Tag Archives: African American Parenting

Tortured Teen Years

On my recent trip (because remember it was *not* a vacation), Sister K and I spent hours fondly reminiscing about our formative years. We laughed about all kinds of things. So much of what we thought was so serious back then serves as slapstick humorous now. It’s amazing what being an adult and gaining a lot of maturity can do for you.

Since adopting Hope I spend a lot of time pondering my adolescent years and the dumb things I did. The few times I snuck out. The boyfriends and crushes. Football and basketball games that were followed by an after party at the nearby McDonalds. The *ahem* underage drinking—I had a particular fondness for the blue curacao in Blue Motorcycles at a local dive bar where a friend’s older sister worked, and the occasional “puff, puff, pass.”. Dates and dances. Asymmetrical haircuts with a lot of crimping…man the late 80s and early 90s were something!

I remember rarely talking to my parents about my life during those years. I bumped heads with my mom a lot, and looking back, my dad and I are so much alike that I think it just made us repel like two magnets. In any case, I wouldn’t dream of talking to them the way that Hope talks to me.

I am amazed weekly by our little confabs and what she wants to share with me. It’s so crazy cool and at times terrifying since it can be shocking and I know it’s the edited version. Now, I won’t lie sometimes I have to fight hard to pay attention because the topics can be blindingly boring to me and there is a high, high risk for me glazing over and putting the following on a loop:

“Uh huh. You don’t say? Really? Noooooooo! Yeah? Hmmmm. Shut UP!”

One night this week we were up late talking about her crush life. It was so serious. I mean, really in her mind we are talking about her entire future!!! In my mind we are talking about maybe a week and a half from now…at most.

It’s kind of hard to stifle my internal chuckles, but I manage.

Our chat this week was really fun despite her tortured soul status. I was so moved by our girl talk that after she retired to her room for the night, I went to my sacred shelf and fetched one of my journals from high school.

I have all of my journals since high school. I keep them on a shelf. Before this week they were tied together with some twine with a note to give of one of my dearest friends in case something happened to me (it’s also in my will—just saying you gotta plan for that kinds stuff! Do you want it falling into just anybody’s hands??). I undid the twine and opened this book for the first time in at least 20 years. I started at the beginning; when I was going steady with the boy I spent most of my teen years obsessing over. I had reached my own love pinnacle by going steady with Bob*. About 10ish pages later he had broken up with me—unclear why—and the next 50+ pages I mourned the demise of the short lived relationship. You would have thought I lost a blood relative. (Side note: I ran into Bob a few years ago at a grocery store in Florida; he had dreads that started in the back of his head….#dodgedabullet)

I had other serious crushes throughout those pages, but they were all measured against Bob*. My writing was full of angst, anger, sadness, episodic joy (like when I got my wisdom teeth out before prom and dropped more than 10lbs!!!), and just teen messiness.

I documented a LOT of my teen life. Sometimes I think this is a lost art, what with social media. It is interesting to go back and look at my life when I was close to Hope’s age. It gives me perspective on her struggles and emotional turmoil. I suppose I could be a bit more sympathetic to her plight.

It’s easy to look back almost 30 years and think all of the shenanigans were silly and as a result be callous about Hope’s feelings now.

Reading my own words reminded me how hard it was and how I probably was miserable more than I was not during some of my teen years. I imagine that things are probably really hard for Hope given all the extra stuff she’s had to deal with before these moments.

I wish I could make it easier for her.

I suppose I can by just loving her harder and realizing when I need to listen and when I need to shut up and give her some space.

In the meantime, I’ll keep reading my old journal, hoping for more insights.

*Not his real name.


Natural Consequences

So, jumping into parenting at the teen phase has taught me countless things, but this post is about one personality quirk of mine in particular.

I am a nag.

I know that my nagging is closely related to my control freakdom.

I nag Hope.

I kinda feel like I have to. She doesn’t do the things I ask when I ask; she barely does chores (even chore money doesn’t motivate her!). The levels of teenage apathy astound me. They are shocking, in part, because my parents never allowed it; so it’s was inconceivable to even consider not listening and responding as an option.

So, I am a nag. I also realize that I have a personality that is just naturally inclined to be naggy.

Surprise! Nagging actually doesn’t seem to be the most effective parenting method. #gofigure I mean, it can be useful, but really, it mostly serves to get me all riled up, and it gets Hope all snarky, and then I fantasize about putting her ish out on the balcony.

I want Hope to be successful, and I know that there are times when I really do have to help her because 1) she’s a kid and 2) she has some challenges that really require my help. All that said, I’m tired of being a harpy mom.

For the month of August I am committing to focusing on natural consequences.

  • Oh, you chose to spend your last $6 on an icee at the movie theater after I offered to take you to 7-11 for a $2 slurpee and now you’re mad? Too bad, so sad.
  • Oh, you don’t want to watch a couple videos on sentence diagramming, which you’re supposed to already know? Hmmm, OK.
  • Oh, you’re too busy to read that second book so you can write the report that’s due on the first day of school? Hmmm, well, maybe honors English isn’t for you.
  • Oh, you don’t want to tidy up that apocalypse called your room but you want to invite someone over to hang this weekend? I can’t go for that…no…nooo…no can do.
  • You haven’t meaningfully done chores in 4 weeks but you want to keep your cell phone and you want me to take you to the amusement park? #nope

And on and on, until the break of dawn.

One night this week, in an epic fit of passive, aggressive “helpful” parenting, I logged into her Google calendar and put in every chore, all her activities and appointments along with convenient reminders for every one of them, including the things that she is supposed to do daily. She will be buzzing nonstop between 6:30 and 8pm daily. Do I think I will make much difference? Maybe, maybe not. But I figure by Monday evening when a bunch of them are going off, she will become annoyed and either make different choices than she does now, she will confront me or she will simply be ok with hitting the ignore button.

Elihu tried to get me to use some app that would let me know whether she did something or not. I replied that I didn’t want such a notification. I’d rather *see* her actually doing stuff. I rationalize that the calendar set up alleviates my need to stay on her to do the things she needs to do. If they don’t get done, well, it’s not because she didn’t have reminders.

I’m hopeful, even if a bit naïve. We’ll see, I guess.

Trying to teach Hope some responsibility has been really hard…really hard. I love her so very much. Each day, I do see these challenges of proof that we are getting closer and closer to some sort of normal. Even though it feels like my pressure is through the roof, I know that these are common parenting issues, and that…that is good.

So, for now, I’m really committed to using natural consequences in helping Hope learn some responsibility. The nagging is just too exhausting, and it doesn’t seem to be effective anyway, so here goes!


When Your Kid has a Friend

I am chilling on my couch, trying to ignore a really loud clarinet and tenor saxophone. I am so delighted; this is the first time Hope has ever had a friend over.

Eighteen months and no one has been over to the house…until today.

It’s nice to see Hope with a friend finally close enough to come over. I’ve been really worried about her social interactions the last few months. I wrote about the emotional issues with which we struggle recently. I worry a lot about her ability to cultivate and sustain age appropriate friendships.

We might have finally done it.

*And* the instruments are starting to sound like they are making music!!! #Bonus

And now that there’s a friend is over I am learning how this frees up your time. #Bonusx2

  • The girls are so excited to hang out that I got first dibs on the pizza!
  • I ate alone and thus added a glass of wine to my dinner.
  • I got to eat early for a change. Hope hates eating before 7pm and I know that figures into my weight gain (ok, well, so does the pizza).
  • Other than the instruments, it’s quiet. It’s almost like I’m…dare I say…alone! #doeshappydance
  • I have time to scheme to see if I can get this kid to invite Hope over to her house next week.

Oh, this friend thing is glorious! Why didn’t anyone tell me?

I have visions of dropping the girls off at the movie theater at some point or hosting a sleepover!

Or better yet…dropping Hope off at a sleepover.

This is so exciting.

This is another developmental milestone for us, and I am so friggin’ excited!!

Yay!


The Trip

Early on in my “vacation” someone posted a HuffPost article on my personal FB timeline that described the difference between a vacation and a trip when kids are involved.

I didn’t know.  Seriously, I didn’t know that I hadn’t been taking vacations for the last 18 months.  I had no idea that Hope and I were taking “trips.”

Oh, you bet your bottom, I know now, though.

So, picture it, two Fridays ago, I loaded up the Mini Cooper with a roof bag and piled Hope, Sister K and myself into car for a 9.5 hour drive to Boston–our first stop since I had 3 days of work to do there.

You know, it actually wasn’t awful.  We popped in an audiobook (Mitch Album’s The First Phone Call From Heaven), snarfed some fast food and took a couple of potty breaks before rolling up to our hotel at 11pm.

As if rolling to Boston with ish pilled on the top of my clown car like the Beverly Hillbillies wasn’t an indication that we were on a trip, real trip indicators were totally about to jump off.

We stayed in a super swank room–it was LAID! However, my office only booked a king room, so I ordered up a rollaway bed for Hope.

My girl was saltier than the Dead Sea that she would be relegated to the rollaway. Sister K and I were like:

YoDog

You betta go on and lay yo arse on that dang cot and go to sleep, girl.

Day 1 – Boston

I was tied up in 12 hours of meetings and presentations.  After I was done we hit up a restaurant for dinner.

Hope: I woud like the Bourbonzola Burger please.

Bourbonzola Burger appears.

Hope: No one told me gorgonzola cheese was on the burger?

No, really, why bother with reading the details on the menu.  It’s sent back and replaced by something more “suitable.”

Day 2 – Boston

I had a modest 10 hour day of  work so we hit up the Minions movie that evening. Nope, no popcorn, we’re going for dinner afterwards.

At a swank Italian dinner:

Hope: I’ll have the spinach and cheese ravioli please.

Spinach and cheese ravioli appears.

Hope: UGHHHHHH.  You know I don’t like that much cheese; I can’t eat this.

I can actually feel her willing me to share my proscuitto and fig flatbread pizza. I take a deliberate, exaggerated bite out of all 8 pieces and lick the ham too.

smug.gif-1

Not today, Miss, I am NOT sharing ish today.  #allthewaypetty

Then there was another huffy silent treatment prompted by her continued stay on the rollaway. #girlbye

Day 3 – Boston to Martha’s Vineyard

Hope: This BBQ sandwich is so huge. I can barely pick it up; I probably can’t eat it all. Do y’all want to taste it?

(Note: Don’t ever ask me or my sisters to have a bite of something that looks super tasty and expect to us to take itty bitty portions. Hope learned that day.)

Sandwich comes to the front seat.

Half of the sandwich returns to the back seat.

Hope chose to not eat the rest of the sandwich due to a wretched case of the hissies.

mileyy

By the time we got to the Vineyard and found that the keys and house info were not left in the realtors box for us, the driving, fatigue and trip-inspired annoyance resulted in me pulling off the road into the hospital parking lot and sobbing.

It got straightened out, and we had the pleasure of hearing Hope complain about this creepy house and the triggering of her bug phobia, thanks to a few creepy crawlies trolling the house at 11pm.

Just before we turned in, she declared —DECLARED—that I needed to only have her stay in hotels because she did not like this house situation and that’s what she prefers and I need to make her happy.

Listen…Whoooosaaaaaa.

Obama

Let’s just say I got her together quick and let her know that my fantasy is an actual vacation without her and that it could be arranged.

Day 1 – MV

Rainy, complaining, buggy, whiny.

I ended up showing Hope what a grown folks’ hissy fit really looks like. It was epic. It was real. I might as well had been Kanye.

kanye-west-charged-with-paprazzo-attack

The rest of the trip actually improved considerably. Hope and I had a great time, and she already wants to go back, of course, that has more to do with the little cutie at the ice cream shop, but still.  We settled into a nice routine; she even did chores in the rental. It was a good trip after all.

But yeah, it was definitely a trip and not a vacation!


Say Their Names

The slogan and hashtag #BlackLivesMatter shouldn’t just evoke images of Black men being cut down by police. Black women have been lost as well.

And if the death and publicizing of Black men dying so often doesn’t incite wholesale change, then the absence of coverage of Black women dying in similar circumstances should scare the pants off of all of us and compel our activism.

Last week, Sandra Bland was found dead in a Texas jail cell. The jail folks said she committed suicide after a minor traffic stop for failure to signal during a lane change went really, really wrong, resulting in her arrest. She was in town preparing for a new job at Prairie View A&M University.

Kindra Chapman, just 18, was also found dead in an Alabama jail cell last week. Again, suicide was supposedly the cause of death.

The takeaway? None of us, male or female, is safe.

I read about Ms. Bland, her activism, her voice, her work as an educator. I wondered what she would have been doing in her new job at Prairie View. I wondered if we had mutual colleagues, and if they could tell me more about her. I wondered how many degrees of separation existed between us; it all felt so much more deeply personal.

I read about Ms. Chapman and how an alleged robbery landed her in that cell. I wondered at 18 what promise her life might’ve held. I wondered if she was really so lost that she could’ve taken her own life, that night, in that cell?

I wondered what really happened to both Sandra and Kindra. #saytheirnames

The cynic in me, who’s watched in horror for years now, the unfolding assault on Black lives, finds it hard all so very hard to believe. If our men can just be shot down or their backs and necks broken, then surely my sisters’ untimely deaths can be masked as suicide just as easily. And apparent suicides, for lives that seemingly matter even less than their male counterparts, rarely make news in a patriarchal society.

This time, I didn’t even talk to Hope about the death of Sandra or Kindra. I’m partly ashamed of that because I always kick it to Hope straight, and I desperately try to keep her informed about the world in which we live. But we were on an idyllic vacation, and it felt so very far away from this reality. For once I wanted to protect the privileged bubble that we enjoyed…the bubble that went to the beach, that enjoyed ice cream while watching the cute boy with the pretty eyes render Hope speechless every day, the bubble that, if only for a few days, was a different reality for us. I rationalized that, sadly, there would be time for us to talk about it when we got home.

And as the investigations begin in earnest, there is plenty of time for Hope and me to discuss the loss of more Black lives.

At what point do I get to stop having these conversations with my daughter?

At what point do I get to leave my home and not wonder how to survive if I get pulled over?

At what point do naysayers stop telling people of color to simply “obey”?

At what point will I ever feel like I can trust the people who are supposed to be sworn to protect all of us?

At what point do we stop seeing hashtags like #IfIdieinpolicecustody, which is by far one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.

I. Am. Scared.

How many names will I have to write about this stuff? How deeply will this repeated exposure to trauma affect brown and black folk? It is mentally, physically, emotionally and socially exhausting.

I’m glad that South Carolina took down the stupid confederate flag, but I’d rather the assault on Black lives cease. #priorities

So, I pray that we learn the truth about what happened to Sandra and Kindra, but in the meantime, don’t forget them or the numerous women of color who have also lost their lives at the hands of police.

Say their names and don’t forget them.


Failure and Forgiveness

Recently I was coaching another new parent through a rough moment with her new kiddo. I told her it was normal to feel some resentment about how much her life has changed and how hard her new life was trying to parent a kid with a traumatic history. It’s normal to reminisce about how good and easy life was before, and to feel angry and guilty for going down this raggedy path. It’s normal. Other parents told me, and I know it to be true.

She asked me if I had forgiven myself for doing this to myself, for making my life hard and sometimes miserable.

Sigh. Well…

I told her that I had come to realize that forgiveness isn’t an event; it’s a process. I told this new parent that I have to work hard to forgive myself every single day, and even sometimes a few times a day. I found myself sharing that concept with my fellow blogger, MyPerfectBreakdown, less than 24 hours later.

Sometimes I also have to work hard to forgive Hope for just being Hope.

And some days I fail at forgiving either of us at all.

I failed this week.

For the last few months I’ve been planning to slip back into my pre-Hope life by planning a vacation for us on Martha’s Vineyard. I splurged on a rental for a week. I smiled when I thought about how much I loved the quaint little shops, how I would fix myself a fun cocktail and sun myself on the porch or at the beach or at a pier. I was so excited.

And. Then. We. Got. Here.

And. It. Has. Been. Miserable.

It’s an old house, with lots of character and full of history. It’s been in the same African American family for close to a hundred years.

But none of that matters because Hope only sees an old house that has creaks and crevices with bugs. She has complained nonstop. She has dragged her feet and did nothing yesterday that would advance her movement with any swiftness. It actually took her 7 hours to get ready to go anywhere yesterday…I mean I know we are on vacation but her shoes weren’t even tied when she *finally* emerged. I had had 7 hours on a slow boil. And there’s the bug thing. I know she can’t help being afraid of bugs. I know. But dammit if the fallout post bug sighting doesn’t piss me off. I mean, it’s really dramatic and while I know there is a genuine physiological component, I think she amplifies things for even more attention. It is really, really extra.

And day one of my fantasy vacation ended with me flinging myself across my bed and sobbing loudly for 20 minutes, all the while wishing I had left her with somebody…anybody back home.

Yesterday I didn’t forgive myself for this life change. It’s hard and I’m struggling with her. I love Hope maddeningly but I don’t like this life very much right now.

The truth is that I’ve been kinda miserable for months; there have been punctuations of happy in there, but really, life sucks more than it doesn’t.

And Hope knows it. That makes me sad that she knows how miserable I feel. She often will comment that she messes everything up when I get upset. She doesn’t, but she seems *so* unaware and/or incapable of doing anything different so we always end up back to the same struggle.

I’m so tired. I’ve spent a fortune for this week and on top of everything else I feel fat. I just want to relax and enjoy some quality time without the drama.

But I bought the drama with me, and I kinda regret it.

So tomorrow, I will try again, to forgive myself for making my life so hard, for still having expectations that can’t or won’t be met, for being angry with Hope for all sorts of things that she can and can’t control, for not fixing myself that much needed rum and coke today, and for the guilt that I pile on top of all the other tough emotions that I feel thanks to this adoption journey.

I’ll try again today and tomorrow, and the day after that because I know that I have to chase forgiveness down and essentially make it my beeotch, every day.

I hope today is better.


Seven

The number 7 is a special number.

Seven is a prime number, and prime numbers are just cool.

There are 7 deadly sins, 7 days of the week, 7 hills in Rome, 7 colors of the rainbow, and 7 major oceans.

There’s 7-11, where I get my Slurpees nearly every day of the summer

There were 7 loaves used by the Holy Homeboy to feed the multitudes; the Holy Homeboy is said to have said 7 things while on the cross.

In Judaism there are 7 days of morning. In Islam there are 7 heavens. In Egyptology 7 is symbolic for eternity.

Seven is considered a number of completion. Seven is a perfect number, a symbol of divine abundance, a symbol of totality.

The number 7 is a special number.

It is also Hope’s emotional age. And as a reminder, Hope’s chronological age is now 14.

I often have to remind myself that 7 is a cool number with so much symbolism. I sometimes find the symbolism in stark contrast to my reality.

The distance between Hope’s emotional age and her chronological age frustrates me. I willfully forget it exists sometimes despite the constant reminders. I have expectations of Hope’s behavior and emotional abilities sometimes that aren’t fair to her emotional age. I struggle with museum visits that take all day because she is catching up on experiences she should have been having 7-10 years ago, but didn’t. I lose patience with her inability to “act” 14 consistently.

Then there are times when I remember that I originally thought I would adopt a child much younger than Hope, a child who might be between the ages of 7 and 10, perhaps. The irony that I get the experience of parenting a child who’s emotional age is in that range is not lost on me. I’ve read stories to Hope at night. We’ve been to a petting zoo, to children museums, to touch ponds…all experiences I know she missed when she was that age. I know that I’m trying to create those experiences for her because she is entitled to them, and she actually needs them, even if her body is much older than her mind.

I have to force myself to remember that seven is a special age. One of my sisters thought she would marry Luke Skywalker when she turned 7; she also thought that she would get her driver’s license at 7. At 7, I remember having one of my very first crushes but when the boy congratulated me on the birth of my youngest sister with a kiss on the cheek, I hauled off and hit him. I was totally in love. My little cousin is currently 7 and she is a delight; the things she says and does are so funny. Seven is such a precious age.

But it doesn’t seem as precious when 7 is housed within 14. At times it actually feels like it is: numerically half the fun. How’s this for fun…I’m 42. I am 6 times Hope’s emotional age…instead of just 3 times Hope’s chronological age.

Yeah, Hope and I are just factors of 7.

I remember reading somewhere that because 7 is the number of completion, the number 8 represents new beginnings and renewal.

I need us to get to number 8. That is my new goal, to get to 8. I can’t even say I remember the substantive differences between 7 and 8, but I know it will be closer to 14. That’s important to me right now.

I know that one day, Hope will catch up. It takes time, which is the one thing I don’t feel like I have sometimes. But time is the one thing she needs to make it happen.

I need that new beginning for her. I need the renewal for me.

I am so over 7.


Leaning In

I just spent a couple of days being wined and dined. It’s nice to be recruited. It’s absurdly flattering. It’s also confidence building to know that my work speaks for me. It was a great trip.

I can honestly say that I could see myself living in that area and doing the work.

I can also say that I immensely enjoy what I’m doing in my current job.

I learned a lot about other people’s vision for me, what I would be doing, and how I would be doing it. I found myself thinking, ”Well, some of these are interesting challenges; I could do some cool things here with this team.”

Someone talked to me about an ultimate career goals, and I realized that although I previously thought the trajectory she described was where I wanted to end up, maybe I really didn’t want to do that after all.

That realization, alone, made the trip worth it.

During the last few months of this professional flirtation, I never once doubted my ability to do the work or to be successful in the role being offered to me. My biggest professional questions were always did I want to do it, and would it position me to do things I wanted to do later in my career.

Some months ago, Mimi and I mentioned the book, Lean In, on Add Water and Stir. I grimaced when she mentioned it, and I recall Mimi asking why. We didn’t really go into it on the show, but I remember thinking that I have always felt like I was leaning in. I pushed boundaries; I created stuff; I might lack confidence, but you’d never know it (#neverletthemseeyousweat); I had goals and I would meet them if it killed me. I didn’t think that book was written for me.  #nope #notforme

Personally, adopting Hope was the epic lean in for me. It’s totally changed my life, of course. It has made me behave differently professionally, recognizing my need and desire to slow down a bit as a mom and especially as a single mom. My priorities shifted. And while I’ve still been really productive and taken on new challenges, I simply haven’t revolved my life around my job like I used to. And I’m good with that. I’ve taken some time to lean in on parenting Hope and shepherding her into adulthood.

So, now, here is an opportunity to take on a new challenge: uprooting my kiddo and moving her…again.

The challenge isn’t the job, I can do that job in my sleep. The challenge is the life logistics of what’s best for Hope.

To my professional flirt’s credit, they appreciate my concerns, but they also don’t truly get it. I got school tours, meetings with the principal of the “preferred” school in the district (I could and should write a whole blog about that “preferred school” thing). We talked about how fabulous the music programs were at the school and throughout the state, and how Hope might musically thrive in that environment. Folks had been briefed about our situation and genuinely offered suggestions on how to make it work.

In all though, only one person really appreciated the fact that I would need a ton of referrals to create a new medical support network for my daughter and, the referral of the great team notwithstanding; I wouldn’t have any additional support in the area. Even this one person simply said, “Oh Hope will adapt, the start of high school is a great time to pick up and move.”

Sure I think she would adapt, but Hope’s had to do so much adapting because of the adults in her life during her 14 years. Maybe for once, someone should make a decision that doesn’t involve her having to be the one to adapt.

That seems reasonable right?

In the end, I don’t see this opportunity as attractive enough to put my career above leaning in on Hope’s needs. I mean, I guess for a crazy amount of money perhaps, but crazy money isn’t in play here (though the offer is generous). Hope needs me; she needs stability, she needs the opportunity to fulfill some goals she has at her new school here. Hope has hope, right now, that we are home, that she can count on our routine, that she can continue to work on the social relationships she has here, that she can have access to her entire family—adoptive and birth—within a few hours drive. She needs roots. And we’re growing them.

And while I know that there have been a lot of people who’ve cared for her along the way, my sweet girl has been shuttled about nearly all of her life. For once can she just breathe easy that she doesn’t have to go anywhere for a while longer. #canHopelive?

My career is going fine. It’s nice to know I’m a prize. I am so very fortunate to be so happy doing what I’m doing, where I’m doing it. But I am making a choice to continue leaning in on mommyhood for a while longer. Hope needs to be able to lean on me.


Baby Fat

I have baby weight.

Ok well, with Hope being now 14 and 5’8” I suppose it’s not baby weight. To be fair, it’s more like adoption/dissertation weight.

I’ve never been a skinny chick. About 5 years ago my internist actually said that I have a large bone frame (I’m legit big boned!) and I nearly wept with joy. I put on about 15lbs while I was doing my EdD and I’ve since gained about another 10 since Hope’s arrival in 2014.

This is the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and I don’t like it. I try not to beat myself up about it too much, especially since I have a checked history with disordered eating. But still, this body thing has not been good for my psyche.

A couple of months ago I went shopping for some new work clothes and was horrified that I’d gone up two sizes and the new size wasn’t even all that flattering. I ended up buying two wash and wear dresses at J. Crew that didn’t look like tents despite my having to purchase them with more than one X on the size label. The whole experience was really depressing, and that’s no exaggeration given my recent post on the subject.

This week I’m on the road to visit a prospective employer. They’ve been relentlessly recruiting me for a couple of months, and despite my repeated pleas of disinterest, I’m flying out to do a site visit. (SIDE NOTE: Friends/Colleagues who are reading this, seriously, I do not have plans to leave the current gig. If I was serious about a move I wouldn’t be writing about it *wink.*)

Yesterday I set out to purchase a new business suit. I stepped up my workout routine the last two months with yoga, a plank challenge and cardio. I psyched myself up to go to the “Women’s” section of Macy’s to find a pant suit that would make me feel good because it actually fit. I told myself not to be concerned with the numerical size, but just focus on fit and feel.

What I did not tell myself was to leave Hope at home.

I’m still eager to have the shopping experience with my daughter that moms and daughters long to have: Sifting through racks looking at clothing, playfully bickering and then picking out stuff. I mean, it’s happened, kinda, but Hope really doesn’t like clothing shopping despite having the long lean body that I might be willing to lose a lower arm for. Her recent growth spurt had her going from a size 8 to a size 4, and her legs go on for days. Oh and she could live off of chips, ramen and those nasty vienna sausages that come in the can. #thatmetabolismtho

Ick.

Anyhoo, Hope tagged along on my trip to Macy’s where she proceeded to do the following:

  • Play in the clothing racks like she was 5 years old.
  • Repeatedly yell out my slacks size from 7 racks over in an effort to *help* me find something to wear.
  • Yelled out how all of the clothes in the “Women’s” section looked like granny clothes.
  • Kept asking if I was going to buy her something. #nodammit #shoppingformeonly

Eventually I snatched her up in the dressing room and explained that she was kinda killing my shopping vibe since I wasn’t feeling really good about myself. Oh and dang it, this shopping trip was not about her!!!

She had no clue. She said she hadn’t had a chance to play in the racks as a child, and she thought she was being helpful. From her perspective, *we* were having a great time. From my perspective I wanted to take my fat curvy self home to eat another piece of Hope’s birthday cake with extra icing. #emotionaleater

Sigh.

In the end, I did get back in the right head space. I got a nice black suit that will meet my needs. The slacks are little big so I’ll have them tailored sometime in the next couple of weeks. #vanitysizing I feel good about my purchase, and after our chat, Hope ended up being more helpful than hurtful. She tried and I was grateful.

My lesson yesterday was realizing that Hope doesn’t seem me as a chunky girl. I’m just mom, and I transcend size. She can’t understand why I would be concerned about my size or her yelling it across the department store. She’s always mystified that I workout and that I actually enjoy it or that I eat so many fruits and vegetables. I think she actually thinks I might be modeling a relatively healthy life and decent body image to her.

Imagine that.

I guess Hope can teach me a thing or two sometimes.

Still, she bet not run through them dang racks again. #nomaam


Thoughts on Charleston

I am really tired of writing about the challenges of feeling unsafe walking around in Black skin, raising a Black child.

I am tired of feeling like it is open season on Black lives.

I am tired of being fearful of watching the news, choosing to binge watch Hulu or Netflix because the reality of living in this skin means that it is more likely than not the news will relay a story of the death of a brother or sister…at the hands of someone White…because that’s what makes national news these days.

Oh sure, yeah, I hear the rumbling excuses used to distract us from living under the threat of social terrorism—“What about Black on Black crime?”

What about it?

I am tired of hearing about why we can’t get serious gun control in the US.

I am tired of seeing, reading, hearing about how White mass killers are “loners with emotional problems” who write racist manifestos, tell friends and family that they want to start a racial war, and are gifted a gun by parents.

I am shocked that this young killer was taken alive, given a bullet-proof vest and humanely taken into custody. That alone seems to be a privilege not afforded to Black folk who are walking down the street.

I fear that a time will come when my economic and educational privilege will be shown, in dramatic and terrifying fashion, not to trump the disadvantage of my skin color.

I am angered by the unmitigated gall of South Carolina to fly what I believe to be the treasonous flag of the Confederacy;  the Confederacy lost. We’re supposed to be a union.

I grieve for the dead:

Rev. Clementa Pinckney
Rev. Sharonda Singleton
Myra Thompson
Tywanza Sanders
Ethel Lee Lance
Cynthia Hurd
Rev. Daniel L. Simmons Sr.
Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor
Susie Jackson

I am so weary of this general subject matter. I feel compelled to write about it too often.

I am scared for Hope. I don’t want to keep explaining this ish to her. There is no explanation. None. I feel a sense of anguish after this massacre in Mother Emanuel. It is shameful. It is horrendous. I don’t know how the families can offer forgiveness. I am clearly not as far in my faith as they are, because I can’t offer that at all.

I am not even sure I can write anything else…the grief, sorrow and anger are just too much. I’ll just end with what my dear friend Mimi said on one of our early Add Water and Stir podcasts: “We’re trying to raise kids here!”


K E Garland

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