So, this past Saturday, we loaded up the car and spent some time at the beach with the a colleague of DH and his family. DH realized that he hadn’t been to this particular beach since 1995. After a more thoughtful introspection, DH decided he’d spent more time on foreign beaches since being married to me, than on US beaches. *Ahhh, stick with me kid, I’ll show you the world*
Last Saturday, I took Mo to visit a dance studio where she will taking ballet lesson. I told her that we were only going to watch, we weren’t going to dance. That is the equivalent of welcoming a mosquito to a BBQ full of pregnant women and saying, “We’re only going to watch. We’re not going to bite.” It ain’t happening. Suffice it to say, the studio was busy that day and the instructor graciously took us to observe a class. Mo promptly decided to that it was time to do her stuff and I don’t mean plie, porte-de-bras or eschappe. With a tight smile, I remove my reluctant, boneless dancer and we have a come to Jesus meeting in the ladies room. That settled, we rejoin the instructor and discuss ballet slippers, tuition and tu-tus. Mo, ever so often, busts out with an “I want my dance outfit” to which both the instructor and I explain that ballet slippers and tights are part of the outfit. Overall, things are going well, Mo has her bag with her tights, slippers and tap ties in it, which she promptly throws to the ground.
Mo: I want my dance outfit
Me: Mo, that’s not how we treat our things. Pick up your bag please.
Mo: No thank you.
Me: Mo. Look at me — no, look me in my eye. Pick up your bag, please.
Mo: No thank you.
Me: (embarrassment rising as the entire room of parents is now watching this scene unfold) I am going to count to three and you will pick up the bag.
Mo: (silence)
Me: One
Mo: (silence)
Me: Two
Mo: (silence)
Me: Three
Mo: (nothing)
Me: Mo. this is not a choice. Pick. Up. Your. Bag. Please.
Mo: No. Thank. You.
Awwwww, hayle! Inside, I was apoplectic, but on the outside, I was cool. I told her to sit down in the waiting area until I was finished. You would have thought I poked her eyes out the way she carried on. In my head, I was dying of embarrassment and not just because the other parents were clucking softly to themselves, but because I actually haggled with a two year old for about 5 minutes with less than optimal results. The kicker is, both the instructor and the parents lauded me on my parenting skills! Words like, “well behaved”, “so bright”, “engaging”, “smart” were being used to describe Mo, who is sitting in that plastic chair sniveling, and muttering under her breath, “I want my dance outfit.” Some of the parents were bold enough to say, “I could never talk to my kid like that. She’d be kicking and screaming.” One told me that I was doing a great job as a parent. I almost passed out. I know, gentle reader, that this little episode is tame. She wasn’t doing a full tilt tantrum compete with bonelessness, screaming, kicking, biting, and general mayhem. But the frustration I felt was on the same level as if she had.
I’ve been feeling like I have no handle on Mo, that all of my attention lavished on her rolls right off. And while I know the opposite to be true, more often than not, I feel like I am totally failing her as a mother. Yes, she is smart. Yes, she speaks well, but I don’t take credit for that, and I’m not trying to be modest. I believe that nature is usurping nurture. My mom, in valiant efforts to assuage my frivolous concerns, went so far as to even ask Mo herself if I was nurturing. “No.” she says, from her place in the dollhouse where the Daddy is in the kitchen, the baby is in the rocking chair and the Mommy is in the bathroom, with her head in the toilet and her feet in the air. Thanks.
As a result of these and other flap ups, I’ve been praying quite a bit. I pray for patience, for the ability to be the mother that my girls need and that they deserve. I pray for guidance. I pray for patience with myself to recognize that they are only little people and that my expectations of should be commensurate with their age. Mostly, I pray to God that He would keep His hand on my shoulder and guide me in the right direction. I’m not asking for big-hit-me-on-the-head- signs, but a little gentle nudge would be great.
Mo and I had a pre-nap snafu the other day. Co was already asleep, and I wanted Mo to nap; she didn’t want to — that about sums it up. I felt myself getting angry and frustrated that I was trying to negotiate with a 2 year old about the merits of a nap. So, I said, “I’m the Mommy and I say it’s nap time,” and promptly plunked her buns in the the bed, wheeled around and shut the door before she could issue forth with her favorite rejoinder, “We don’t say ‘no’, we say ‘yes’!”
I sat down to check my email and just had to stop because I was feeling so, so, defeated. What am I doing wrong? So, I just prayed, right there in front of the computer. I asked for that guiding hand, for me to realize that I’m on the right track and if I’m not that I’ll be steered back there. I took a deep, cleansing breath, and then, finished checking my mail. There was a message in my inbox called Invisible Mother about a mom who felt completely invisible to everyone. She went on to write about how she was wondering how things had gotten to where she was only seen as a chauffeur,cook, secretary, and so on, when another, more well traveled friend presented her with a book about the great cathedrals of Europe. She realized, upon reading the book that the connection between herself and those who built the the great cathedrals was a powerful one. For you see, there is no record of who built the great cathedrals. The builders devoted their entire lives to a work that they never saw through to completion. They received no credit for their choices except that in the eyes of God. In her story, she writes, “I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you, Charlotte, I see the sacrifices you make ever y day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.”
And I read that paragraph again and again. And again. God sees me. He sees the work that I’m doing and when I miss my mark on the blueprints, He points me back to the right way. I get it now. I get it. This is the guidance that I was looking for, that as a mother, I have to keep perspective on child-rearing and on my own aptitude as a mom. My children are loved, healthy, fed, clothed, and thriving. Like the builders, I am laying foundations for something great. Of course, bricks and mortar don’t talk back, but let’s not lose focus here. Apparently because of the magnitude of the sacrifice needed to build a cathedral, this author goes on to mention, the likelihood of a cathedral being built in our lifetime is nil. Through the sacrifices a mother makes, consciously or unconsciously, she is constructing something phenomenal.
This may be a little TMI, but I feel that I owe it to women (and a few metro-sexuals out there) to add to the list of Do’s and Don’ts regarding personal hygenie, care and the assorted “yard maintenance” that comes along with it. If you can’t figure out what I’m talking about when I say “yard maintenance”, get yourself a best friend, pronto. Bottomline is, when it comes to getting appointments at the spa, never, never, never, EVER take the last appointment of the day.
Well, I finally finagled a babysitter and an appointment at the local spa for a brow wax and some other touch-ups. Problem was, it was the last appointment of the day because that’s when the sitter was free. Seriously, now that Yia-Yia and Pop-Pop are retired, it’s not like they have stuff to do. Why she couldn’t come before 6:30 is beyond me. I digress. The sitter arrives, I kiss the girls and am out the door, off to the spa.
After I sign up and march on up to the waiting room, I make myself cozy with some filtered lemon water from their refreshment bar. I spy various Tazo tea bags and other goodies, like some Apple Cinnamon NutriGrain bars and figure, “Hey, they’re keeping me waiting,” and filch a few (two).
My aesthetician comes in, greets me and beckons me to follow her into her room where she promptly demands that I drop trou and wrangle myself into some disposable underpants that she has left on the waxing table. She steps out of the room and I proceed to peel the plastic wrap off of these so called underpants. Can we say that calling it two tissues laced over a rubber band would be a more accurate description? Oh, and ol’ girl said that I should lie down, face up, facing the door. God forbid someone burst into the room — Hello!
Fast forward to the waxing process. I’m trying to be social, cause that’s what I do when I’m nervous and some hot wax is headed toward my skin, and I say to the waxer, “I appreciate you squeezing me into your schedule” to which she replies, as she lathers hot wax onto my bikini line,”Oh, well, you’re my last appointment of the day. After this I can go home.” And then she puts all of her 105 pounds behind it and rips off the wax. I mean RIPPED. Every follicle of hair from my head on down was like “WTF?!”
Now, I’ve been waxed before and I know you don’t want the wax to make a home with your skin, but there is some finesse involved in the whole process. I felt like Steve Carrell and damn near yelled out “KELLY CLARKSON!” All I could think was, never again, never again will I get the last appointment of the day. This chick was on a mission to get home and get her dinner started before Grey’s Anatomy came or something. Wax, rip, wax, rip. Wax, rip, wax, rip. She even had the nerve to look put out when I asked her what I could use in case of in-grown hairs or assorted irritations. She gave me this stuff called, and I kid you not, “Get the Bump Outta Here” — which is basically what she was telling me to do, too (I will be incorporating that phraseology into my vocab as soon as I can; it’s too good to pass up).
All I know is the next time the yard needs some work, we’re going early in the day, first thing or first thing after lunch, when the waxer is focused on the task at hand, not whether McDreamy or McSteamy is going to be a McNudie.
So a friend put me onto this blog called, “Stuff that White People Like”, which I think is hilarious because, #1 — not being White, and #2 — knowing that all humor is based on truth,
you couldn’t make some of this stuff up. I know that the blog, is in its entirety not the gospel truth, but while perusing the site, I came across a number of things that made me go hmmmm.
A brief skimming of the list taught me that White people like food co-ops, kitchen gadgets, The Daily Show/Colbert Report, having two last names, hating their parents, multilingual children, marathons, public radio, marathons, expensive sandwiches, David Sedaris (I like David Sedaris), and Sarah Silverman. Yeah, y’all can keep her.
What really got me, though, was the entry on the list that said, “#14 — Having Black Friends”. Now, I know I may be rocking the Angela Davis/Kathleen Cleaver afro, but I don’t consider myself all Sistah Souljah or anything. In this post, the writer says how White people don’t so much love having Black friends period; it’s how many Black friends they have. Basically, the number of Black friends a White person has is directly proportional to that White persons comfort level with Blacks in general. So, 1 Black friend means that they’ve crossed the threshold into the Black Experience. Does that mean that the Black person is now the gatekeeper all things Black?
Remember how in the Wizard of Oz, when they finally make it to Emerald City and they are all cleaned up and they get to the door and the little dude pops out and says, “No one gets in to see the Wizard. No way. No how.!” I think this is what White people must think about Black Culture or the “Black Experience” and so they need a Black friend to help them get past the guard.
That last statement alone is a perfect segue into talking about Barack Obama and our current political climate as well as the implications of having a Black president, but I can’t even go there today, “No way. No how!”
But back to the blog. Two or more Black friends means you’ll go see Kat Williams do stand up, but you won’t understand the jokes, but you can at least say that you went. Three or more Black friends means you start to actually get the jokes being told at the comedy show. Four or more Black friends, you think the jokes about White people refer to other White people, not you. You get the idea.
It got me to thinking though. Have I been the ambassador to Black culture for someone? Have I been the keymaster for someone who had never been to Republic Gardens, Def Comedy Jam or a Chris Rock concert? Are my White friends going to cocktail parties saying, “Well, sure, the Jay-Z versus Nas album war is pivotal, but I still find Biggie Smalls to be the true voice of the experience” because I happened to lend them a copy of Vibe with that article in the features column? Maybe the better question is, “Does it really matter?” No, probably not. I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I mean, I had a plan when I started writing, but that went out the window. I guess, I would hope that my White friends are my friends because they like me, the genuine me. I understand that there is a natural curiosity for cultures that you don’t understand, but there’s a difference between being nosy, being curious, and being downright offensive. The fact that my hair is different from theirs or that even with my fair skin, yes, I’m Black, should be, and is irrelevant. I hate to make pronouncements, but so there is no confusion, the fact that you are my friend, who you are what you stand for, what you value — that is the story of our friendship. Everything else is just a footnote.
Even I can’t let the day o’ love go by without putting my 7cents into it. Before get started, I have to provide some backstory in order for you to understand this tale in its entirety.
So, I went to a Catholic, all girls high school in New Jersey called Mount Saint Mary’s Academy. No, it wasn’t some kind of punishment for acting up in junior high. I actually asked my parents if I could go there. I was done with the public school scene and the “mean girls” that existed before Mean Girls made it to the big scene. The Mount meant uniforms, nuns, and just XX’s in the genetic code. It really wasn’t a big deal and I consider myself a better person for having had the experience.
How does Valentine’s Day fit in to all of this? Well, girls being girls, we all like to brag, especially when it comes to boyfriends. Every year if Valentine’s Day fell during the school week, the main office was teeming with FTD delivery people bearing large bouquets of flowers, boxes of assorted chocolates, stuffed teddy bears and the assorted frivolity that goes with the day. During any given class block, various names would be announced over the loud speaker, summoning girls to the main office. We all knew why and it was inevitable that if a girl whose name was called wasn’t in your class at that time, you probably saw her walking down the hall, her arms laden with babies breath, roses, and balloons. If you didn’t happen to see her, you could guarantee that one of your friends had and would be more than happy to fill you on who got what from whom.
Freshman year, I watched several of my friends skip to and from the office on the 14th of February. I don’t think I had a boyfriend — I must not have if I can’t even recall — or if I didn’t, he wasn’t forward thinking enough to send flowers to my school.
Every year, the number of my friends who received things grew. I wasn’t hosting any pity parties for myself, don’t get me wrong. Congrats to the friends that raked it in; besides, they were always willing to share the chocolate. I had guys that I liked and a few that I would consider a boyfriend, but none that ever seemed to be on the roster around Valentine’s Day. Then, something changed the Valentine’s Day of my senior year.
The summer before my juinor year was my transition year. The braces were off, I was wearing contact lenses full time, my hair had started to cooperate with the chemical relaxer and I was no longer afraid of burning myself with the curling iron. I was running with a pretty cool crowd, I was getting good grades and soon enough, I was going to get my license. Fast forward to senior year, and more of the same, albeit, even more so. Things were going well. There were several boys that I had dated, and there were one or two that I had crushes on, but as in the past, there was no one that I was counting on to remember me for Valentine’s Day.
So (and I have to take a little creative liberty here because while I remember what happens next, the minute details escape me), I’m in the senior lounge, probably doing vocab flashcards with some friends or I’m in the Lion’s Den (SGA office on campus) doing Student Government stuff as the Executive Board VEEP, when lo, my name is called over the loudspeaker.
Now, I’ve never been a troublemaker. Goody-goody is a name that comes to mind, but I digress. What I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t worried about going to the office when my name was called. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was positive that it didn’t have anything to do with demerits or detention.
I get to the office and the receptionist, Sister Mary Answer the Telephone points to a large box of a dozen long stemmed roses and says, “That’s for you, dear.”
Here’s what I thought in the 3 nanoseconds it took for me to say, “Thanks” –Flowers on the desk-nice flowers-there’s a card with my name on it-WTH-is this some kind of joke-I bet it’s from Mom and Dad since they were tired of hearing me complain that everybody else got flowers but me.
I scooped up the flowers and ran (more like shot down the hall) to the senior lounge and flung the door open before coolly gliding in with my flowers. Appearances are everything, don’t you know.
And as I basked in the adulation and questioning of my peers, my hand travelled to the card that was with the flowers. Nope, I hadn’t yet opened it. I was savoring this. The card, which I still have to this day, said,
Can I get a “WTH?” Thank you. When you go to an all girls school such as mine and there are alternating study hall periods, that is just a nerve center of all things female. Every girl who had a free period studied that card, doing handwriting analysis, smelling it to ascertain what kind of cologne could be clinging to the cardstock and envelope. There were several that went so far as asking me or people who knew me about the guys that I had crushes on or who could possibly (like it’s so hard to imagine) have a crush on me. Could it be Danny G. from Plainfield High? Could it be Kiadii H. from the Tatnall School? What about his best friend and Christian Bale look-alike Julian T. ? Hey a girl can dream, right? What about Chris M., Kevin V. or dare we think it, uber crush extraordinaire, Brian O. (drool, drool)?
There were some naysayers and detractors who offered the following: My parents, my brother, my grandparents, myself. C’mon now people. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, right?
Anyway, to this day, 14 years later (yikes!) I still don’t know sent me that note and those gorgeous flowers. I grilled my parents (no), my brother (yeah, right), and casually asked among the guys that I talked to, but nothing came of it.
Funny enough, at my 10 year high school reunion, a bunch of us sat around a bar, drinking and reminincing and that February 14th came up. The question was asked, “Did you ever find out who sent you those flowers?”
Nope, but when I run across the card, I’ll pick a name at random and content myself with imagining that person as the sender of the flowers and the extremely fortunate recipient of my girlhood crush.
To: The OBs, Gyns, MDs, DDSs, DOs, LPNs, CNPs et. al
From: Me and my various body parts
Subject: Gentility
I appreciate the fact that there are a number of patients on the books waiting to see you for their appointments all hours of the day during normal business hours and sometimes after hours. However, when I have spent the better part of my appointment in the waiting room thumbing through dog-eared copies of Reader’s Digest featuring an in-depth interview with Norman Rockwell and then am finally escorted back to the actual examination room, when you glide through the door, please do your best to fake like you didn’t just read my name off of my chart. I know that I am but one of many faces you will see today, but when you come into the exam room, let’s pretend that there is no place either you have to or would rather be. Focus people, focus.
When you press your frosty stethoscope to my chest, back, and stomach to check for various burbles and gurgles, be gentle in the pressure you apply. Belching, or worse, breaking wind (I had to clean it up for the masses) in front of you is going to be nothing but embarrassing for the both of us. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a bodily function and we all do it, but we ain’t that close. Trust me.
When you stick the otoscope in my ear, trust me, the plastic guard does not have to poke out the other side of my head. And please don’t comment on the wax build-up. No matter how frequently I clean my ears, there’s always going to be some in there. I know that, you know that.
When you look into my eyes with your pen light or up my nose with your nose-looker-upper (a.k.a otoscope), don’t make small talk with me that requires me to answer questions. Your nose is about two inches from my mouth and even though I used Listerine, there are times when I doubt its effectiveness. Plus, I’d hate to bite off the tip of your nose inadvertently. That’s going to be tough to explain to the insurance company.
When you have jammed my mouth full of pointy, hooked and/or blunt tipped instruments, please don’t inquire after my children, my husband, my house hunting or lack thereof, or my plans for the upcoming week-end. I can’t answer you, at least not in a language we both understand as English.
When you are doing a cheek, nostril, throat, cervix or any other kind of swab, pretend that it’s your cheek, nostril, throat or cervix that is about to get tested. Let’s not see how many times I gag before you finally finish. You don’t have to scratch my brain to make sure you’ve swabbed the inside of my nose thoroughly enough. I don’t want to see the end of the q-tip through my stomach when you’re testing my cervix for abnormal cells. See, when I wince, suck in my breath, clench my eyes shut or do any thing other than breathe normally, I’m probably a little uncomfortable.
When you are attempting to draw blood, even after I have told you that I have small, jumpy veins, please don’t “see if I can get it one more time”. I’m not a pin cushion. Switching back and forth between arms really doesn’t do much to instill further confidence in your ability. Go back to practicing on oranges. Don’t even think about asking me to show you the backs of my hands. Sure, some blood will be drawn, but it’ll be coming out of your nose from where I punched you in it.
When you have already administered anesthesia that is supposed to knock me out and yet, I’m still having a conversation with you, don’t act surprised when I say, “Yes, I can feel you pinching/pulling/poking me.” Really, I don’t need a natural experience when it comes to having a C-section.
I’ve come to realize, as my feet dangle in the stirrups and my butt cheeks hang precariously off the edge of the table or as I recline the chair with my mouth stuffed with novacaine and enough cotton balls to stuff several bras or as my thighs stick to the paper covers exam table while the rest of my body is rubbed raw under the rough paper gown or is totally visible through the threadbare cloth gown that I’m actually paying you to poke, prod, and pinch me in some pretty private areas. You didn’t even buy me dinner. Hell, you didn’t even know my name until you looked at it as you turned the knob on the exam room door.
You have a job to do. I appreciate that. But just for a second, let’s put the gown on you and the chart in my hands. If ever a time called for the golden rule, this is one of them.
Very truly yours,
Hilary with one “L” and her body.
I don’t consider myself a private person or a prude person, but I do like my personal space when it comes to taking care of my post-workout cleanliness routine.
I go to the Downtown to workout about 3 or 4 times a week. Aside from the bulging diaper bag, I’ve got my gym bag with my toilteries, my clothes, my shoes, and various other beautification aides. So, I go work out, grab my towels and head to the locker room. I find a locker, drop my stuff and hit the shower.
Problem #1 — The communal shower is set up so that there are two private stall showers on either side of the entrance, and then 4 shower heads set into the wall on either side of the larger shower room. I don’t mind the communal shower. I mean, we’ve all got the same parts, some people’s parts have just become on more intimate terms with gravity, graying and such. No big deal. More often than not, I come at a time where there is either one or no other person in the shower. Usually, I’m in there by myself. I’m not dancing around like Tom Cruise in Risky Busienss, but the being by myself is nice. I fire up my shower, arrange my towels and body sponge and stand under the stream. I hear the door open and shut, some one else is coming in. When I turn around and open my eyes, I’m knee to knee with another woman. Hello! Let’s check the scene:
Two shower stalls — empty
4 shower heads on one wall — empty
4 shower heads on other wall – I’m using one on the far left, there is a woman next to me, and then there are two EMPTY shower heads next to her.
WTH? Why are you all up on me? There are 8 other empty spaces for you to rinse your biscuits under!! Back it up. Without fail this happens and I’ve noticed, it doesn’t matter who the woman is. Someone inevitably wants to be my neighbor. Even when there is someone else in the shower, say on the opposite side of the room, the third party gravitates towards me.
Look, I came to the gym to work out and take a shower in peace. I get an audience when I go to the bathroom at home.
Problem #2 — So, I get out of the shower, head to my locker. The locker I’ve chosen now looks like one of those bug zappers with women in various states on undress circling around it. Mind you, there are dozens of other lockers, benches and areas of free space available. The women then engage in this awkward conversation of feigned politeness. I’ll translate this for you as I go.
“Oh, am I in your way?” Look heffa, I just sat down and got out all of my stuff.
“Oh, no not at all. You’re fine.” Um, yeah you’re in my way! Don’t you see that lock in front of you? That means someone is using that locker. ME!
“I can move. I’m almost done.” I’m naked, my hair is wrapped in a towel and I just started to dial my girlfriend on my cell phone. I haven’t even begun to get it together.
“Don’t worry about it. Please, really, you’re fine.” Why are you even going to try that line? I can see that you’re naked, your hair is wrapped in a towel and you’ve got your cell phone out, probably about to call your friend and talk really loudly about things that don’t matter to anyone but you.
*sigh* I just wanted to get my heart rate up, not my blood pressure.