Welcome Back, Welcome Home

This is a welcome back to me. I have not written in so long I forgot I actually had a blog. Funny that. So much has happened between now and then and so many times I thought "I need to blog about this..." but then I did not. I regret that.

I think anxiety finally got me back here. Today I made an offer on a house. It will most likely be rejected, I came in low. Yet the hours after I put ion the offer have been filled with anxiety, dread, much number crunching, some stomach acid, and a wee bit total insanity. The mortgage broker is sending me e-mails of epic lengths with various financial scenarios. I keep trying to figure out why I thought I had enough money to do this, and in-between, my BFF is advising to simply hold tight, wait for a response and understand that this may not be "THE ONE." How do people do this?

The BFF is a former real estate agent. She has seen this insanity play out hundreds of times. She knows from where she speaks. I just want to know I won't be bankrupt and in debt. I just want to find a house that I can finally call my own again after almost 8 years of renting. A home for me and my little one, now 5 years old. A home in which to grow my family. A home where I don't worry if I put too many nails in the walls or paint said walls any color I would like. A home in the town where I have friends, community, and sidewalks so we can walk where ever we would like because EVERYTHING in this town is in walking distance.

I am a single mom. I work 2 jobs. I have saved money for almost 8 years waiting for this moment. I wanted this. Yet now that is is here, renting is looking awful good again. They say that buying/selling a home is one of life's most stressful events. They weren't kidding. Breathe, I say over and over. Just breathe.Even just  a little bit helps.

I Don't Know What to Say

Since the verdict in the Zimmerman/Martin case, I have had a very heavy heart. A young boy was needlessly killed. A mother and father have no justice for their son. The man who took Trayvon's life shows absolutely no regret, no remorse. Another young Black man is gone and people, or society, or both, do not see to value this loss of life in any way. Yet other voices have emerged and these are the ones to whom I am paying very close attention - the parents of young Black children, most specifically, young Black boys. Why? Because they hold and pass down the painful lessons of history. They have the collective, hard-earned, not-wanted knowledge of what it takes to survive as a Black boy, young adult, man in this American society. Mind you, I am saving every article, every blog, every list of what I need to tell my young Black son. I need to study, memorize, learn, talk to the experts - Black parents - because I am a White mom. If my son were White, I would have the privilege of not worrying every time he left the house that he might not come back. Here is some of what I have learned.

• do not run if approached by police. Then again, as Charles Blow of the NYT explained, not running may cost you, as it did in Trayvon's case. You can read his painful account of how the system failed here http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/16/opinion/the-whole-system-failed.html?_r=1&
• be respectful while speaking to the police even if they are not respectful of you
• call me immediately if you are stopped by the police and leave the phone on/connected even if we are not talking
• keep your hands visible at all times
• do not reach into your pockets, glove compartment or anything else without explaining what you are doing
• dress appropriately 
• do not raise your voice unless you are calling for help
• be wary of objects in your hands that might be construed, mistaken, taken, imagined, visualized as a weapon, like the above mentioned phone
• Be cautious about where you are and what you are doing after dark, even if it's walking home after debate team practice

This is all so scary. My son is not yet 4, and learning about police as people who are here to help you, people you should trust. It's going to be a fine line teaching him about walking in neighborhoods where he might not be seen as "belonging." People question my decision to move out of my predominantly White neighborhood. "It has great schools!" they exclaim. That's nice. But with an overall Black population of just 4%, how long will it take for my son to comprehend that people will always view him as an outsider in his own neighborhood. How long before someone calls the police because they see a "suspicious Black man" walking in a residential area? My "little" guy is already over 3 & 1/2 feet tall. How tall, how big will he be when he is 12, 15 18?

Some will say I am over-reacting. The silence of my family and some friends since the verdict has been painful at best. But I need to do whatever it takes to provide my son with the tools he needs to survive in a world that sees him not as a young man of potential, but as a young threatening man, I don;t think I have ever felt so inadequate as a parent as I do right now. The system and society are failing young men of color every day. I cannot fail my son.

When Your Toddler Turns into Edward Scissorhands

It was the day that all mom's with toddlers in daycare/preschool dread. The day when you go to pick up your darling, beloved, gentle, angelic, happy toddler and as you walk into the facility you are greeted by the teenage boy caregiver with the words "wait till I tell you what he did today!" My day happened when I came straight from my cousin's funeral to pick him up. That should give you a hint as to where y head was at that point.

Heart pounding, breathing fast, I ask "What did he do?" (In my inside voice I am screaming NOOOOO!!! already.)

Teenage boy answers "He cut Pollyana's* hair!!"

OMG! It's worse than I thought! Wait, wait, wait! I an handle hitting, throwing, pooping his pants, saying "No!" but cutting hair? What's next? No, don't answer that!

"Where did he get scissors?" I ask in utter horror.

"Teenage boy answers "I don't know."

Screaming inside my head continues to ask the following questions as I rush into the PreK3 room:
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"How bad is it?"
"Did he hurt Pollyana?"
"Should I kill him here or wait until I get home?"
"Do Pollyana's parents know?" (cue visions of litigation)

Screech to a stop in the PreK3 room. It's completely empty except for teenage girl caregiver. Repeat above scenario. Darling boy turned Edward Scissorhands is in a timeout in the Toddler Room. Ask the same question:

"Where did he get the scissors?"

Go into Toddler Room and find my guy happily playing.

"Did they tell you what he did today?" asks teenage girl #2 caregiver. I should note that this particular young woman ADORES my child for some reason and the Bug LOVES her right back. She continues when I nod yes because I can't talk for fear of losing my gourd in front of innocent little babies and toddlers. "He LIED to me when I aked him what he did. He LIED to me to me!!!" This as she is hugging Edward Scissorhands fiercely.

Want to hear something funny? This was the most upset anyone besides me was about this. I talked to the person in charge of Child Programs "Oh, I expect all toddlers to cut hair, usually their own, but sometimes someone else's hair."

Talked to Pollyana's mom "Oh, yeah, I know. Don't worry about it. She cut her own much worse. It's no big deal."

CAN SOMEONE TELL ME WHERE HE GOT THE SCISSORS??????Ah yes...the scissors. Well, all the kids were playing in the PreK4 Room and in that room, the scissors are accessible to the children. No biggie. So now, they play in the PreK3 room after school. Oh, and they are rounded safety scissors. Scissorhands couldn't have hurt Pollyana anyway. At least that is what they tell me. I don't buy it.

No big deal? No big deal? Rounded scissors? Cutting hair? This is a big deal in my world. I lectured my almost 2-year old. Took away TV. Told him how disappointed I was in him. He apologized to me and swore before he went to bed to "No cut hair anymore." This is the stuff of my parenting nightmares that I have somehow failed in some fundamental way that my beautiful boy would cut another child's hair. The litany continued in my head all night "I must be more disciplined with him. I must always explain that you never, ever touch another child with scissors or any other school supply EVER. We will talk about this again in the morning. I must be a better parent." I fell asleep completely and utterly exhausted.

That was 2 weeks ago. Since then, absolutely nothing of noting has occurred behavior-wise. No one talks about the Edward Scissorhands incident. No one seems to think about it. Except me. Apparently I have a normal almost 3-year old. On the up-side, maybe he'll want to become a barber/beautician.

10 Years & Counting

This past week I attended the Staff Recognition Lunch for those who have been with my University for 10, 20, 30, 40 and yes, 50 years! At first I didn't want to attend but I changed my mind mainly because a) I thought it would look bad if I didn't attend, b) I was getting a free lunch, and c) I might also get a free umbrella. Hey, umbrellas are handy, you can never have enough. Plus I thought I never, ever actually stay 10 years when I was hired, well, 10.5 years ago. Go figure.

My first hint that this was a BIG DEAL came as I watched a bus from another campus unload. Then there was the line of people waiting to check in. It was really lovely, yes, I did get an umbrella (plus a nifty tote bag) and yes, there were 4 people recognized for 50 years of service. But I got something else out of this event (besides the best chocolate cake EVER). It was the chance to think about the last 10 years of my life and what has happened. So here is a very brief run-down of the last 10.5 years of my life.

Got married (really 12 years ago but it's pertinent).
Tried to get pregnant.
Went to Hawaii.
Earned my PhD.
Got pregnant.
Went to the Grand Canyon.
Had a miscarriage.
Got divorced.
Moved into an apartment & lived all by myself for the first time ever (did I mention I was 38 at the time?)
Moved into my director's position after she was let go. All the glory, none of the money.
Trained for and finished my first and only sprint triathlon.
Fell in love.
Started the adoption process.
Visited the Iowa State Fair (epic - everyone should go once).
Moved again into a house with a housemate.
Travelled to Nicaragua for the 1st time.
Became single - again.
Became a mother in 6 hours (phone call at 12:30 p.m. Baby staring at me from dining room table at 6:30 p.m.)
Became seriously sleep deprived.
Became a single working mother.
Bought my first new car in 11.5 years (boy did those things get fancy).
Got a new housemate.
Celebrated my son's first birthday and my survival.
Went back to Nicaragua with my son.
Joined Twitter.
Got a new housemate.
Survived the holidays.
Went back to Nicaragua without my son and had a panic attack on a volcanic crater.
Went to my first (and possibly last) Sesame Street Live show.
Dyed Easter eggs for the first time in decades.
Taught more classes than I can believe.
Attempted Internet dating.

It looks funny written all down and this was just the basics. Lots of gory details were omitted like ER visits, projectile vomiting,  and the occasional "feeling like a total failure as a mother" fit. Ten years is a long moment in time. I don't know if I could have predicted much of anything listed above 10.5 years ago. Don't know if I would have wanted to. I like to believe I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Climate Control for your Vagina!

I completely understand that "feminine hygiene" products (code for pads & tampons because we know how much more pleasant feminine hygiene sounds) have evolved over the decades since I first got my period. I have even appreciated some of these advances like the thin maxi pad and the individually wrapped maxi pad. I was overjoyed when using a maxi pad no longer felt like having a twin mattress adhesed to my bikini underwear (back when I could get away with bikini underwear). I consider myself blessed to have escaped the years when a pad actually had long tabs and you wore a belt to which you attached the tabs. That does not sound comfortable. I have been perplexed by pads with tabs, pads with wings, overnight pads, and even pads shaped for a thong. I swear I saw one with a bib once but I may have been hallucinating while being sleep deprived at home with my infant son.  I have been outraged as the size of pads got smaller, the price went up and the quantity in each bag went down. But never, ever, in my 31 years of Aunt Flow from Red Bank, the red menace, that time of the month, my friend, my monthly, or menstruation did I ever think that my vagina would need climate control compliments of my thin maxi pad. Yes, you read that right. The last time I had my period, which thanks to the Pill is only every now and again, I casually reached for the bag of pads only to notice that - gasp! my pad of choice also offers me "thermo control." Apparently, this very pad which also promises me "super absorbency" can also keep me, or really my vagina, dry, cool and comfortable! Wow! Who new that my menstruating vagina needed an HVAC system! How have I lived up until now without a dry, cool, and comfortable vagina? I have visions of my vaginal temperature spiking and a small, whirring fan blowing cool, dry air to bring it back to a cool, dry and comfortable state. It boggles my mind when I think of the possibilities of what might follow this amazing and completely unnecessary development. Perhaps my pads will someday have a timing device that will sound a vaguely pleasant but still attention getting alarm, alerting me it's time to change my pad? Or maybe I can get an app for my phone that will signal changing time or a spike in vaginal temperature? Wait, I don't have a smart phone so that would be a waste. Anywho, I just thought that women everywhere would want to know about this latest "feminine hygiene technology" because God knows, there are not enough people out there telling us what to do with our vaginas (note: spellcheck on my blog site just alerted me that vaginas - vagina plural is not recognized). Why not manage vaginal climate too?

Talking to My Black Son

Most parents worry about having "the talk" with their kids - you know, sex. What will I say? Do I use pictures? What if they ask me how old I was when I had sex the first time? What if they ask me about anal sex? The list goes on and on. Me, I don't worry about the sex talk. That's cake to me - I'm a sex educator. Easy-peasey, nice and easy.

The "talk" that terrifies me? Talking to my Black son about being a target, being profiled, being stopped by the police for standing on a street corner, driving while Black, or "looking suspicious." Talking to him about trusting/not trusting, respecting, suspecting the people charged with protecting all of us. Talking to him about people who might look at him suspiciously when he walks into a store. People who cross the street when they see him walking toward them, women who clutch their purses close, or look anxiously behind themselves when they realize he might be walking behind them. People, women, police, men, store clerks, etc. who look like me - White people. I understand that even people of color may look at my son with suspicion. Why? Because when I look at my boy, my heart that walks outside of my body, my joy, and the best thing that has ever graced my life, I see potential, beauty, love and strength. What do they see? A young Black man - a threat.

Since the killing of Trayvon Martin I have been thinking, mulling, panicking, and crying. My son is 2.5 years old. Yet I am thinking about when he s 12-14 years old - most likely a tall boy who looks older than his age. Maybe he'll be hanging out with his friends, goofing off when someone complains that they are scared of this bunch of kids outside their house, their store, their restaurant. Maybe he'll have his cell phone in his hand, or a bag of Skittles. What will happen then?

I have watched almost every video, listened to the 911 call, read every article and blog post. I understand that Trayvon's killing is NOT an anomaly, it is more normal, even common, than anyone wants to think. That Black moms have worried for centuries when their sons are away from their home. That they have had to give them guidance about how to act, react, respond when they are stopped, confronted, questioned, detained, and arrested.

All of it combines for me into one huge questionable doubt for me - the White mom of a Black son. Can I even begin to prepare my son for the reality that awaits him? A persistent, malignant racism that targets him as Public Enemy #1?  My son, my heart, my joy, the best grace of my life. If yes, how?

4 years and 6 months

There have been so many things I have wanted to write about perhaps none more important than this.

4 years, 6 months. One thousand, six-hundred and forty days. That is how much time has passed since my sister's surgery for Stage 3 Renal Cell Carcinoma - a fancy name for kidney cancer. Ironically, it was an accidental finding. Abdominal pain, blood tests for ovarian cancer (notoriously inaccurate) are negative. We all breathe a sigh of relief. Next step CT scan and lo' and behold - a mass on her left kidney. Surgery scheduled. That was it. No chemo, no radiation. Nothing but CT scans/MRIs and chest x-rays every six months. So every six months - a total of 9 sets of tests since. A total of 9 collective-breath holding events for everyone, but especially my sister. I can feel her fear, it's palpable. As the appointment with surgeon draws closer, the phone calls increase. We talk about everything, nothing. Anything except yo-know-what. Each time, the tests come back negative we all smile, breathe easier and say "we knew it would be negative."

We lie. We know no such thing. In fact, we live in utter terror that THIS time will be the one. The one where she hears the word cancer again. After all, our mother and 3 uncles all died from cancer. Another one is living with it. Our cousin's cancer returned this winter after a brief vacation from her life. Another cousin awaits her test results after surviving breast cancer. She is my age.

My sister has not had an easy life health-wise. Multiple surgeries. Two near-death experiences. Each time, I wonder, why her? Why not me? I never come up with an answer. Instead I pray for her health, I ask for patience and faith. I accept my job to be her biggest cheerleader, to never, ever, under no circumstance, let her see my fear. To love her fiercely. She would plotz if she even knew I was writing this.

We are separated by a mere 18 months. I am younger - a fact that I never let slide. But that is the only thing that separates us. I countdown the next 6 months silently with her. In July, she will reach that critical 5-year survivor mark. I'll let you all know how it goes.