Seven years ago:
I told myself I wasn’t in labor.
I told you to stay put because you weren’t supposed to arrive for a few more days and I had things to do.
I told your father, after hours of denial, “Maybe we should go to the hospital now.”
I told the doctors that the epidural wasn’t working and when I woke up, you were here.
7 pounds and 20 inches of perfect little girl.
Happy, happy birthday, C!
I love September.
Yes, my birthday is next week, but that’s not why I love September.
September is the definitive border between summer and fall. When the first of September appears, there is a clear demarcation between those who are in disbelief that the summer is over, and those who are giddy with what the end of summer means. Today may find you reminiscing about the best of your summer adventures, longing for one more day at the beach or the pool, loathing the return to routine and the possibility of cooler temperatures. Certainly, I’m not immune to those feelings either. Our last day on vacation, I remember bobbing in the frigid Atlantic, goose-bumps covering my arms and legs like a nasty rash and thinking, “I don’t want to leave! I don’t want to leave!” Truthfully, if someone had said that I could have one more day, that wouldn’t have satisfied me. I needed more. More time. More days. More experiences of just being. The bittersweet end of vacation was bitter because we were leaving, but sweet because September was quickly approaching.
There are some days that just make you happy. Birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, Arbor Day, perhaps. The first of the month — any month — is usually a good one, but the first of September is high on my list. It’s opening the lid on beautifully wrapped box. Inside are crisps breezes, jewel colored leaves, and comfy cozy sweaters. I love digging into that box, lifting out puffy vests and knee high boots, pulling out cups of pumpkin spiced lattes with curling ribbons of steam escaping their lids. There are football games to watch at homecoming celebrations, squashed in the stands between your sorority sisters. There are holidays to prepare for, travel plans to arrange, and menus to plan. There is so much promise in that box.
Fall is the seasonal equivalent of wrapping yourself in your most comfortable lounge clothes, pulling your favorite book into your lap with a yummy snack within reach as you settle in for some quality quiet time.
Fall is the reward for having survived bathing suit season.
Fall is the lull in the calendar between winding down for school and winding up for winter.
Fall is burnt sienna, burgundy, and ocher.
Fall is carefully carved pumpkins, crunchy leaves, and bare-limbed trees swaying in a smoke tinged wind.
Fall is here and I am so glad.
First week of school is in the books.
No tears were shed. No tantrums were thrown. We survived and the girls are excited to go back next week! Reading, writing, and arithmetic? Yeah, I guess they’re interested in that. Evidently, the promise of hot lunch from Chick-Fil-A on Monday and Pizza on Friday is a more powerful motivator. But like I said, the first week is in the books. Check back with us in about six weeks and see how things fare.
In preparation for back to school, I did try to get us back on track with an early to bed, early to rise type of routine. While my intentions were good, the execution was severely lacking. Throughout the summer, I continued to rise early, around 6 or 6:30am, although, when school is in session, I roll it back to about 5:30.
Why this madness you ask? I need to ease myself into my day. When I get up in the darkness of the early morning, I have about 45 minutes to call my own before the children get up. I make my breakfast, I sip my coffee, and I read the news. I may throw in a load of laundry or empty the dishwasher, but between 5:30 and 6:30, it’s my quiet fortification for the day ahead. Again, between June and August, I dialed it back, sleeping in an hour, but still savoring that 6:30 to 7:30 solitude. Rolling it back to 5:30 this past week as been as eye opening as the ALS Ice-Bucket challenge. The alarm goes off and I think, “Wait, I just closed my eyes.” This week alone has been like a montage from a Simon Pegg movie, showing the daily ritual of a character in bitten off shots of wake, wash, eat, work, and so forth. I fall into bed each night around 10 or 10:30 and am immediately knocked out. It’s been a flurry of daily activity. Between the morning routine and getting the girls out to school, there have been orientations for each of the girls, even V. Two-day preschool starts on Tuesday! There have been meetings and scheduling and the start of activities. I’m trying to wrest some of the responsibility for packing lunches and backpacks from my own hands and put it in the hands of M and C. C’s first grade teacher reminded the parents at orientation that she expects them to pack their own backpacks. “And I tell them,” she informed us, “you don’t pack your mamma and daddy’s briefcases for work, do you? Well then, they don’t need to be packing y’all’s backpacks!”
What?! I don’t?! Let the congregation say, “Amen!”
To that end, we’ve got a new system in place (well, new to us), set up in the kitchen. The girls empty their bags with the lunch sacks going into the sink, their important papers going into the aptly labeled “In” tray. While they relax after such a hard day, I peruse the papers, signing where indicated and so forth before depositing them in the aptly labeled “Out” tray. After dinner, the girls assist me in packing their lunches, which I have found ensures that the majority of the lunch will be consumed instead of returned. In the morning, after they’ve been fed, dressed, washed, and so on, they retrieve all of their items from the outbox, pack up and hit the car. We are five for five on success this week! And I’ve told them again and again how proud I am of their behavior and how much I’ve enjoyed the morning routine as a result. They love that.that
I know, I’ve got a 4th grader and a 1st grader and it’s only now that I’ve figured this out? Better late than never.
Of course, it’s the first week, so things are bound to change as time passes, but for right now, I’m going to enjoy it. This afternoon, the girls each have a little friend coming over to play. To celebrate the first week of school, I’m taking them to Sweet Frog for a little treat. I don’t particularly care for Sweet Frog — there are so many other wonderful things to eat — but I did have a mini first week of school celebration of my own. Was it Chipotle? Uh. . .of course it was!
I could eat Chipotle just about every day. While I do consider it “fast food”, I don’t equate it with the golden arches and their kith and kin. Chipotle is pretty much the only place I can eat and not feel like I’ve completely wiped out any exercise or good health habits I’ve been working on. I know there are some naysayers out there who would tell me something to the contrary, but I’m going to continue to enjoy it. Truth be told, my Chipotle addiction needs an intervention, like yesterday, so I’m going to try to recreate the magic at home. Tall order? Possibly. Can it be done? Probably. I’ve been searching copy-cat recipes on-line. There have been some hits and misses. My cilantro lime rice was a certifiable miss, most definitely not attributable to the recipe, but more to the recipe follower. I think I either missed a step or didn’t wash the rice enough or just decided that the time I would be spending making cilantro lime rice was equal to the time it would take me to get in the car, go to my nearest Chipotle and buy some cilantro lime rice. Cooking’s overrated anyway.
I kid (or do I?). In any event, I’m going to try my hand again to see if I can save my dollars and eat at home. Better for the wallet and the waistline, right? This recipe is just for the chicken. There is a link to the cilantro lime rice above and if you are interested in what additional toppings would work with this, just send me a message in the comments!
Happy Friday and Happy Labor Day Week-nd, y’all!
That suit gets shorter every year and one of these days, it’ll fit you just right. Until then, in my heart, I’ll keep you as little as you were when we first met.
August 23, 2005
12:39am
7 lbs. 10 oz.
21 inches long
I love you to the moon and back.
I love you batches and batches.
I love you, my gorgeous girl.
Happy, Happy Birthday!
I have been struggling with my hair lately. I had gone for a trim earlier in the summer to get rid of this really wonky looking curly rat-tail that has migrated from the base of my skull down to the nape of my neck. This was not business in the front and party in the back. It was just yuck and it had to go. So, my stylist snipped a little here, snipped a little there and it came out really well.
It was kind of a tapered bob that I thought I could maintain. Key word: thought. See, with curly hair, there are different schools of thought on how it should be cut. Should it be cut wet? You’d think so, but then you’ll be in for a surprise when it dries and shrinks up. Should it be cut dry? You’d think so, but you even dry, the amount of shrinkage from root to shaft varies from day to day. Some days, my hair looks longer than other, because some days I air dry and some days I diffuse dry. It’s a crap shoot.
After a couple of weeks, my head began to look as though the rat tail just slid over about 3 inches to the right. I started wearing a bun and a visor, 24/7. I was worried about shedding and breakage and low porosity and high porosity; it’s a wonder I didn’t worry myself into looking like Mr. Clean.
Truth be told, I started to entertain the idea that I would just big chop my hair one more time. If this rat tail was determined to assert itself, I was just going to have to assert myself more. I’m cool with a tabla rasa ‘do. It’s just hair and it’ll grow back. Yo Lee, one of my guest bloggers from earlier in the month, did a Big Chop and wears her hair extremely close. She looks phenomenal. My friend Denise, whom you met when she guest blogged on Monday of this week just did a Big Chop and it’s flawless.
I’ve had my phone in my hand, with my thumb hovering over my stylists number, all week.
Before I go ahead and lop it off, though, I decided to give my hair one more try. I am a part of several boards on FaceBook devoted to natural hair. I’m constantly on Pinterest looking for tips and tricks, as well as other sites such as CurlyNikki.com, BlackGirlLongHair.com, KinkyCurlyCoilyMe.com and a whole host of others. There is so much information out there. I had to find some products that I could easily find, easily apply, and easily tame the wonky curl pattern at the back of my head. Not only that, these products had to work for me, and Snap, Crackle and Pop. That’s not too much to ask for, right?
Behold the products that are currently in our arsenal.
It’s kind of ridiculous now that I look at it.
In my defense, though, I do have four heads of hair to do at least once a week. I’m very conscious of how often we’re moisturizing, how often we go to get our ends clipped, and how much water we drink in order to hydrate our curls from the inside out. I limit the amount of heat I put on our hair. I’m doing every step I can think of to keep shedding down, curls elongated and the tangles at bay.
Well, that’s not entirely true — I do skip the hot oil treatment only because I can’t find 20 minutes to do the treatment properly. I know, that’s a weak excuse, and just my luck, my lack of follow-through is probably why the rat tail blossomed in the first place. I suppose if I have time to fit a Chipotle run into my schedule, I can carve out the time to treat my scalp, too.
Anyway, my research on the internet has provided some interesting results. There were a few weeks when I was trying to counter, if not prevent, the damage daily swim practice was wreaking on the girls’ hair. I found a website that offered 5 different hydrating moisturizing mists that you could make yourself. I went to Whole Foods and bought Vitamin E oil, raw honey, vegetable glycerin, lavender oil, aloe vera juice and brought it all home. The kitchen looked like a mad scientists lab crossed with the Chopped Kitchen.
We started with a sweet honey moisturizing mist. Basically, take distilled water, coconut oil, viatmin E oil, raw honey and lavender oil. Put it in a spray bottle, shake and apply.
From the website, “Honey is extremely versatile in its uses and works well in your natural hair. Honey is a humectant and will help your hair to attract and retain moisture and prevent frizz. Coconut oil is a moisturizing oil that will penetrate your follicles and add moisture from the inside out. Lavender adds a nice fragrance to the oil and also helps soften your natural hair.”
This combo did all of those things, but it also made the girls’ hair sticky, despite my adherence to the proper quantities of each ingredient. You know that saying, “You get more flies with honey than with vinegar”? I now know exactly how many flies you get.
We scrapped that one after two weeks and tried and aloe and lavender moisturizing mist, which again included several oils and aloe vera juice instead of water.
From the website, “This simple yet phenomenal spray will not only help moisturize your natural hair but will also help soften dry strands. Aloe Vera and lavender oil help strengthen your hair strands while coconut oil adds moisture to dull hair. You could also use apricot or olive as an alternative to coconut oil.”
This one worked pretty well, but I think I may have misread which oils to include because I could have sworn it said you could substitute sesame oil for coconut, almond, or apricot.
Which I did.
To which M said, “Mom, I smell like Chinese Food.”
Time to step away from the computer and the wealth of information.
That was about two weeks ago. We’ve been using leave in conditioner to help keep our hair moisturized while we were at the beach. It worked, but it also saved every single grain of sand onto the girls’ scalps. We’re back to two strand twists for them until next week when they get their Back to School bi-annual hair cuts. I’ve been trying to come up with the best way to style their hair (and mine) that won’t leave them (or me) in tears. So, back to the boards I go.
I had read on another board that their Coconut Co-wash is extremely good and ended up ordering some, along with their Curl Defining Butter Cream in order to do the two strand twists (I know, it’s time for a product intervention). Shortly after I placed the order, a friend of mine posted how she recently tried As I Am products, and was throwing away all of her other products because the results were amazing.
I was intrigued to say the least and when my package came in the mail, I decided to try her methods and chronicle my results.
I started with a product laden, sweated out wash and go (top left). I finger detangled last night with some Jamaican Castor oil and just bunned up the sections. In the morning, I went to the gym sporting pig tails. When I came home, I took my hair down to finger detangle before I jumped into the shower (top right). I used the As I Am Coconut Co-Wash and the Leave In Conditioner, per the directions on the labels. In the shower, I detangled with my fingers and with my wide tooth comb. I did have some shedding, but no more or less than usual. Then using the Miss Jessie’s shingling technique (which I’ve never done before), I put in the Curling Jelly (bottom left).
I sat under the dryer with the heat on low for 30 minutes (bottom middle). Then I fluffed it out with some Jamaican Castor oil on my palms to help reduce frizz (bottom right). Including the time under the dryer and assorted maintenance in the shower, this took me about an hour, maybe an hour and 15 minutes. That’s typical for a wash day.
In my opinion, my hair has some massive shrinkage, but the curls are well defined. If I do this again, or if I do it on Snap, Crackle and Pop, I will reduce or eliminate the time under the dryer. Or maybe I’ll just hit the roots with the diffuser. There are still lots of options. My hair feels just a touch crunchy, but nothing that’s overwhelming.
Tonight will be the true test of the success of this method when I put the satin bonnet on and go to sleep. I’m not sure if I should pineapple it, bun it, or leave it. Decisions, decisions. In the morning, I plan to spray with distilled water and fluff out.
I’ll keep you posted, hopefully with better pictures (i can’t get the hang of selfies at all).
Happy Friday, y’all!
Bringing my guest blogger series to a close is T. Denise Anderson. Blogger. Tweeter. Natural beauty as well as a full-time wife, mom, and professional.With a sharp wit and great sense of humor, Denise serves up some thoughtful and often hilarious commentary on current events and more in her Twitter and Facebook feeds. Visit Denise’s blog here and be sure to follow her on Twitter! Denise shares with us one of the challenges parents and care givers of little naturlista’s face when the weather is warm and trips to the pool abound.
I have a confession to make: I used to be vehemently against little girls wearing extensions in their hair. Coming from a very conservative family where some things were simply reserved for when you were older, extensions seemed a bit too “grown” to me. That is until the summer started and my own 5-year-old started going to the pool regularly.
What do you do when you have a child who has no fewer than five tons of 4b hair, has the nerve to be tender-headed, and goes to the pool with her summer day camp at least twice a week?
photo courtesy of T. Denise Anderson
Braids and cornrows were fine on her, but regular swimming can put some wear and tear on the styles. A style that would normally last a couple of weeks lasts just a few days on my kid once you factor in the pool. And swimming caps? Good luck getting her to keep track of those! They grow legs around here. And since I really don’t intend on spending a small fortune replacing swim caps every week or buying stock in Speedo, I finally bit the bullet and decided extensions were our best bet this summer.
Like all the women in our family, my daughter and I are susceptible to severe traction alopecia, so we need styles that are easy on our edges. For that reason, I love crochet braids for myself. Ever the cheapskate – and because I had a bad experience with a braid shop that left me with bald patches and scared my psyche for life – I usually do my own braids. I don’t braid tightly, but I also don’t braid quickly. And since my daughter has much more hair than I do, what would normally take me an hour to do for myself would take two hours for her. How I got the bright idea to give her crochet Senegalese twists is beyond me.
photo courtesy of T. Denise Anderson
photo courtesy of T. Denise Anderson
It took two evenings and a morning; one evening to cornrow the hair, one evening to start the crochet twists, and the following morning to finish them. Much of it was accomplished while she slept, which is fine with me because it at least guaranteed some peace. Like I said, she’s tender-headed. When God gave her a triple portion of hair, She forgot to give her the follicular fortitude to withstand the styling. As a bribe to get her to even consent to getting her hair done, I promised her blue hair. The child loves all things blue. If I could find a way to make spinach blue, she would eat it. Blue hair would never fly in her buttoned-up Lutheran school, but hey, it’s summer! If she can have a little fun and I can keep my sanity for a while, so be it.
We’re about a month in with this style and soon it’ll be time for the take-down. No one is looking forward to that. She has already vowed to keep her hair the way it is, which is really because she doesn’t want it done. I guess that means it’s time for another bribe. What color should I offer this time?
Denise is a wife, mom, professional, and minister living in the DC area. She blogs at two places: http://thesoulstepford.com and at the more churchy http://soulascriptura.com.
I am so fortunate to have talented curl-friends who take time out of their busy schedules to pen thoughtful, touching posts about their personal experiences being natural and raising little curly girlies of their own. Please enjoy this post by Shawri King-Casey, who reminds us that our children are always paying attention, even when we don’t realize, reminding us that every moment is a teachable moment.
The head-scarf clad, older brown woman eyed my daughter wistfully as she fingered Miss G’s long, silky braids that grazed the waistband of G’s bright pink tutu. The woman sighed and clucked thoughtfully.
“Beautiful. Just beautiful. You are so lucky,” she purred. “Your daughter’s got good hair. You got pretty hair, too. You got Indian in your family?”
I visibly winced and said firmly, “All hair is good hair. If it’s growing out of her scalp, it’s good hair.”
She shook her head violently and shot me a side eye. Her words were both accusatory and resentful.
“You know what I mean.”
What she meant, of course, was that my daughter’s multiracial hair is more wavy than curly. Not kinky. What she meant was that her hair moved in the wind, grew down and not out and resembled more the coifs of my husband’s ancestors, rather than mine.
I instinctively shielded my daughter’s head with my hands, turned G away from the conversation and looked into her questioning eyes.
“C’mon G. Tell the nice lady goodbye and let’s go.” I said through gritted teeth.
I remember walking away from this sister in the grocery parking lot, with my then four year old daughter, G in tow and my newborn daughter slung across my hip, asleep.
G, unaware of the context behind the terse exchange I had with the woman who looked very much like me, said, “Mama, you’re squeezing my hand too hard. It hurts.” I hadn’t realized until that very moment that my jaw was clenched and my grip had tightened with her small hand inside. “Oh sweetie, Mama’s sorry. I didn’t realize I was squeezing your hand.”
G blinked and cocked her head to the side, “Mama, what did that lady say to make you upset?”
What did the lady say really? I mean, she certainly wasn’t the first to admire the mass of silky golden-brown waves my eldest daughter possessed. It was almost curiously magnetic, the way people would reach out to touch her hair or finger her curls as they admired their spring and luster. I had to admit G’s hair was basically a watered down version of my own coils and I couldn’t really decipher the mixed emotions I felt when people complimented her hair. First, I suppose I felt ridiculous for even accepting praise for it, as if the credit were mine to receive. G’s hair was a genetic cocktail of 46 chromosomes from me and her father and along with those luscious waves came near-sightedness, crooked teeth and flat feet. My sister’s hair is very much like G’s and I also very painfully remember how people would ooh and ahh over my sister’s silky mane and say nothing about my spirally poof of a ponytail.
And that, in all honesty, was the flash point triggered by that older woman’s comment.
I was very well aware of this underlying desire to deem kinky, coily and highly textured hair as “bad,” and anything that was the anti-thesis of that was considered, “good.” I want my children to love their hair, because it was the hair God gave them – that I gave them, that their dad gave them. It wasn’t “good” in the sense that it was any better than anyone else’s simply because it lacked elements most considered a barrier to styling and maintenance. It wasn’t “good” because it would bend with the slightest wind. It was “good” because it was shiny – its sheen a tribute to my insistence on balanced nutrition and proper hygiene. It was “good” because I kept it brushed and braided, free of dust and lint. It was “good” because it was clean and conditioned well and regularly trimmed. But mostly, it was “good” because it was uniquely hers.
I want my daughters to associate positivity with their hair not because it is a particular texture, but because it does what hair is supposed to do – frame their face, keep their heads warm and provide an enhancement to their natural beauty. However, I want them to celebrate the versatility of textured hair in its full spectrum, from the slightest wave to the tightest z. I don’t want my girls feeling their texture is any more or less superior to anyone else. I don’t want them thinking it is necessary to satisfy the curious tactile onlooker who is mesmerized by the twists and turns their hair makes naturally. I want them to embrace all the wonderful things they can do with their hair, from wearing it stick straight to braids with beads and fro’ed out. Their hair can be manipulated into popular styles from all of the cultures and racial categories they inhabit.
It is healthy.
It is strong.
It is their crown.
It is better than good, not because of the genetic incident of its appearance, but because it’s theirs.
There are no medal winners for hair texture in this world and those of us who would compare hair-types 2a to 4z need more than a proverbial hot comb to straighten our mental kinks out. Because it’s not what’s on our head that’s important.
It’s what’s in it.
Culinary whiz. Wordsmith. Super Mom. These are just a few of the many words that could be used to describe Shawri. Not only is she a dynamic attorney generalist with thirteen years of experience both in the public and private sectors, she’s a fierce naturalista you should know!
