When death comes to visit, it can be so devastating. All we feel is loss. We feel that our heart bank is in the negative, but that’s just our pain. Grief is really just an overabundance of love that doesn’t have a receptacle to receive it. Think of a bottle filled with your favorite beverage poured right onto the counter… The beverage is amazingly delicious and refreshing from a glass, but when you pour it onto the counter it makes quite a mess… an inconvenient, unpretty, unpredictable, nasty mess. The drink… is amazing when it has a place to go, but when the designated vessel is missing— the drink… the love… the thing that once brought so much joy suddenly hurts like hell. That’s grief.
I choose to believe that in each loss, when someone is taken from us… something is left behind.
The holiday season is fully upon us. There’s less than one week before Christmas and I am super excited. Christmas is a family favorite. Obviously, the children love it because… GIFTS. I’ve tried to provide the giving is better than receiving narrative and they think that’s great and all, but they’re children. So yeah… YAY GIFTS!!! Hahaha!
I grew up in a house where Christmas was a big deal. I mean, multiple Christmas trees, decorations everywhere, gifts galore and the joy of the season in abundance. My mother orchestrated the production of Christmas and injected it into everyone around her. So, it still stands. The tradition is firmly planted.
Imma be honest though. Christmas stresses me out. We have four children. That’s a lot of seasonal “joy” to spread around. And it’s not even all the money. Trust— there’s a lot of it being spent. It’s the doing of it all. And I’m conflicted; right? Because I love the outcome of the doing. I even actually love the act of doing, but it is also wearing me out.
Today, I am so aware of people who are in a state of missing. I’m thinking of people who are dealing with disappointment, loss and grief.
To be clear, there are many types of loss and grief with varying degrees, swinging like a wrecking ball on a pendulum.
And death isn’t the only pathway to grief. Grief can come from an anticipated loss. When you know that while you still presently have something, you will lose it imminently.
Consider folks who are in the process of divorce, a friendship that is on the rocks, abortion, layoffs, illness that causes loss of body function or lifestyle. Someone just found out their baby no longer has a heartbeat. Someone else has a home in foreclosure or found out their parent has 4 weeks to live. In the last month, I have heard of at least four different missing women.
Think of social media as a scrap book or family photo album. Picture your mother or grandmothers photo album on the coffee table. I don’t know about you, but I have seen those photos a hundred times and I never tire of them. They make me feel good. In every picture, the subjects can be found living, laughing and loving. In every picture I feel positive energy.
I haven’t seen a photo of a divorce decree, a police report from a domestic dispute, a custody order or a child’s failing report card in there. I’m sure the people in the photos experienced some of those things. YET… I have never had any expectation to find that information or evidence of that information in the photo album. I look at that book to see the very best of the people in it; not the worst. So, why do we look at social media any different?
Stop crucifying folks for only showing you the best of their life. That behavior only exposes the worst in you.
I am so happy to be writing today. Describing the last almost three months as difficult would be a major understatement . I have wanted to write— to tell you what my family and I have been facing. I have wanted to write about the truth of walking my child through a traumatic experience. I have wanted to share the intimate details of a helpless mother… the heartache of watching the best parts of you become the darkest part of you.
But this is my safe space… my joy.
This is a blog read by many people and yet it still feels so intimate to me. I didn’t want to tarnish it by discussing an experience I haven’t healed from. I didn’t want to transfer these negative emotions. I’ve been so angry and sad and angry and enraged.
I don’t like belaboring anything. I work hard, in fact, not to do it because it’s rooted in ego; not understanding… annnnd I don’t like it done to me. I am a person who will travel to a far away land in my mind if someone keeps saying the same thing repeatedly after I’ve demonstrated understanding. However, there is a distinct difference between belaboring and reminding or reinforcing.
*Stick with me. This isn’t a thesis.
Belaboring speaks to continued talking for the purpose of self-aggrandisement after the point is made and understood. It’s for the speaker. Reminding and reinforcing speaks to bridging the gap between knowing, understanding and execution. It’s for the recipient. Belaboring is punishment. Reminding and reinforcing are tools of continued learning.
I said all that to say, personal evolution is hard AF, and not enough people understand this.
The world would lead you to believe that it is impossible for women to share in loving, productive, symbiotic relationships. I think this is particularly true in portrayals of Black women, buuuuuut it’s fair to say that women of all races get a bad rap for how they interact with each other.
Blame misogyny. Blame patriarchy. Blame media.
For me, I think it is important to cast out these negative and false accounts regarding relationships between women. These accounts that portray us as overemotional, drama filled and in constant competition. I won't lie, I have had a bad interaction or two. However, over the course of my life it is my relationships with other women that have lifted me up and held me down. It is my relationships with women that have provided covering and protection.
I can’t sleep. It is currently 2:06am and ya girl is sitting at the kitchen table talking to you. Not that I don’t enjoy y’all, but you know. The room is the right temperature, my bed is super comfy and I’m freakin sleepy. Not to mention my handsome, lightly snoring husband is up there. Buuuuuuut so is my toddler. So there’s that.
It’s raining cats and dogs, which usually equates to excellent sleep. Not today. Today I am awake. Because this rarely happens to me— I know something is up. I’ve always been a night owl, but this ain’t that. I am not currently choosing to be awake. My mind is trespassing. It won’t stop wandering over my life.
I wasn’t really mad about the letter itself. I was initially alarmed, but not mad. I became annoyed and irritated when the rep wouldn’t own that the letter was dishonest. What I quickly understood was that even though I was right; it didn’t matter. Also, Conner didn’t have the authority, awareness or capacity to apologize and I couldn’t make him. My feelings about this ultimately inconsequential situation were really about other people I have encountered in my life who are quick to deflect responsibility and refuse to own their mistakes and shortcomings.
I allowed myself to be triggered. I became angry and frustrated because I have not healed the places in my heart where people I have been in relationship with wouldn’t be honest and own their shit.
I returned to my thoughts from the funeral I attended days before. Why are we more compelled to spend time celebrating a persons shell rather than the actual living person? How are we showing up in the lives of people we say we love while they are still living?
I guess I just want us all to think about the cost of being too busy. Too busy for a phone call, too busy to visit, too busy to have lunch, too busy to sit a while longer, too busy, too busy, too busy…
KD Bowe, an Atlanta radio personality made a Facebook post, on 1.24.13 following the death of his mother. I will never forget his words. It reads in part:
“At this stage in my life, I just stay busy. The ironic thing is I did in death what I could never seem to find time to do in life … I made time to come home for a week.”
I imagine his mom would have preferred he come home for a week while she wasn’t laying in a casket… he clearly does too. This is no indictment on KD Bowe. No shame. No guilt. He is living his choices. Still, it begs the question…
Why do we make time for dead people and excuses for the living?
The entire cast is stellar, but I absolutely do have my favorite characters. Randall and Beth, otherwise known as R&B, are my dream characters. I see my husband and I in both of them. And isn’t referring to them as R&B, i.e. Rhythm and Blues, totally appropriate? Yesssss. Because sometimes marriage is all Ain’t Nobody(Chaka Khan) and other times it’s more End of the Road(Boys II Men). You feel me??
The last few weeks have almost exclusively focused on Randall and Beth. I’ve had some loving, harsh words for Randall recently. I love him SO much, but bruh has been T R Y I N G it. I’ll admit I lost faith in faith in him. I wasn’t sure his love for Beth was greater than his need to be seen and valued by the masses. His abandonment issues have always left him striving for worthiness outside of himself.
I’m so happy I was wrong. The sigh that escaped my body was definitely audible when I realized the two would find their way back to each other. They found the door. Even as a fictional couple, I understand the impact of authentic representation.
Then, something broke in me as I approached my 40’s. I remember telling a dear friend, “I just feel so open.” I didn’t even understand the extent to which I was open and how my life would change as a result. I just felt the opening so strongly. And it wasn’t that I didn’t care what other people wanted or thought. It was more that what I wanted and thought was finally my priority. It was as if everything I was suppressing refused to remain submerged. My heart and mind insisted on BEING in the way God initially created me. I remembered who I was and I refused to abandon her again.
See, food and cooking is how I say, “I love you.” It’s how I say, “I’m glad you’re here.” Honestly, it’s one of the reasons I have such difficulty managing the goals for my health and fitness, but I digress. We can chat about that another day.
Off I went to the store the day before the party.
On my way to the store I decided the menu would include baked ziti and a tossed salad with yummy add-ins like gorgonzola cheese, green apples, craisins and such. I grabbed ground and linked Italian sausage. I quickly remembered several of my guests don’t eat pork. No worries! I’ll just grab some ground beef and more ingredients. Now, I have to make two sauces, but I got this. I headed to check out.
Oh crap!!! One of my guests can longer eat tomato anything. Side note: I grew up in a house that was always entertaining. My parents taught me that you make people feel welcomed by considering them in your choices. In other words, make sure there’s something for everyone. I decided to grab some chicken breasts and veggies to make chicken alfredo pasta too. I finished shopping. I had about 20lbs of meat, a full cart and a fully overwhelmed heart.
Parenting is hard. I’ve said it in the past. I’m saying it now. And I’m pretty confident I’ll say it many times in the future. Parenting. Is. Hard. Everyone talks about baby showers, beautiful birth stories and funny toddler tales, but no one is discussing, flatly, the difficulty associated with raising children. Why can’t we stop using our children as a measurement of how much better we are than other mothers? Why don’t we all just admit we don’t know what the hell we’re doing and meet at Chili’s for $5 margaritas to discuss strategies and support each other???
Do I ground him for this? How many fruit snacks is too many? Should she be friends with that girl? Why won’t he stop lying? At what age should they date? How many wipes should I use before I give him a bath? How much fast food is too much fast food? Why am I more uncomfortable watching love scenes than violence with them? Is cookie dough really bad for them?
At the present moment I am feeling a little anxious about choices we are making for our children and choices they are making for themselves. This isn’t a positive or negative admission. It’s just me standing in my truth.
Growing up Black is a be seen and not heard kind of existence. In my experience, to find a Black child with the authority to fully BE, in the presence of adults is the exception; not the rule. Control, rules, excellence and respectability are major components of the Black child rearing experience. Black children need to grow up with their shit together. This didn’t happen in a vacuum. It’s a direct result of slavery, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era and a post racial America *side eye*. The privilege of speaking about anything at anytime was snatched from us and whipped out of us on slave ships, auction blocks, in the fields and in the big house.
Saying the “wrong” thing or being at the “wrong” place at that time could get an adult or even a child, literally killed— It still can. We have too many examples. Being seen and not heard is not a simplified way to parent; it’s a safety mechanism. Part of the Black experience is simply trying to keep your children alive in a way that it isn’t true for other races. The same is true of how we are steered towards career choices. Careers that are perceived as frivolous, i.e. dancer, artist or musician are not routinely supported.
Social media in theory is an amazing tool for enhancing relationships. Too many of us are using it as the canvas for our relationships when it should only be one of the brushes we use to paint. It’s one way to manage relationships; not the only way. It’s supposed to bring us together, but the truth is that it does the exact opposite. It gives a false sense of unity because you can see what’s going on in the lives of others even when you’re not an active participant. Some of our friends are at the end of their proverbial rope and we don’t know because we’re using Facebook pictures and posts to determine their mental and emotional well being. You think you know what’s going on, but you really have no idea.
Smiling faces tell lies.
For me, it’s the difference between shopping online and walking into the store. From the comfort of your device you can see the color, size and fabric. That is good information. But… You cannot feel the weight of the material, the vibrance of the color or how it fits on your body.
This isn’t the land of make believe and you don’t have the ability to see through walls or leap over buildings in a single bound no matter what your children, spouse, or other people in your life think. I know. I know. The idea of being able to do anything at any time sounds fascinating and productive. Other people believing you can do anything, at any time, regardless of circumstances makes you feel important and needed. Look at how proud they are of me doing everything under the sun. Look at your chest all puffed up with the “S” stamp. You can’t get enough of the accolades. You feel amped. You feel invincible. Thing is…. You’re not.
You are not invincible.
You cannot do anything at any time regardless of circumstance. You know who can? God. You, my friend, are not God. I can tell you who you will be if you keep this charade up though. Resentful. Yep. Resentful. And who wants to wear resentment as a badge of honor?
I have worked in corporate America. I have worked in inner city classrooms of Chicago. Being a SAHM is still without question the hardest work I have ever done. This is in part because being a parent is more difficult than anyone lets on. My understanding of parenthood was incomplete… at times I think it still is. Being a stay at home mom is a 24/7 endeavor. From the time I wake up until I close my eyes, I am meeting the needs of someone who is not me.
Please don’t consider this a declaration of my unhappiness or complaint. On the contrary, being a stay at home mom is a gift. But it requires compartmentalization and understanding. There have been many days in this social political climate that I was grateful I didn’t have to go to work. Hell, sometimes I don’t even go to the grocery store because I don’t want to see the world. So, I know I would dread going to the office.
This isn’t complaining. This is me, sharing pertinent information. Also… listen carefully, I am not ignoring or minimizing the plight of working mothers. Most of them do what I do while working outside the home full time. For me, what I noticed and miss most was the drive to and from work. You know? Those small periods of time when I was alone to make uninterrupted phone calls or listen to music that is inappropriate for children who can talk. #JudgeYourOwnSelf
It is our job to combat misogyny, toxic masculinity, predatory behavior and rape culture by educating and empowering children. Talk to them about predatory behavior and grooming. Tell them, age appropriately, what these creeps say and do… Wait. Obviously, parental discretion should be used, but nothing predators do or say is age appropriate.
Tell your children the truth.
Tell your them what predators say and how they manipulate.
And for God’s sake stop insisting your kids hug and kiss everybody. What if I told you— YOU are grooming your own child for predators. You are the biggest obstacle to your child’s understanding that permission to touch their body can only be given by them.
We need to re-contextualize strength. Like, what does it even mean to be “the strong one”?
Because it is NOT the absence of fear or pain or desire or disappointment. I believe that we have, in error, taken a patriarchal view of strength and applied it to our emotional sensibilities in an effort to make us appear less weak. They told us that strength and weakness cannot dwell in the same space. Men, for too long, set the expectation for tolerable behavior for women. Women are killing themselves to meet it. And women are cosigning this behavior. It must stop.
I am trying to negotiate an understanding of literal strength, figurative strength and the reality of my actual strength. What does it look like? What does it feel like? How have I previously misunderstood and in turn misrepresented strength. I am currently being forced to confront these feelings of wanting to be strong, solvent and also having to embrace that pieces of me breaking.
