To My First Born

July 20, 2009

So, you’re done nursing, have been for years now.

You’re long since said goodbye to diapers and training pants.  No more high chair.

No more kiddie hangers, your clothing fits on regular ones now.

Your car booster was the last bit of little kid paraphernalia to go.  It sits forlornly in the storage room, awaiting the warmth and weight of a younger sibling.  I guess it hit me when I took it out of the car. 

You’re a big kid now.

Daddy

January 3, 2009

I ordered a cabinet and my husband put it together.  He asked our son to “help” him.

My son’s face was a mixture of rapt attention and sheer joy.  That boy loves his father.  His dad let him use the screwdriver, and explained the process as the cabinet came together bit by bit.  My son got to bring him the correct size screw for each part.

These are the moments I am grateful, all over again, for the husband and father that is Mr. Foreverloyal.

Who Loves Ya, Baby?

November 1, 2008

No one could say my baby girl has a self esteem problem.  Every day I ask her, “Who loves the baby?”

She jabs her finger at her chest.

“You love the baby?”

Nodding.

Well, self love is good.  She then goes on to acknowledge that mommy, daddy, her sister and brothers, grandparents, etc. All love her.  But it’s so funny that she always points to herself first.

Hop on Pop

March 4, 2008

hoponpop.jpg  Saturday morning.  Sunshine streams through the windows in the master bedroom.  Mr. Foreverloyal is sleeping in, enjoying some much-needed rest.

Every ten minutes I answer the same question. “Is Daddy awake yet?”  Finally, they get the answer they’ve been waiting to hear.

 Rushing downstairs, they open the door with an unceremonious BANG.  It’s on. It’s like kiddie WWF, little kids jumping and play-punching and cackling with delight.  Mr. Foreverloyal is tickling tummies and kissing toes, dodging elbows and knees, trying not to get hurt.

Moments like that are when I wonder, all over again, how anyone can think that children don’t need their fathers.

spock

I find illogical arguments irritating. 

Some people seem to have the idea that once you marry a white person, your blackness and any attachment you may have to it or to black people magically disappears. 

You can’t express concern over the effects of media images on black children because “your children are biracial.”

You needn’t worry about men d.w.b. (driving while black) because your husband is white.

Suddenly, you just aren’t all that black.

As Spock might say:  illogical.

My skin is the same shade of brown it always was.  My brothers, father, and most of my cousins are still black.  My mom, most of my aunts, uncles–still black.  My children, “mixed” as they may appear, are still part of me and will be seen by many as simply “black”.  And guess what?  Black children grow up to be black men and women, imagine that!

How strange that I would continue to take a personal interest in blackness and black people…NOT!

Of course, oftentimes the ignoramuses that make such comments don’t really believe it themselves.  Especially if they start mouthing off at a social event with alot of other black people.  They’re just trying to make you look bad, trying to alienate you from the group.  Planting little seeds of doubt and seeing if something sprouts.  Something about the choices you have made in your life is making them uncomfortable.  They want to pass a little discomfort back to you.

When you realize the motive it becomes less irritating and more amusing.  Which is good, because I don’t like being irritated.  I’m very comfortable.  My choices have me feeling like I’m wearing silk robes, relaxing on a chaise lounge before a roaring fire on a cold winter evening.  A fleece throw over my knees, and in my hands, a mug of hot apple cider with a cinnamon stick. 

They can keep their discomfort.  Choke on it. Wear it like a hair shirt, whatever.  Because their illogical statements don’t stop this party. 

stopBlog surfing, I came across a post where a desi woman discussed colorism issues in that community.  She spoke of two little girls, sisters.  One is significantly fairer than the other.  The fair one is showered with bangles and other gifts.  The dark one gets… exactly… nothing. Zip.

I remember blogger and romance author Roslyn Holcomb expressing several times that she would not allow people who blatantly express their color issues into her children’s lives.  Not even if they were family.  I have to agree.  If my children’s emotional development is my responsibility, how could I allow them to be damaged like that?  By accepting gifts for one child while allowing the other to be given nothing, that is what those parents are doing.  Even if they tell their children all day everyday that all skintones are beautiful, no one is better because they are fair, blah blah blah, actions speak louder than words.

And their actions are saying:  “Your sister is lighter and therefore more worthy of affection, caring treatment and gifts than you are.”

We have an obligation not to feed our kids that kind of poison.  Such a message is poison from anyone, but is all the more lethal when received from friends and family.  They are closer to our children, and our children naturally crave their affection and approval.  Like Ms. Holcomb, I wouldn’t knowingly allow people to spread their poison to my children.  Those grandparents would shape up, and fast, or they could take their bangles and their trinkets and get out of our lives.