he wants, even if we're not sure that part two will be as funny as the first part he directed 40 years ago. If William Shatner (92) ever gets another chance to really blast off into space, who's going to stop him? Dan Rather (91) is a lot more entertaining now that he isn't sitting behind a news desk. For her 90th birthday, Carol Burnett got a primetime TV special. We should be happy to learn that Jack Nicholson (86) is still living his best life. Weren't y'all just praying for Betty White to live long enough to see her 100th birthday a year ago?

If nobody is the least bit worried about Smokey Robinson (83) or Mick Jagger (80) breaking their hips onstage, why are we convinced that Joe Biden needing a phonetic spelling to help him from mispronouncing someone's name is some doomsday indication of mental frailty? The very idea that the country would be better off with a restored Regime of Donald the Trumpet or under the leadership of a cranky Bernie Sanders (81) versus jolly Joe Biden is...

Which brings me back to the racist fear-mongering of folks like Nikki Haley in her sideways attack of Madame Vice President. This ain't the first time Haley has tried to score points by throwing cheap shots, but this recent tactic of hers proves that she is in dire need of attention. Mad that nobody cares that she's running for President too, she's made the cynical gamble that people are far more afraid of another Black President than they are of losing this democracy to authoritarianism. So what do you think they see when they look at you, Nimarata?

What y'all need to fear, more than Black people running the country again, is Marjorie Taylor Greene or some other loose cannon sycophant being chosen to ride shotgun with the Donald. Because if he is reelected, then that puts the inmates back in charge of the asylum, and they just might succeed in destroying the country this time. 

Furthermore, I don't get why Haley isn't satisfied that she was the catalyst for Don Lemon's ouster from CNN as a sexist jerk. How many others have tried and failed to get him fired and cancelled? Girl, take that victory lap because that is the only decent fight you've picked and won in recent years. (Yeah, I said it--y'all seem to have forgotten how Lemon was famously uninvited to the cookout during the Obama years. Look at who is now past his prime and out of a job at 57?)

Let's begin our conclusion on that particular triumph, because ageism is the one form of discrimination that all of us will face, if we are lucky to live long enough. Everything that you ridicule can possibly become part of your lived reality if you don't screw up and die young. Describing a woman as past her prime isn't the worst thing that a man can say, but if that same man has a history of being an asshole, it can be the cherry on top of the shit sundae he gets served on the day he is forced to clean out his office. You still think dementia jokes are funny when the projection in global diagnoses is expected to triple by 2050? Where will you be in these statistics, one of the millions at risk, or one of their un/der-paid caregivers? Irony would be if one of these unruly toddlers you want to have banned from airplanes grows up to be the person who develops a cure. But karma is more likely: that child will be one of the Certified Nursing Assistants who is emptying your urinal and serving you soft food one day in some nursing home where your self-care centered grandchild will only come by to visit if his brunch plans fall through.

Yep, in 20 years, ANYTHING is possible if you are still here. 

There is a reason why we give out participation certificates and honorable mentions to young children while reserving Lifetime Achievement Awards, Presidential Medals of Freedom, and Kennedy Center Honors to folks over 50. We recognize what people have actually accomplished in their lives instead of what we see as their potential. We can all understand the excitement that comes from being the young phenom, but we respect the wisdom and knowledge that comes with age. We mourn when the lives of young people are cut short due to some tragic, unforeseen circumstances; we celebrate when beloved elders like Harry Belafonte or Cicely Tyson reach the end of a long journey of lives that enriched us so much.

Let our elders live and thrive! If they are still in positions of leadership or otherwise still able to contribute to the world in some way, be smart and patient. Sit with them to learn, be available to assist, and be wise enough to heed their warnings. In the words of an African proverb: The youth can walk faster, but the elder knows the road.  

Adventures in Gen X Nostalgia: Hey You Guys!

Recently, I was in the car when I heard the last few minutes of a segment on NPR that celebrated the classic PBS Kid's show, The Electric Company (1971-1977). As many of you know, I am a PBS Kid all grown up, so it was a fun trip back in time to remember that show. I posted a few clips on the Facebook page, and then of course...

Yep, I fell down a rabbit hole of memories and recollections that I just had to share! In addition to so many fond memories of TEC, I found clips of several other kid shows I grew up with, not all on PBS, but several that definitely shaped my Gen X childhood. Additionally, with quite a few friends preparing to celebrate that golden milestone of having lived for 50 years (and several who have already done so), I thought it would be fun to take you all on a trip back down memory lane to recall several of the shows that helped define our childhood.

First, a few words on the original The Electric Company, since that launched this reminiscence. It was an integral part of the programming block of shows that I watched on PBS as a child (as you know, in between Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood). Too much time has passed for me to remember exactly what time of day or for how many years I watched, but certainly enough to still remember several sketches all of these 40+ years later. We also had this cast album which got played regularly, so I have deeply embedded memories of the theme song as well as many others (listed below). At some point, the show got canceled, but never forgotten, as I am sure many of my peers will attest. 

While I have stronger recollections of that classic PBS trio, there were other kids shows on the network that aired during that same time period. Some I remember better than others, maybe because they only aired on the weekends, which is why I have memories of seeing Zoom (1972-1978), but have no idea what it was about. I did remember the opening song and probably noticed that there were different kids on each episode. The same is true for Villa Alegre (1973-1981), which I thought was called Viva Alegre, so that probably explains why my spanglish is still terrible after all of these years. 

However, one show that I remember well was 3-2-1 Contact (1980-1992). In addition to watching it most days after school, special segments were shown in school during science class. What I find remarkable about the existence of this show is how it promoted STEM long before we called it that--when it was merely learning and emphasizing practical applications of science and math. It imagined the reality of relying on a personal computer for relaying information, a prospect that seemed inconceivable in our analog world of the time. It also had a companion magazine, for which I had a subscription until I graduated from elementary school. In addition, 3-2-1 Contact contained a show within the show about a kid detective agency called The Bloodhound Gang, that solved "crimes" using the scientific method or some concept that had been introduced on the show. Was it just me, but did anyone ever see both parts of those mysteries in succession, or was it like those corny Batman cliffhangers?

Beyond PBS, there were cartoons, but we'll have to reminisce about the kid-friendly ones another time. I am old enough to remember Captain Kangaroo (although not this old), but still older than a mug, according to a friend's recent Facebook post. Bob Keeshan (who donned the coat with the big pockets from 1955-1984) was already a kid show veteran, having been the original Clarabell the Clown on the Howdy Doody Show (1947-1960), the first children's show that our parents watched. I have vague recollections of Romper Room (1953-1994) and the Magic Mirror, but I became a devotee of Sesame Street early on, so neither of those other shows made lasting impressions on me. Nor did Shari Lewis and her ubiquitous sidekick Lambchop, whom I saw as a guest on talk shows and gameshows, not knowing that she had once had her own show and a cult following. 

However, the two non-PBS shows that did make an impression on me were the New Zoo Revue (1972-1977) and the Great Space Coaster (1981-1986). What I recall the most about the NZR were its creepy life-sized furries: Henrietta Hippo, Charlie the Owl, and Freddie the Frog. I feel like everybody should remember the theme song to the GSC (as well as this Family Guy spoof), and Gary Gnu, everybody's favorite gnews reader. But did you also remember the Speed Reader and the La Linea segments as well? And I might be wrong, but I think GSC featured the Carole King and Maurice Sendak Really Rosie (1975) animated shorts, including my all-time favorite, the Story of Pierre. 

Speaking of shows that introduced beloved book characters, we must return to PBS and pay homage to Reading Rainbow (1983-2006), which ranks high on my nostalgia list for a variety of reasons. We revere host LeVar Burton as a national treasure, but that is thanks to his many faithful years of preaching the gospel of reading. I actually saw the premier episode of that show during the summer of 1983, even through I was already older than the target audience. I remember that we watched it together with our Mom and then we spent a great deal of time at the library, always on the hunt for some of the books that had been featured on the show. And for anyone who didn't already know, it was Reading Rainbow that introduced us to Marc Brown's popular Arthur the Aardvark character, before he became the star of his own iconic PBS Kids cartoon (1996-2021). The book, Arthur's Eyes, was read by none other than Bill Cosby.

In the 1970s through the 2000s, Bill Cosby made the rounds on various kid's programs during this era, so we won't ignore or diminish his contributions despite his current persona non grata status. He was part of the original cast of The Electric Company,  he appeared on Sesame Street, and he hosted a segment on Captain Kangaroo. He also created the iconic Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids (1972-1985) cartoon show during this era, which was a staple on Saturday mornings for years. Although we will revisit some of the other great cartoons of our youth at another time, Fat Albert deserves mention along with Little Bill (2000-2004), another Cosby creation that sought to impart moral messages on values and education. with the same objectives. This was why so many of us who grew up with this image of him as America's Dad and life-long education advocate found the revelations about his personal life so dissonant and perfidious.

Of course now at our age, we know better than to conflate the persona with the actor; yet, we also know that the revelation of certain human foibles and faults can be disastrous. Infamously, comedian Paul Reubens, who created the character Pee-Wee Herman and later the TV show Pee Wee's Playhouse (1986-1990), was arrested for indecent exposure in 1991. By that time that happened, I was in college and definitely old enough to understand the concept of separating one's personal life from one's work, but I can only imagine the dilemma that created for parents of younger children. Kids don't necessarily see these characters as performers, but as real people. And adults want to believe that the people who bring these beloved characters to life are as kind and good as their alter egos. 

Ironically, one of the objectives of children's television programming in our day was to teach concepts that might have been challenging for adults to explain. While the most notable example of that was the explanation of death on Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers's Neighborhood (1968-2001) dealt with emotions and feelings from the outset. His show tackled real issues such as divorce, the birth of a new sibling, moving, taking care of pets, and understanding physical abilities. Often mocked for its absurdity, his Neighborhood of Make Believe helped to reinforce the magic of imagination. I still remember when I finally understood why Mr. Rogers never appeared on the other side of the tunnel...

Once that made sense (and as I got older), it was easier to separate fact from fantasy when seeing the actors on adult shows or in commercials. I remember when I saw Lee Chamberlin on other shows and Judy Graubart in commercials. Later I realized how significant these shows had been for actors in the early or transition stages of their careers, particularly for adults like Morgan Freeman, Rita Moreno, and Alaina Reed to half of the performers who appeared on Kids Incorporated (1983-1994). 

Of course, there are a slew of iconic kid shows from the 80s and 90s that I don't remember for various reasons. Fraggle Rock (1983-1987) tops the list because it aired on HBO. The Elephant Show (1984-1989) must have also aired on cable because I only learned about it's existence when as a Toddlersaurus, my daughter became obsessed with the Skidamarink song. I was in high school when Pee Wee's Playhouse aired which explains why I missed the revelation that Laurence Fishburne was the jheri curl cowboy. A friend recently posted about introducing her daughter to Zoobilee Zoo (1986-87), another show I missed by a few years. By the time shows like Barney & Friends (1992-2010) and Blue's Clues (1996-2006) were popular, my kid show watching days were over unless I was babysitting younger cousins, nieces, or nephews.

Thanks to these past few years with my Babe/Toddlersaurus/Kid, I've become reacquainted with several of my old favorites from childhood as well as the current incarnations of those same shows. Sesame Street, which celebrated its 50th Anniversary in 2019 remains the gold standard, even with the format and cast changes since 2015. Although Mr. Rogers has been in syndication since it finished its original run 20 years ago, its animated reboot Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood (2012- ), is a favorite among this generation. The revived Electric Company (2009-2011) had already been canceled by the time it entered our rotation of must-see TV, but we watched the reruns on HBO until it got moved to the streaming platform last year.

The rebooted EC had potential but it only lasted two seasons. It brought back some of the iconic segments from the original show such as the word blends in silhouette and it updated the teaching component with modern musical numbers (like this high energy Silent E). For a while, they even brought back Paul the Gorilla. Their Music Man segments might have been intended as a nod to Easy Reader. Instead of a sketch comedy variety show, the format of the new show followed the classic Sesame Street model with a continuous storyline involving the core cast. After watching a few cycles of it in reruns, and despite an all-star roster of guest artists including Ne-Yo, Wyclef Jean, Good Charlotte, and LL Cool J, it could not recreate the magic of the original. The new EC might have worked better if the cast had been given more interesting storylines, if there had been more memorable songs, and well...let's just say that not even the brilliant Lin-Manuel Miranda could save the show from being corny and dull. 

Now corny is expected in the realm of children's programming, but dull is a mortal sin. Kid shows have a limited amount of time smaller window to catch on because there are a lot more options than when we were growing up. With multiple channels and entire networks dedicated to providing children's entertainment, that means an abundance of distraction, sensory overload, mediocrity, and less emphasis on educational content. In my biased opinion, the better quality shows are still on public television, an observation that makes sense since I grew up without cable. As a parent, I am more familiar and trusting of PBS to support my child's education; yet, I have noted that in order to remain competitive with the cable offerings, their content has had to adapt. Instead of one show like Sesame Street or Electric Company to teach kids reading, phonics, spelling and math, now there might be six. And with shows airing all day and on-demand, new programs can run their course within a few months. 

Repetition is why I can still remember my favorite songs from the original Electric Company some 40+ years later, but that was from watching the show over a span of years, not weeks. The segments were shuffled and recycled constantly, just like School House Rock (1973-1984) which aired on Saturday mornings. We didn't grow tired of those shows, we just grew out of them as we got older, but the lessons never left us. That is a topic for another day as the time has come to bring this episode of Adventures in Gen X Nostalgia to a close. I hope this piece rekindled some great memories...as you can tell, I've got enough  to keep this going at least until my 50th Birthday!

In the meantime, here is a Top 20 countdown of some my favorite songs and skits from the classic Electric Company (including a few that were not featured on the Facebook page). There were several skits I was unable to find individually, so you might want to check out this full episode or one of the compilation clip shows for some of your favorite characters like Jennifer of the Jungle, Fargo North Decoder, and J. Arthur Crank:

1. Original Theme and Closing (season 1)
2. Opening (season 6)
3. Silent E (animated song)
4. There's A Hole In the Bottom of the Sea (song/skit)
5. T-I-O-N (animated song)
6. Street Sign Song #1 (Home Sweet Home) and Sign Song #2 (I Love You)
7. Whimper and Whine (Short Circus skit)
8. Punctuation (song/skit with the Short Circus)
9. Easy Reader (theme and skit)
10. Spiderman (theme and skit)
11. Word Blend (Ch-sound)
12. That's Not the Note! (skit)
13. Otto the Director (skit)
14. Adventures of Letterman (animated segment "Small Talk")
15. Rob/Robe (skit)
16. Lick-a-Lolly (song/skit)
17. Phantom of Love w/Phyllis and the Pharoahs (song)
18. D Song (song with Short Circus)
19. March Cha Cha Cha (skit)
20. That's All (finale)

Trust My Instincts

I have been a mother for three years, four months, and a few days. I carried this child to full term, within a day of the predicted due date, and I was aware from the very beginning that she was going to be unpredictable. Beginning with her insistence not to appear on the sonogram, I learned right away that this child has her own mind. My job is to try to stay at least a step and a half ahead of her.

So when I say something about this child, I KNOW what I mean and I mean what I say. When I said that she would grow and thrive on breastfeeding, note that she is the tallest three year old anyone has ever seen. When I offer instructions on how her hair is to be washed, it is based on a specific routine that I have developed (in consultation with my stylist). When I say that I will take care of a cleaning task made necessary by something she has done or left behind, it is because I intend to actually wash/disinfect/sterilize the situation, and not just make do with whatever hastiness can render it out of sight and out of mind for the moment. When I say that she is fully capable of doing a particular task, there is no need for second-guessing because I have probably seen her do it, or I have enough sense to recognize her abilities. When I roll my eyes during one of her performances for your benefit, believe me, she is ready for her closeup Mr. DeMille. When I tell you that she is probably some kind of genius savant, YOU NEED TO BELIEVE ME.

Don't simply trust me because I am a mother and mothers tend to be right about these things. Trust me because I am her mother.

The Hub and I have been locked in a War of Wills for these past three years, four months, and several days because he still refuses to accept that I am right most of the time. This will be his undoing; he won't believe me until she is a sassy thirteen year old giving him the attitude of a sixteen year old who thinks that she is a smart and street savvy eighteen year old. And God willing, I plan to sit there to bear witness to this showdown with a full box of wine.

Because I saw this movie back when I was the star. Not that this is a repeat of my childhood, but let's just say it is a remake--a new Ghostbusters with women.

As I write this, we find ourselves in a this-child-needs-to-be-potty-trained-in-two-weeks panic mode because she starts school at the end of the month. And she is going because I say so. I am ready for her to go and she is ready to go and she's eligible to go and that's all there is to say about it. The fact that she refuses to tell us when she has to go potty is irrelevant. The fact that she has pooped through an entire pack of panties and a couple pairs of leggings that her day camp threw away is irrelevant. The fact that she has watched that Sesame Street Elmo's Potty Time video over and over and can sing the Daniel Tiger When You Have To Go Potty song and can sing both of the potty songs that I made up for her and STILL DOES NOT USE THE TOILET is irrelevant.

So yes, I am blown because when I began the process last year, somebody was concerned that it was too soon. Somebody got really upset that she broke out in a rash, and insisted that we abandon the effort. Somebody got flustered and decided that it would be easier to let her wear pull-ups. Somebody gave up on the potty watch because the battery died within three days. Somebody expected me to read a book about potty training, when I have barely been able to finish a magazine these last three years, let alone a novel. Somebody assumed that the expensive day camp would handle the bulk of the potty training, so this should already be done.

Yes my friends, the person who made all of those tactical missteps is me. I should have trusted my instincts. At every crucial juncture where there has been an important developmental milestone to be met, I have faced the mountain and climbed, and this is no different. So I went to Target and bought three bulk packs of panties, a mattress cover, some disinfectant wipes, a gallon of bleach, disposable pee pads, two boxes of stickers, and later I will head to the Costco for more supplies.

Alright Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my closeup.

Marching For The Children

We marched for the children in New York City on Saturday (because the Hub had an event), so here is a brief retelling of our umm, misadventures in long-distance activism:

Our day started slow because I had some writing to finish and we were distracted by all manner of stuff: the coffee maker that only displayed its instructions in French; this weird ROKU thing on the television; and just being parents to a kid who was really excited about being in a different place (and who insisted on taking two dolls with her, just because). At 11am, right when the Rally was set to start, we were finally about ready to leave, but it was well after noon by the time we even got close to the rallying point. We hailed an Uber/Lyft, hit traffic, got diverted, and had to walk several blocks to West 72nd where we were then directed to walk back uptown to West 86th. This was the essence of our "march" since by the time we got there, the Hub suggested that we needed to pause to get a sense of the crowd. Which lasted exactly ten minutes before the Toddlersaurus began to meltdown due to hunger, so we decided to take a quick lunch break around the corner. Alas, we picked the absolute wrong place--it took nearly 90 minutes for them to serve us a handful of chips and a tablespoon of guacamole as a mea culpa for having us wait another 30 minutes for our order of tacos, wings, and noodles. By the time we made it back to Central Park, this was what we found:

And that idyllic scene is what inspired this mini-piece on the Facebook page that you can read here--a quasi-contemporaneous perspective on the day's events.

Now that I've had a chance to digest some of the news coverage I gleaned from a random ROKU stream and Twitter, I wanted to add my voice to counter the asinine responses of folks who still think this is all part of some vast left-wing conspiracy. Because we already know that some of you love your guns as much as you love your comfort animals (more than actual people)--but blanket snarky assumptions are exactly why this issue is so divisive, so I am going to start by stressing my belief that reasonable people on both sides of this issue can disagree.

And the fact that we disagree does not mean that you don't care about the life of my child or that I don't have respect for your constitutional rights. It means that we have a difference of opinion. So I find it appalling that grown ass adults have taken to social media to ridicule, chide, and attack young people for expressing their views. It is especially offensive that these attacks have followed a typical strain of mean-spirited trolling that is more personal and petty than substantive.

Some of you hate Planned Parenthood with the same vehemence that some of us hate the National Rifle Association. Depending on your political leanings, one of those organizations has nefarious intentions that threaten the sanctity of life. So tell me the difference between the busloads of teenagers that descend on DC every January to March for Life and the gathering last weekend...

How did we get to this place as a country where sympathy is reserved for only certain victims (wait, why am I even asking that question in a #BlackLivesMatter/#MeToo world)? So allow me to rephrase: why are we still thinking and praying about possible solutions when people are vulnerable everywhere--at their church, at an outdoor concert, a gay nightclub, meeting with a Congresswoman, at the movies, at an early morning softball practice, on a military base, at McDonald's, at the playground, walking back from a convenience store, hanging out with friends, after volunteering at a civil rights protest, leaving a speaking engagement, playing the organ at church, standing in the doorway of an apartment building, working late in the studio, standing on a hotel balcony, or in their classrooms hovering in the coat closet. HOW MANY MORE EXAMPLES DO YOU NEED?

I was a congressional staffer when the shooting occurred at Columbine High School. We were in the midst of negotiating a juvenile justice bill, with strong opinions on both sides of how to deal with issues such as sentencing and prevention programs. Then-President Bill Clinton asked Congress to consider gun control legislation as a part of the package of reforms and I learned first-hand about the lobbying power of organizations like the National Rifle Association. I won't demonize them because it was their job to advocate on behalf of their constituency, but I will say that they are a Goliath with bipartisan appeal.

I could be cynical and end this piece with a sigh of despair by reflecting on how my own youthful idealism was dashed 19 years ago when I witnessed those congressional gun control debates after Columbine. I took this picture of my daughter on Saturday, right before we left the scene of the March (and apparently missed seeing Paul McCartney). She is why I will always be willing to zigzag the streets of New York or the halls of Congress or wherever I need to be in order to advocate against gun violence. This country has mourned the loss of too many children to senseless violence that we can prevent by confronting the notion that we dare not control access to the tools of their demise. So I end this with an adorable photo of my Toddlersaurus to remind the world that nothing is more precious than the lives of our children. We march for their lives.

Baby Fever

For the record, and I am serious, I am not interested in having another baby. I am firmly in the one and done camp. Unlike my parents and everyone else who made conscious choices when spacing their kids, I'm good.

But I am a bit nostalgic for that baby I once held in my arms who is now an opinionated toddler who can wriggle away and potentially injure me in the process. A loud and dramatic toddler. A vocal and emotional toddler. A two year old adorable terror who will be three in a month.

As a stay at home mother, I have literally watched this child grow and change every single day of her life. I haven't missed more than a few hours here and there of her development. I was there when she rolled over, when she sat up for the first time, and when she took her first steady steps across a room. I have watched her learn to climb up the stairs and taught her how to slide down each step, one at a time, on her bottom. Now she regularly charges up and down without holding onto the railing, and often laden with toys. Quick flashback: I clearly remember the day I watched in powerless horror when she tumbled down each step at my parents' home--an experience that apparently made no imprint on her as she was gleefully running around the house just fifteen minutes later as if she had just gone down a sliding board at the playground.

I miss my baby girl, but because I have watched her grow before my eyes, I am also ready for her to mature into whatever phase we're supposed to be in at this point. She has mastered the use of the word "no" and she knows when to say "please" with the right amount of fake sincerity. She can sing along with her favorite tunes and knows how to find them on my tablet. (And when I first began work on this piece on an unseasonably warm February afternoon, she was busy squishing ants, which I believe is a childhood rite of passage.)

But missing that baby isn't enough to compel me to take the plunge again. Not at all. Nor is cooing over all the pictures of the adorable little cherubs of my friends and acquaintances that over-populate my FB timeline. So to answer the inquiry posed by so many about the arrival of my next baby...and to emphasize my declaration from the second sentence of this piece, I AM DONE.

For starters, I am 44 years old. God willing, I will be in my 60s by the time this child will be halfway out of the house. Second, I am so over tantrums. I repeat, I AM SO OVER TANTRUMS over the dumb isht that gets her upset. This morning it was about getting dressed. This afternoon it was after we had gone to the bathroom at the Costco. This evening it was because I wouldn't buy her some cheap Minnie Mouse plushie to go with the one she already has. Third, I don't want to tempt fate by assuming that I will have another drama-free pregnancy. Especially since I am convinced the price for that easy pregnancy was the longest and most annoying post-partum recovery (and I'm not entirely sure how much of that was just old age). Finally, I need to reclaim my time. I need to build my empire. I need to be me, and not just the Mom to that child who won't wear her coat in the cold or who likes to collapse in the middle of the floor for no good reason or who likes to dance to any kind of music whenever she has an audience.

I love this child with my whole heart. I think most mothers agree that there is nothing that compares to the love for one's child/ren because there is nothing that prepares you for the way your entire being evolves. Everything changes--from the way you remember your life before to the way that you see your life ahead. And I respect that for many people, they want to multiply those feelings by having several children. Perhaps I would have felt differently a decade ago (and admittedly, I did).

A decade ago, I had a different life...one that never envisioned the roller coaster that I've been riding for the past (nearly) three years. Without her, the life ahead of me didn't promise to be nearly as stimulating. I love children, and once upon a time I saw myself with the American ideal: two children, a dual career couple, healthy and involved grandparents, and a clean house. Sometimes our dreams change. I'm okay with a roof over my head, one occasionally attentive grandparent, the Hub's good government job, and one very spirited headstrong girl whom I hope will take over my empire one day.

Black Unicorn

I am going to start calling myself a black unicorn because I am the only black stay at home mother I know. I am the only stay at home mother I know.

Instead of launching into a description of my most recent day from hell (because how interesting and typical would that be), I thought that I would acknowledge the fact that these especially hellish days give me some interesting anecdotes to share. It's as if I have a personal muse who thinks that an insane Charlie Foxtrot kind of day is great material instead of the bane of my freaking existence.

My day began to spiral downhill as I sat across the room from the judgmental corps of ballet moms who never seem to be able to speak to me even though they see me every blessed week. And today would have been another typical day of them treating me like an eyesore, but then something interesting happened...two of the new mothers (with brown children) came over to speak. As if they implicitly understood how I feel by the end of every class.

Telling the Hub about their micro-aggressive behavior is pointless. His suggestion is to let him take the kid to class so that the mean moms can ignore him instead of me...

Being a black unicorn means that people regard you with skepticism because your kid doesn't go to day care. And you feel useless because you once had your own name that didn't end in the word Mom. Or you feel inadequate because not working looks like the real problem might be your inability to multitask since everybody else seems to manage a job. But of course you know that isn't true because your plate includes caregiving. And being that friend who always shows up. Or that sister who takes up the slack so that everyone else can live their lives without feeling any additional pressure.

Being a black unicorn is to know that no one is paying to see you attempt to jump through fiery hoops and end up with your tail singed. If you are going out in a blaze of glory, it had better be because you exploded in a hailstorm of gold glitter, diamonds, and bitcoins.

Being a black unicorn means that you expect to draw attention to yourself, or stated differently, you don't expect that you can just fade into the wallpaper. You stand out all of the time, so you've learned to work with it. Yet, you are an introvert so it takes a lot of energy to show up. And you're always late.

Being a black unicorn is taking a chance on yourself, even if you have to do so by yourself. It is recognizing that the constant doubt, anxiety, and lack of confidence are just accessories. You can take off anything that makes you too self-conscious. You can blend in the makeup so that it looks more natural. With practice, your performance will be better than you thought it would be. And then again, maybe it won't come together so you will just try something else the next time. You always try; you are persistent.

Being a black unicorn means that you are an eternal optimist, in spite of everything. Your daughter will grow out of those annoying collapsing tantrums or she will learn that you will leave her splayed out in the middle of the floor. You are strong enough to haul tons of emotional and physical loads that others have deemed unwieldy. You are that friend, that sister, that chick who can, so that's why you don't work for someone else--you are too busy building your empire. You and your black unicorn filly intimidate those ballet moms, those playground moms, those library moms, and those moms who wear yoga clothes all day.

So tonight you're sharpening your horn because tomorrow is another day.

Just Another Crappy Day

(I've had writer's block for more than a week, so this might finally be the first of several completed pieces I post over the next few hours.)

I agreed to give a friend a ride to Baltimore on Friday. He offered to take the train to my neighborhood, which would save me an unnecessary trip into downtown and would help to expedite our departure from the city. All I needed to do was to get ready and wait for his call.

Which I did, but of course as soon as I got myself showered and dressed, I received a strange call from a doctor's office about another friend. She's listed me as one of her emergency contacts, so I had to check in with her to make sure that everything was okay. Minor delay, but I kept things moving. At the appointed meeting time when I expected to hear from my other friend, there was nothing, so I decided to get a few additional things ready for our departure (the kid was coming along for the ride). Because the Hub was working from home I assumed that he could help...and he did help the Toddlersaurus into her fleece while I ran around to get everything else done.

In the meantime, my friend arrives at the station. The mailman is extending holiday greetings and noting how much the kid looks just like me. The Hub isn't wearing any shoes so I have to pack the kid and all of our extraneous stuff into the car. I am now 20 minutes late (of course, he was 20 minutes late first, but that is a minor point). He needs to be in Baltimore in 20 minutes. It takes that long to reach the Parkway. At some point during our ride, I detect a faint odor, but there is nothing I can do about it until we reached our destination.

Another friend calls while we are en route, and knowing that she will need something, I let her call go to voicemail. I deliver my mercurial friend to his appointment 45 minutes late. Just as we pull up to the front door, there is an ominous, yet familiar sound that vibrates the entire car from the back seat. Both of us turn to look at the Toddlersaurus in acknowledgement.

Busy Black Women plan ahead. So there is a change of clothes, extra diapers and wipes, and a puffy winter coat all in the backseat of the car. We are at a hotel, and I find a convenient parking spot in the adjacent alley. But I misjudge the severity of the situation and leave everything but an extra pair of pants and an extra diaper in the car. And to make matters worse, I also leave my ginormous Mom bag behind, so all I carry inside with me is the diaper clutch.

The concierge directs us to the Ladies Room and as soon as we got inside, it is clear that I am ill-prepared. The kid is covered in shit. She is essentially baptized in shit that has permeated three layers of clothing. Shit that didn't even smell, but still, torso to toes SHIT. And while you might think it was lucky that I brought in that extra pair of pants and that extra diaper, well that it was dumb luck since the wipes in her diaper clutch WERE FROZEN! And did I mention that she shit through THREE LAYERS of clothing down to her socks?

Busy Black Women are crisis managers, so with all of my backup supplies in the car; with my friend in the next room full of strangers presiding over a wedding rehearsal that started an hour late; and with a naked kid half covered in shit, I concoct a plan. There are plenty of paper towels on the counter and the water from the sink isn't too cold. The wipes thaw enough under the running water from the faucet for me to wipe the shit from her sensitive areas. She is wearing a clean diaper, a pair of clean pants, and a fleece that can suffice for a quick trip back to the car to deposit the shitty clothes and swap out for the clean extras and another pack of wipes. And we can do this before the car gets ticketed and/or towed (private lot) in fifteen minutes, tops...

Make that 20 minutes after the hotel maid, a couple of guests, and the concierge all poke their heads into the bathroom to inquire about the Toddlersaurus' inconsolable cries. After she refuses to let me open her diaper for a more thorough cleaning. After she collapses to the restroom floor in an unbuttoned onesie, refusing to put on any additional clothes. So I did what any other Busy Black Woman would do in this situation--I drag her half-dressed screaming ass out of the hotel. Damn if I get ticketed/towed because this child insists that she doesn't need to wear anything other than her fleece, an unbuttoned onesie, and a pair of $5 yoga pants from J.C. Penny's in below-freezing weather in fucking Baltimore!

Of course back in the car, Princess Poopsie is all calm while eating her snacks and listening to her Daniel Tiger music. So I return the call of the friend who had called and texted and called me during the bathroom ordeal. She has texted a request for my assistance with something for next week. Then my Dad calls to check in and to make his weekly request that I move heaven and earth, when I find the time. And since I always get turned around when trying to leave Baltimore, I'm hoping that another long drive will put the kid to sleep. It doesn't until four hours later.

Moral to the story: I agree to do shit, but other shit comes up. Shit intervenes and causes delays. Messy shit permeates everything. Shit is complicated, unexpected, and inevitable. Shit never goes according to plan. Shit happens.