Too Gone, Too Long

It's been a long time. I shouldn't have left you...

My head is full of so many thoughts. So full, in fact, that I can't begin to process the information necessary for my school work. It's summer. Brain deadness always happens in summer. That part I'm used to. But this, this feeling is different. My mind is spinning. But the words aren't coming. I'm full of thoughts, hopes and dreams but the ability to process and make sense of information isn't readily available. I think I need a brain dump.

I'm dreaming again. This part is good. I think it's good anyway. I spend a lot of time wondering "what if" ... what if I decided to skip the single mom by choice life and date? And get married? What if the one I've been dreaming about for ages actually saw me? How would my life be different? Is this something I need to aim for? This line of questioning is prompted by all of the single mom bashing in the media ... and conversations with friends. I've reached the point where I'm thinking about what the word "family" means. That and, honestly, I'm quite sure that having a second income would make life easier. Of course, I need to put my faith where my mouth is and actually trusts that God will provide ... with or without a partner.

Pregnancy does that, I think. It makes you reflect on how you're living and what you want for your life. Oh, what's that? No idea what I'm talking about? Right. I guess this is the official announcement. I'm expecting #2. I miscarried in February so I've been a little nervous about announcing this pregnancy. That, and I'm acutely aware that not everyone will celebrate this with me. What I heard from some of my "friends" in the wake of my miscarriage convinced me that my business is my own. Not everyone who should celebrate/cry with you will - sometimes because they're just not able.

I have to mention that I have several friends in the midst of divorce. I've been thinking about them, their pain ... and, for some of them, their joy. And I'm consumed by the reasons for the splits. Some of my friends have chosen to leave abusive situations, they've been up front and honest about choosing life for themselves. Some of my friends have convinced their soon-to-be-former spouses that there is love where there is not. To see both sides of those stories is heartbreaking. Witnessing the deceit - and seeing the pain - it takes a toll. Considering that some of the most deceitful and manipulative in these situations are also the ones with the worst - and most harmful - reaction to my own tragedy, I'm ready to purge friends. And family.

The thoughts of who I want in my life and why, really, are the most time consuming. I need to revamp my life. I do wish it were as easy in real life as it is on Facebook. Letting go of people and situations is difficult - especially when they're constantly present. Out of sight and out of mind is so much easier to do. So I've been trying to figure out how to make drastic cuts in my life. While thinking about marriage, planning for a second child, looking for a place to live, trying to figure out a budget for the next school year, planning for the Son's first year of preschool and, all the while, neglecting my prospectus. That's been my summer.

I should write, right?

It's been almost a year since I last blogged. Been busy with the whole finish the degree thing. Still got a lot of work to do on that. I've a prospectus due .... today. I've done ...little to middling on that. And, then, there's the dissertation. Still gotta do that. *sigh* Between that and being a Mom, not a lot of time for blogging. I need to do better. I will...


Next week.

Mother's Day Purple

I spent the last week with growing angst about Mother's Day. I know a wonderful mother who has a wonderful family that takes her children to purchase gifts for her. My family doesn't do that. Come Mother's Day, I was sure, I would go out of my way to celebrate my mother who would go out of her way to celebrate my sister-in-law but no one would do squat for me. I felt selfish at the thought but angered also. The days passed and Mother's Day grew closer. My mother -gramma- helped my nephew make his mother (my sis-in-law) a card. This meant he used my son's crayons. This meant my son's crayons were broke. That's not the part that bothered me. My son sat down to color with his cousin. Did gramma suggest he make a card for his mommy, too? Nope. What DID happen? My brother pulled a crayon from his hands to help my nephew make his card. Of course, my son threw a fit. Then my mom gave my brother a crystal vase and money to buy my sister-in-law flowers.
To their credit, my sister and my brother each gave me a card.
To their credit - and my joy - my son's day care had him make me some very beautiful keepsakes.
I made my Mom brownies....with too many walnuts. Just like she likes.
The night before Mother's Day there was a concert - Morehouse Glee Club. I purchased a ticket. As we got dressed, my mother was ...snarky to say the least. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to go. My son and I had a blast and enjoyed my Mother's Day gift to us.
On Mother's Day, my mom was shocked when she remembered to tell me "Happy Mother's Day". This is my 2nd Mother's Day - my son is almost 2. How are you shocked that I'm a mom. The morning got worse from there.
My son and I wore purple to church. Purple, my favorite color. We were twins. After church, my family of choice took me to brunch and gave my son flowers to give to me.

On the way home, I knew it was me. I thought that I didn't try hard eneough to "fit in" to or didn't know how to appreciate my family. I thought that the issue just might be that I'm too stuck up. But then I got home. The accusations started. Apparently, I'm not a good mom. Or so they say. And, suddenly, I was over it. In this family, it seems, that Mother's Day is only for mothers who have a father - or a father's mother - for their children. For the rest of us, well, our place is to support them. Blue with sadness and red with rage. A very purple Mother's Day indeed.

Like a sock in the dryer

She told me to write my bio line.
Those few sentences at the end of a piece
that direct the reader
to know who is writing.
That should be simple, right?
Just write
yourself on to the page.
But that advice, for some reason, had me at a loss.
Who am I?
Other than Mommy?
State employee
who hates her job?
Preacher, ordained clergy
who won't sit in the pulpit?
An academic
who can't complete her degree?
An intellectual
who never has time to think?
I am
and I am not.
And I feel lost.

She suggested I come up with a theme
around which I write.
Something that interests me
something that displays my expertise
something based on my identity
something that comes from my voice.
Race?
No.
Single motherhood by choice?
No.
Gender?
No.
Theology?
Uh...
Barthian theology?
Feminist theology?
Womanist theology?
No.
Who am I?!
About what will I write?
I feel so lost.

Sitting quietly, giving hugs
full of cheer
quickly turned to tears
about nothing.
Cars dug for
get launched down the stairs.
Hungry?
Sleepy?
Yeah.
He ate the waffle
wouldn't drink his milk.
He couldn't keep his eyes open.
Sleep before he hit the bed.
It's 6 pm.
I feel so lost.

“Feminism is for everybody!” that’s what bell hooks insisted in her book by the same title. Men and women, young and old, regardless of race. Everybody. But I am not a feminist. It is not that I eschew the feminist ideal as much as the label itself. Still, I was a little more than irked when I read that single moms of color need to be more “feminine” in order to date and, presumably, “complete their families.” If such an ideal had been written anywhere else, loud Palin-esque cries of racism and sexism would’ve radiated throughout the internet. These words, though, were written by a mothering, single Black woman on a blog for moms, single and married, of color. And that alone is painful.
The mother who typed those words is a mother of a son. She insisted that, prior to having a son, she thought the ability to run a household, to make her own decisions and be in charge was admirable. In fact, she chided the men who wanted women to be “more feminine in conduct and action.” Having a son changed all that for her. Not because she realized, in raising a son, that being able to decide is a quality of life that is not gender-bound. Neither did she conclude, in rearing a boy, that relationships should be mutual, with neither partner “in charge.” Instead, this sista, in charge of her own household, being the mama and the daddy, looked at her son and worried that he may just choose someone like her. She concluded she needed to be more feminine. (Don't believe me? Here's the link: http://www.momsofhue.com/2009/09/single-moms-embrace-your-femininity/)
I have a friend who has been a single mother for less than a year, though her son is almost school age. She has devoted at least half of that year to finding a partner, a replacement for her ex-husband. Recently, I spotted her in the grocery store with a teenager who had given birth to her own son less than a month ago. My friend was trying to convince the teenager to let her introduce her to a man. “He’s not that much older than you!” The teenager gave birth halfway through her senior year in high school, and dropped out. She’ll never attend prom. She’ll never have a chance to enjoy senior skip-day or walk across the stage for graduation. Fully in the midst of post-partum baby daddy mess, the last thing this child needed was to be introduced to a man. But there she was, standing in the check-out line, being prodded by an older, shoulda-been-wiser, mom to find herself a man.
Both of these situations perplex me equally. I thought, at first, that I couldn’t understand because I did not conceive my son lying beneath a quivering, sweaty body. Or, perhaps, I was confused because I wasn’t simultaneously trying to teach a child and heal a broken heart. Being a single mom by choice affords me a few privileges. But I’m still a single mom. And I’m still raising a son. And I’m still a Black woman. Superficially, then, I am in the same predicament as all three of the women with whom I could not disagree more. What gives?
Maybe I’m a feminist after all. See, I thought long and hard about it. I concluded that being able to handle my own business, take care of my own family and concede the decisions to no one is not a masculine trait. It is a myth, to be sure, that a strong, independent Black woman is masculine in character. Back in the day, Eldridge Cleaver wrote about the Self-Reliant Amazon. She was so strong, mentally, that she had no use for the Super-Masculine Menial, the strong body. Cleaver, and the Black Panther Party that picked up on this ideal, identified Black women with the Self-Reliant Amazon and Black men with the Super-Masculine Menial. The self-reliance, the mental fortitude of the Amazon, they rationalized, was at the heart of the oppression and was counter to the revolution. Having a body, to be more explicit, was to be feminine; having a mind masculine. (I, quite obviously, venerate the Self-Reliant Amazon. Not just because of her iconic status as mental strength, but because of her resilience, her determination, her history as vanguard for freedom, justice, peace and her role as giver and protector of life. It goes without saying that I think Cleaver, (my beloved!) Huey Newton and the Black Panthers were misogynists. But I came into womanhood reading and loving them – with the exception of Cleaver – precisely because of their ideas about personhood and revolution. The day I realized that I was not included in their rhetoric for freedom was a sad day, indeed!)
This dualism is typical of Western society but, in the Black community, it turned into a call for women to abandon their strength for the sake of liberty. Boo.
Not only do I reject that dualism, I reject the notion that women who think too much are assisting in the oppression of their communities. Moreover, I fully refuse to accept the false dichotomy between thinking, deciding, choosing and being a woman. Not to mention what this says about being a man. To paraphrase President Obama, I reject that choice as false! No, I will not give up my agency – my personhood – for the sake of a partner in the sack. Not a chance. And neither will I teach my son that being a man means he expects that of a woman. Not a chance.
But what, then, do I teach my son of manhood, of maleness? And how do I, as single mom of color, deal with men and dating?
It is my considerable estimation that I will not raise my son to “be a man”. I’m teaching my son to be comfortable in his own skin. I’m teaching my son to think for himself. I’m teaching my son to stand on his own two feet. I’m teaching my son to speak the truth, to work for justice, to serve the people. I’m teaching my son to do right by people – even if they’re different from him, even if he disagrees with them. I’m teaching my son to walk gently upon the earth, to be careful of his footprint. I’m teaching him to treat those in his life with care – both physically and emotionally. I’m teaching my son to be compassionate and full of empathy. I’m teaching him to value himself. I have to teach my son to use the bathroom, one day standing up, and how to not get a girl pregnant. Those are the only sex specific lessons I’ll teach him. Not a single one of these ideals are reserved for men. Moreover, if my son chooses, as his life progresses, that he is in fact, genetically male but an engendered woman, none of these lessons will be lost to him. I’m raising a person not a stereotype.
Nothing about the way I’m raising my son, the values I pray he’s getting from me, or our family structure causes me to worry about the type of woman he’d choose (assuming his sexual orientation is such). Entreating single moms to rid themselves of their “masculinity”, their self-reliance, for the sake of their sons’ future relationships, I think, is proof positive for self-hate. Why wouldn’t you want your son to end up with someone just like you: strong, independent with a mind of their own? The alternative is far more frightening. But, then, maybe I am a feminist. Is feminism for single moms?

Valentine's Day

There were no flowers for me.
No benevolent family members to teach my son thoughtfulness.
No card.
No chocolate.
Just my son
hugging, cuddling,
laying his head on mine,
tolerating a cousin,
sharing his toys
and his food.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.

Hurried footsteps up the stairs
a 3 year old in a panic.
"Can someone take me poopy?"
I asked my Daddy but he was too busy.
"My booty hurts."
Half way through a diaper change
a naked butt staring up at me from the bed.
Can you find your gramma?
"Sit on the potty,
I'll go get your Daddy."
Daddy, I don't like my aunty anymore.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.

"I want Salahaldin's toy."
Gramma, give me Salahaldin's toy
Salahaldin's food
Salahaldin.
It's MINE.
Okay, baby, we'll go get you your own.
No. I don't want my own.
I want HIS
His is better
His is nicer
His is his
I want his.
Bruises shaped like 3 year old fingers
taunt me from my baby's arms.
Why do you let him play with me?
"ENOUGH!
I told you no more pushing, no more snatching,
no more. Time out."
Screams.
Fake tears.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.

Sick stomach.
Hurting head.
Pounding sinuses.
Running noses.
Coughing toddler.
"Raisins, Mama!"
No. More. Raisins.
"Wah der?
Kah kee?
Milk?
A cup?"
Sleep before the diaper's closed.
No hug. No kiss.
That was my Valentine's Day.

Little girls in grown up bodies

I moved in with my mom. That meant moving in with my sister, too. I don't like my sister. She's selfish, spoiled and very immature. Just talking to her is a challenge. Even the most benign conversations turn into arguments. Why? Hellifiknow. She's very, very bossy and ignorant at the same time. I hate having her around my son. It's just hard.

When we were smaller, we were friends. Then we were on and off again as teenagers, depending on the hormone level. Then, for a minute there, we were friends again. But the person she has decided to be is just intolerable. I keep making excuses for her. She's not used to change. She's still getting used to us living here and is behaving in response to that. But she's almost 30 years old. It makes no sense that she's still behaving like an upset teenager. I honestly wonder if she has Aspberger's Syndrome - she's that resistant to change and becomes that angry when you tell her no. We have the same argument every other week. The food I cook on Sunday night is for my child. No, you can't have any. Yes, it is fair. You are a grown woman, you can make your own food. He's a toddler, he can't. No, it's not selfish for me to prepare food only for my son. He's a toddler. He needs to eat. I don't have time to cook during the week so I cook it all on Sunday night. No, you can't have any. I can't understand why she can't understand that. She can't understand why she can't get what she wants.

My son eats a banana every third day. In any given week, we may eat 3 bananas between the two of us. Little sis eats 3 in a sitting. She's incensed that she has to buy bunches of bananas every week. "It's time for someone else to buy bananas." Responds Mom, "I just bought $8 worth of bananas." They were $.49 a pound. That's a lot of bananas. She ate 6 a day. "Not you, the other someone else." Why? Because you feel the need to have someone take care of your needs? If your pocketbook can't support the outrageous amount of food you eat, that's not my problem.

She has a sense of entitlement that I cannot begin to understand. It would make perfect sense for a 15 year old. But once you're over 25, it's nonsense. On the outside, she's grown. But...internally...not so much.

Oh Boy!

A few days ago, on a SMC weblist, a mom-to-be posted her disappointment upon learning that her growing child may be male. She claimed to be depressed, she really didn't want a boy. She had paid extra to gender select for a girl. (GENDER select? I don't know why it's called that and not SEX select. Seriously, there is no telling what gender your child will be - even if you're clear about their sex. But that's a tangent.) The moms and wanna be moms flamed her. Some concluded that she would abuse her baby. In their defense, she did say that she would look at her son with disappointment that he wasn't a girl. They insisted that she should give her son up for adoption, that she was insensitive to the women who were still trying to get pregnant. One mom chided her that motherhood is about flexibility, her attempts to control her family were contradictory to reality.

*SIGH*

While all of this was going on, my son became ill. Very ill. In retrospect, his temperature was never dangerously high. It just wouldn't break. And he couldn't keep anything down. So, for the second time in his life, he was given an IV. I missed days upon days of work. I removed vomitty sheets and replaced them with clean ones. Then I removed those. And again. I thought we were out of the woods. We weren't. Diapers blew out through the onsie, down the leg of his pajamas into his socks. Flexibility? Being a mother is about adapting. Adapting to new symptoms, adapting to new events, adapting to news. Adaptation, though, is not an easy process. It can't always be met with joy and glee. That's not reasonable. But newness, the introduction of the unknown unknown, is met. That's motherhood. Being able to say, "Oh what the hell now!", accept it and keep it moving.

The hormonal poster insisted that her vision of her child included purple bows and white dresses. How could she accept anything less? *sigh* We get no say.

While I sat up, taking temperatures, force feeding pedialyte, I watched reruns of RuPaul's Dragrace. These beautiful drag queens, born to their mothers as boys, wrapped themselves in dresses, slathered on more makeup than a little bit and looked better than I ever could. As mothers, our job is to help our children be the best they can be - who and whatever they are. We don't get to decide, we don't get to mold, we don't get to determine. That's what pregnancy is supposed to teach us. And if it doesn't, well, those first 3 weeks will.

Earning my Stripes

I can’t write. I would love to write. All I want is to write. I can’t write. I’m afraid. There are so many things I’m trying to keep from saying. Like, this isn’t the way I imagined my life. None of this was part of the plan. Sitting at a desk in a state office, 5 stories up, 5 miles away from the closest institution of higher learning, 50 miles away from completing my degree, spending 5 days a week doing work that is meaningless, buried under 500 times the amount of paper that I generate alone, getting paid 5 times less than what I should. Hair short, waist thick. Nope. None of this was part of my plan.
What happened to my figure? What happened to the jet-setting, play date planning, patience having, degree holding woman I was supposed to be?
No. I can’t write that. I can’t write the pain that I keep in my heart and head. I can’t write that I’m frustrated with where I am and what I’m doing; that I’d like to take the time to write, to work on what I love, to finish what I started but I spend so much time doing inconsequential stuff for people who don’t matter that, by the end of the day, I’m too tired to think. I can’t write how much pain it causes me to not be able to focus enough to read. I can’t write that. I can’t write that my frustrations increase when my son won’t go to sleep on schedule. Go to sleep EARLY, so I can do something for me. Attention grabbing. Needy. Toddler. I can’t write that. I can’t write that I want to cry because I’m so far away from revealing the truth about Black theology’s lack of revelation that I can’t remember what it was. I can’t write that my baby isn’t the center of my universe, that my books were and that, without them, I don’t know who I am.
I can’t write that.
I can’t write that I created the icon of Self-Reliant Amazon to make sense of my Being only to be left without being, without the Courage to Be because I’m so focused on giving Being.
No.
Not when I said the point of Being is to share the Self with the Other, to empty yourself of the Self so that the Other can be a self. I can’t complain that I’ve lost myself.
Apparently, Kenosis isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Apparently, Kenosis is better left to those who can maintain their selves even in the midst of losing their Self. Apparently, Kenosis is saved for the Divine.
Yet, here I sit: too big for my britches, too many feet off the ground, too far away from every where I want to be; looking at files that aren’t mine, full of data that I don’t understand. I can pretend to be happy.
But I can’t write. Writing requires a connection with your own reality. It mandates the truth. And, to tell the truth, I’m miserable.
But I can’t write that.

I just want my Self back: That Self-Reliant self who stood apart and stood out, whose words carried meaning because she understood the value of words because, to her, words were everything. Yeah, I want that ME back. That Amazon who loved her fullness and her roundness and didn’t care who saw her or how they perceived her because all that she could be was precisely who she was. That Self-Reliant Amazon had so much to say, so much to pass on, so much to share. So full – of ideas, of hope, of dreams, of plans – that the fullness of her waist was irrelevant and the heaviness of her load immaterial. Yeah. That chick. I miss her. I miss me.

Truth, she said, is what writing requires. Words that carry honesty carry meaning. She didn’t say, though, that words full of falseness are toxic. She didn’t say that there’s no point to writing if you won’t write the truth – that it’s self-defeating, self-impeding to self-mislead. She didn’t mention that to the tens of listeners that hung off her every word wondering what they must do to write words for a living. She certainly didn’t respond that writing is a burden when they asked her if it is a gift or a skill. She failed to mention that writing means revealing, that it’s all consuming, self-divulging and selfishly so. No. She said that writing requires commitment. She forgot to say that words are jealous, commanding full attention, holding the pen hostage until they’ve had their say. Just write. And write with intention and strategy! That was her advice. And it was good advice, too, to those whose hearts aren’t bound by words, whose mind can force the words to take whatever form they desire. But for those of us who are captivated by capitals and punctuation, letter forms and sentence structure, whose pages seem to fill themselves because the words effortlessly ease from our fingers – out of our control, without our permission – intention and strategy are impossibilities. Write. Right.

Le mot. Dabar. Wort. The thing itself. The word. Il n’y a pas de chose autre. There is only the word. The word and nothing else. “In the beginning was the word,” he wrote, “the word and nothing else.” All being comes from the word. There is no meaning without it. The word is powerful; more mighty, it seems, than the sword. That’s the word. It’s all consuming, all powerful. It is. It is all that is. This word. The word. The thing itself.

Two days ago, two blocks away, two people lost their lives to two bullets and my pastor has yet to say two words about it. The earth shook and rumbled. The buildings fell. The mountains were tossed into the sea. All around, the earth gave way. The people cried out for help, they screamed for mercy. 40+ thousand lost their lives. My pastor spent his 400+ words describing his mood changes. He won’t ask for money for aid. But he will ask for help to get his name on the front page. Burn the mortgage, cut through the crisis so that the world will know his name. His fame is certainly his claim of service but for the publicity not for the needy. Surely, his glory will be cut as short as his stature. And the imagination of the nation held by someone more deserving whose need to be seen is less pressing than his ability to see those in need.

The lady in the cube next to me, in this suite of state employees, is racist. I wish I could say it better. I hate having to play the race card. But it is what it is. I hear her talking about her boss, a man of color. Wish he’d stay away. Wish he’d be more like me. Wish he’d lose that accent. And to her children: you’re pure. No mixing in our family. Your grandmother’s grandmother came over the same way you are today. You’re pure. So I really don’t mind that she doesn’t speak to me, it causes me no angst. I’ve heard how she thinks of me: young, Black, single mother, me. And I’m sure that it vexes her that I know what she does not. And I laugh as she and her sidekick try to figure out how to be where I already am. I could help. And I have offered. But I am, afterall, a woman of color. Impure.

Stripes. Tiger stripes. Zebra stripes. I can’t make up my mind which they resemble more. I do know, though, that my belly is covered in stripes. Stretch marks, technically. But they look like stripes to me. They’re evidence that my body stretched beyond its limits, into a strange shape and foreign form. They’re evidence that I carried a child – a big child, a strong child. That same child sees my belly and roars. Stripes. Tiger stripes, he thinks. My self has been bent out of form, stretched so far beyond its abilities, shifted, transformed, lost. Perhaps my soul bears the marks of this stretching. Perhaps, when my Self returns, my mind will be striped. Not plain, not solid. Stripes. But for now, I look for long shirts, high waisted pants. My stripes must stay hidden. Dark stripes on a round belly are hardly a sign of beauty. They are indicative of a choice, a child, a long hard 38 weeks and thin skin. When I see my stripes, I wish I could roar. I wish I saw them as a symbol of strength, a tigress, and hold myself in the same esteem. But I see only what used to be: skin that used to be tight, a belly that used to be flat, a navel that used to be pierced. Nostalgia. Is it possible to regain what you had and keep what you have? 9.5lbs of person lived and grew beneath these stripes, within these rolls. Can I keep him and be rid of the stripes? Or is there strength in admitting that, by these stripes, he is here? I’m unclear. Part of me sees the need to adjust to my reality as it is given. The rest of me longs for a me that ceased to be long ago. Stripes are evidence that change is constant. Too tight pants are evidence of resistance to change.
In a perfect world, with perfectly happy endings, I would raise up my hip-length sweater – too short to effectively cover my stripped gut – and marvel in awe and appreciation. Instead, I pull the tail of my sweater, hoping that it will stretch out of shape, become just a little longer, stretch over my greatly exaggerated hips and hide my stripes.
I tell my son, “You’re wonderful just the way you are.” But I can’t accept that for my self. If children learn what they live and I can’t live with my stripes, my child won’t learn to love himself – striped or plain. Perhaps, I’ll just buy longer shirts.

Dialogue

"I know you need a break
and your son needs a man
to show him how to be a man
so he doesn't begin to pretend
and imitate you, his mother.
It's my job. I'm your brother.
No. I haven't yet asked my wife
so give me a little time once you decide
to send him 200 miles
away
for a couple of days."

"Not a chance. No way in the world. So afraid are you of my son turning into a little girl - which is quite impossible - that you'd harm his psyche just to spite me. Or teach him to fight instead of play, to value his body more than his mind to devalue everything feminine. That's not the child I thought I'd raise. That wasn't my plan, that's not how I've ever defined a "man". So, I have to pass. I'll come up with a lame excuse, hoping you don't ever ask again. But no. YOU cannot have my son. Not for a few days, not even for one. No.
"Yes, I know I stay tired and my hands are always full. And I do realize that I don't get to do for myself what I would. But I do not need to take a break from the child that I chose to birth. My job is to teach him, I can think of nothing worse than to allow ignorance to reach him."

Damn. I shoulda said that.

Again

Who cares about Fredrich Schleiermacher
when your rent is due
and it looks like you may have to find another place to live.
Again.
When you're working but
it's not enough to pay the bills
and your brakes are shot
and your kid is sick.
AGAIN.

You want me to write what?
About what?
Who cares?

Next week is my snack week.
When is payday?
When will the state benefits come through?
Rent is due.
Daycare bill too.
Count the pennies.
Count the days.
Can we make it?
Again?


Down to that last drop of oil.
Can I borrow a jar?
I need to see how far this stretches.
Seems like it won't go too far.
Did I choose this life?
Is this the life I sought?
Worry
chases
dread
chases
fear
chases
sigh.

I'd like 2
but if my ends are still strangers with 1
how
can
I
AGAIN?

Gotta write.
Gotta get it finished.
Can't live this way forever.
Need to be in my field of choice.

Karl...
I think his name was Barth.
Barf.
Is that a cough?
He's still not sleep.
Focus.
Barth said...
or was it Kierkegaard?
Soren.
The philosopher.
Not the pediatrician.
I should e-mail her about his rash.
Right.
Write.

DuBois
Due bills.
bell hooks
Facebook: Is this normal? Should he be...?
C. West
I need rest.
Anna Julia Cooper
That was the dryer.

Focus.
This wasn't in the "Idiots Guide to Single Motherhood"
I checked.
It doesn't say your life will be great
until
all your bills arrive marked final notice
and your paycheck arrives with less and you notice
the kid's cough is getting worse
the refrigerator is getting empty
the laundry is piling up
the floor is filthy.
(Whatever happened to the dog?
Right.
Didn't have enough cash to bail out her escaping ass.)
No one wrote
that you'll choose a daycare that will teach your child
but you will go broke.
(Excellence costs cash
but sub par is more costly.)
I think I would remember if I read,
"all of those thoughts and ideas in your head
take second place to troubleshooting diaper rash
and travel snacks."
Even the "I-And-Thou" takes on a different meaning
when I am struggling solely for thou.
It could be profound
if I had time to stop and think about it.

Great band.
One time event.
On a weeknight?
Not a chance.
Our lives are so different.

Maybe if I
didn't do this alone
or had a partner
or child support
or didn't care about his mind
or lived in a different home
or had a different life
maybe
maybe
maybe

I could care about theories of pain
and neo-orthodox claims
and Schleiermacher's name
and Black Intellectual fame
and theology and race's game...
again.

My Coffee has Marshmellows in it!

At some point, I became a Mommy.
The birth of a child does not, in and of itself, make someone a Mommy.
A Mommy is different from a Mother. A Mother is the woman who gave birth to the child, who looked at her newborn like an alien and held it like it just might break. A Mommy is the woman who misses events because her toddler needs playtime. She's the woman who will hurt herself to make sure her child is safe. At some point, I graduated from Mother to Mommy.

My wardrobe, full of cute skirts and cuter shoes, has been whittled down to the pants and shoes most comfortable for chasing toddlers through hallways, across stores and down sidewalks. My menu encompasses only that which can be finger food... and only what he'll eat. Even my sensibilities have changed. Tight and short aren't sexy. Clothed, comfortable and confident are sexy. Thin and able to fit a proscribed size pants or someone else's idea of perfect is passe. Healthy. I'd give anything to stay healthy.

I'm a Mommy. My purse is full of toys and pacifiers. I get up at 4a to sneak a cup of hot coffalatte and write a few words on a blog. I finish neither because my son's cough wakes him up. I'm always on duty. Even my me time is Mommy Time.

And I couldn't be happier.

Loving it!

Furloughed, a four day weekend. Thrilled to be in it but dreading what the check at the end of the month will look like.
I'm supposed to be finishing up a paper on Black Intellectuals. That's why Salahaldin is at his grandmother's house, playing with her dog and with his aunt. But I'm taking these few moments of freedom to clean house, to bake and to ponder.

I lost a friend. Well, she was more like an acquaintance. A close acquaintance. She defriended me. I called myself hurt, then angry, then annoyed. Then I got over it. She took issue with the decisions I made for my family. Every decision. Every time. In reality, though, her biggest issue was that I had a family. By myself. She's a single mom, too. But it's nothing she would've chosen. She had a hard transition. And mine was just too simple. I was thinking about her: her words, her spitefulness, her problems.
My dog ran away. On a work day. As I was running late. She got out. She was picked up by the cops. They took her to doggy jail. They called me. They want more money than I have - or for me to go to court - to get her out. To me, that choice looks like: Feed my son or get my dog from the pound. Miss a day of work to get my dog from the pound or be able to pay my rent. So, for me, the choice is simple. But I miss her. And I was thinking about her: her spirit, her problems.

I decided that this past year was the roughest year of my life. And I would do it all again. I would change some things, if I could. Like my dad dying before my son was born. The timing of when I moved home. But, for the most part, every minute of it has been worth it. I love my life. Bills are overdue. Notices placed on doors. But I love it. I have an amazingly brilliant, sweetheart of a son. I wouldn't change a thing about his life. I have never in my life had so much fun. Sure, there's plenty of stress - more than enough to share. Sure, there's plenty of disappointments. But my son has made living a thrill.

Question is... do I want to share that thrill?????

Back and Forth

Can't. Keep. The. House. Clean.

I woke up this morning and decided that whatever plans I had needed to be forsaken for the sake of cleaning the house. First step? Putting away all the dang matchbox cars. The damn cars are everywhere, rolling away when you least expect it - at 5am, in the semi-dark - and some of them are creepy enough to even make noise. So, I collected the ones I could see (and, yes, there's at least 5 more unseen for every one you see)and unceremoniously threw them in the "car box".
"Dooba? Dooba?"I hear, coming from behind me.
"Hey!" with excitement as he realizes that all of his little cars are in one place. Before I could return with the hard-paged books that have swarmed my house, the car box is emptied.

HIGHCHAIR TIME! Of course, that's my solution to the go-behind-Mommy-and-make-a-mess events. Of course, I am deluded enough to think it'll work. Of course it doesn't.
Little boys in highchairs eating baked goldfish should not be a problem... in theory. But, of course, this child discovers that EVERYTHING can be thrown off the tray and does so. I can't be mad at him for cleaning his tray. And I wasn't. Until I saw the school of tiny, baked goldfish on my newly vaccuumed floor!

When the heck is nap time?!?!

Between the Lions

September 13, 2009
Shorter Community AME Church

Text: Daniel 6:16-28
Title: Between the Lions


Scripture:
So the king said so and Daniel was then brought and into the lions’ den he was thrown. The king answered Daniel, saying, “Your God, whom you serve faithfully and consistently, will deliver you.” A rock was brought and placed in the mouth of the den, and the king sealed it with his ring and with the rings of the nobles, so that nothing might be changed in Daniel’s case. The king then went to his palace and spent the night fasting; no diversions were brought to him, and his sleep fled from him. In the morning, at the earliest sign of daylight, the king got up and hurried to the den of lions. As he approached the den, he cried out anxiously to Daniel, “Daniel, servant of the living God! Has your God, whom you serve faithfully and consistently, been able to deliver you from the lions?” And Daniel said, “O king, live forever! My God sent an angel and told the lions to shut their mouths, so they haven’t hurt me. This is because, before God, I was found innocent; nor have I done you, O King, any injury.” The king was overcome with joy and ordered Daniel to be brought up out of the den. So Daniel was hauled out of the den of lions, and he was found to be completely unharmed because he had trusted in God. Then, by order of the king, those men who had slandered Daniel, together with their children and wives, were brought and thrown into the den of lions. Before they reached the bottom of the den, the lions overpowered them and crushed all their bones. King Darius wrote to all peoples and nations of every language that inhabit the earth, “May your peace increase! I hereby decree that everywhere in my kingdom, people are to revere and fear the God of Daniel, for God is the living God who endures forever. God’s kingdom will never be destroyed; God’s authority will last forever. God rescues. God saves and delivers, doing signs and wonders in both heaven and on earth. God has rescued Daniel from the power of the lions.”

BETWEEN THE LIONS
Introduction
I have a secret passion for tools. Secretly… well, used to be before I told y’all, Home Depot and Ace Hardware are two of my favorite stores just because of the tools. I love to look at them. Home Depot, especially, has all kinds of tools. The vast majority of the tools, I have no idea what they’re used for. The rest I’m sure I have no use for. But they have lots of really nice tools and a wide variety, too. They have power tools, power-less tools, itty-bitty tools, giant tools. My favorite tool of all times is the giant screw driver – that someone told me is really a crow bar. I like it just because I like to imagine the giant screw it would turn. The problem with tools, though, is that the right tool in the wrong hands creates quite a mess. (If y’all ever see me with a saw, by the way, feel free to take it from me….) This is especially true when that tool is not well, a tool, but a person or an entity. Such is the case in our scripture for this morning.
This story of Daniel in the lions’ den is a well-known and often told tale. Daniel, in his piety and faithfulness, is set-up by a group of malcontents. You know the type: like a person who yells out “you lie” during a speech urging justice and care for the have-nots, or the people who see you doing something they’re not and figure you must have something they don’t and aim to mess with all you are. We call em haters – like Eminem to Nick and Mariah or Glen Beck and the 9/12 project to President Obama – people who just stir up a lot of mess just to mess with your character. And ain’t nuthin worse than haters with power… like Daniel’s haters. They convinced a king to think more highly of himself than he ought. They convinced a king to declare himself worthy of praise. They convinced a king to participate in their hate. And so Daniel was sentenced. The king came to his senses but it was too late. And so Daniel was thrown to the lions.

Begin between the Lions
The lions. So often, when this story is told, the lions are portrayed as mere tools. They are the means through which the haters intend to do Daniel harm. Very little is said of them in the text. They’re just lions. Minimized, glossed over, used. Tools.
Sometimes, we’re tools too: used by haters to further their agenda. We get caught between a hater and a trouble-maker, used to hurt the hated: lied to so we get involved in drama that wasn’t ours to begin with; gossiped to so we know business that we had no business knowing; squeezed in the middle of a feud, used by one to hurt the other even though none of it has anything really to do with us in the first place. Tools are placed in the precarious position between hater and hated, used to cause harm and make trouble. And at the end of the day, the tool is discarded, minimized, glossed over. But the lions have a story, too. Let me say that better, everything in the Bible can teach us something about God; everyone in the Bible can show us God’s love… even the lions.
The lions, in our text, were native to Persia. See, the Persians, especially the royalty, had a thing for lions. For them, lions represented power and prestige, greatness and glory, force and fertility. Lions were everything the kings wanted to be – and everything the people expected their kings to be. So, they captured them. They bred the lions, keeping them as pets in dank, underground caves. They separated newly captured lions and older males, keeping in cages so they’d be ferocious enough to earn the king kudos after a canned hunt. Lions were trophies, icons… tools.
We know that the lions in our text for this morning were domesticated lions (in Hebrew, there are 2 words for lion – “shachal” is meant to evoke fear and used to connote ferocity, the other, aryeh, is found in our text, it is used to denote a tamed or conquerable lion). They were not fresh out of the wild but were descendants of lions who had been captured probably early in Darius’ political career. More likely than not, they were mostly young male lions and older lionesses.
When we think of a lions den, we tend to think of the Big Cat enclosure at the Denver Zoo. We imagine plush habitats, full of grass and trees and water on the outside and a respite on the inside, with a trainer who comes to provide exercise and a veterinary nutritionist who provides balanced meals. Yeah… no. The Persian lion dens were nothing like that. They didn’t keep lions on display for amusement and entertainment. They kept lions for the bragging rights. The lions were kept in underground caves with two entrances – a large one at the base of the cave where waste and older lions could be removed and one at the mouth of the cave that was just big enough for a human to fit through but too small for a lion. The walls of the caves were steep and slippery to prevent the lion – or anyone else – from climbing to the top entrance. Both entrances were kept covered by stones. The lions had very little light, very little heat. Often, according to the historical record, Persian kings like Darius would keep one full pride of lions in the same den. That means 30 or 40 lions would be trapped together in an underground cave, waiting on food to be thrown to them, waiting to be removed to cages to be hunted for sport. It kinda reminds me of a slave ship, packed to the brim with humans treated inhumanely. So, the lions were captured, and captive. Trapped in a situation not of their own making. Everything that made them lions was taken from them. Unable to hunt for their own food, unable to care for their families, they were bored, unable to roam, unable to get comfortable, stacked on top of each other.
Far too often, we find ourselves in caves just like the lions. Oh, we don’t end up in literal caves, but we’re trapped in our circumstances. Even this morning, we’re trapped by this “Global Economic Crisis” with low salaries and high costs of living, we’ve seen our 401(k)s go kaput and our 457 dbs and dcs depart. We’re ensnared because our resources don’t meet our needs, so we’re stuck tryina do too much with way too little. We’re confined by furloughs and foreclosures, unemployment and under-employment. Some of us are captive in jobs we can’t stand because, in this economy, you just don’t leave a paycheck. Some of us are stuck in bad relationships, put down and shut down, broken without hope for escape. Just like the lions, we’re caught in hard times and hard lives, trying hard to hold on to who we know we are; pacing, back and forth, wondering just when it will all end.
Thanks be to God that even in the midst of our captivity, even in the midst of our trials, God knows us. God claims us as God’s own. God knows the beginning of our story. And God knows the rest of the story. God protects us from dangers seen and unseen. Even in the midst of our trouble, God is present. When it seems like there’s no way out, God is keeping you. When it seems like the night will never break, that morning joy will never come, God is bringing you through it. Even when it seems like there’s dangers on every hand, God is protecting you. Though times are hard, God is strong. Though people are harder, God is enduring. Though lives are troubled, God speaks peace. The caves can’t keep us down. God lifts us up on every side. The ties that bind can’t hold us back. God loosens every chain. God is aware. God is awake. God is alive. God is the One who answers those in need. God is the One who we can rely upon. God is the Great I Am. God is that God is. God is Jehovah Shalom. God is there in the midst of despair. God is Jehovah Rapha. God is there in the midst of the distress. Yahweh Shammah – God is there in the midst of anxiety. There is no speech, there are no words that God does not hear. You can call on God when you’re lost in loneliness. You can call on God when you’re stuck in stress. You can call on God when you’re trapped in trouble. God will answer when you call. God will deliver you. God will rescue you. God will save you. God will restore you. God will bring you into the joy of God’s salvation. Stand still… better yet: Desist and realize that God is God.


Shut Your Mouth!
And along comes Daniel.

By the time the lions met him, Daniel was a senior citizen, he was 80 years old. Even in perfect health, he wouldn’t have been enough to feed an entire pride of lions. Can you picture it? A den full of hungry lions. Suddenly, they hear a noise. The stone is being removed. That means food. They all move, ready to pounce, ready to eat. And down comes this scrawny little old man. I called my personal animal expert and he said lions communicate with each other; he said they have 6 or 7 different sounds and hundreds of movements that convey their thoughts to each other. So I imagine the discussion between the lions, in their lion speech, when they saw Daniel. “How one little man gonna feed all of us?” “What are we supposed to do with that?” “As hungry as we are, this is all they got for us?” The questions, the confusion….
My personal animal expert told me that the lions would’ve seen Daniel as a threat to their well-being. They would’ve mauled him, devouring flesh and bones as soon as they saw him, just because he entered their territory. He said that, at feeding time, Daniel wouldn’t have had a chance for survival amongst a group of lions. But the Bible says before the lions could attack, before they could reach a group consensus, God sent an angel and told them to shut their mouths. I imagine the angel reassuring them, “This is a man of God, he will not harm you. God is using you for a blessing. Shut your mouths.”
We’ve been there: Unemployed for months, you finally get a job offer that’s not even enough to pay the bills and, before you can turn it down, God says, “I’m using you for a blessing. Shut your mouth.” You’ve been paying your rent faithfully but your landlord hasn’t been so faithful with his mortgage payments, before you can get to the phone, God says, “I’m using you for a blessing. Shut your mouth.” Your ends have always been strangers, they’ve never met; what looks like a golden opportunity comes your way, you’ve just got to act now… God says, “I’m using you for a blessing. Shut your mouth!” You break-up with that guy and he marries the next girl he dates… God says, “I’m using you for a blessing. Shut your mouth!” You’ve got just enough in your pocket for one meal and that’s all you have until payday which is still five days away, you see a man with a sign that says, “Please! I’m hungry!” God says, “I’m using you for a blessing. Shut your mouth!” When you don’t know why you are where you are and wish you are anywhere but there, God says, “I’m using you for a blessing! Shut your mouth!”
I call em Daniel Moments – just when we think we’ve had all we can take, that our morning must be breaking, we’re thrown a bone… not a steak, a bone. We look at it, like the lions, and say, “What am I supposed to do with this bone? I got a family to feed!” Sometimes, though, it’s not about us. Sometimes, though, God is using us to bless someone else. Sometimes, though, we’re not the main characters in the story. Sometimes, though, we’re just the lions. Sometimes, though, we get to sit on the periphery, pausing, while other people get the prize. Sometimes, though, we get to be told, “Shut your mouth.”
See, a Daniel Moment is God giving us the chance to be obedient. In Daniel Moments God is providing us with the opportunity to be faithful. In these Daniel Moments, God is saying to us, “I am still here. I still know your need. Trust me.” In these Daniel Moments, we’ve got to stand still and know God. In these Daniel Moments, we need to trust in God with all our hearts and lean not to our own understanding. In these Daniel Moments, we should wait upon the Lord and trust God to renew our strength. In these Daniel Moments, we’ve got to remember that God’s grace brought us this far and God’s grace will lead us home. In these Daniel Moments, we should remember that the Lord is our shepherd and we shall not want. In these Daniel Moments, we need to be faithful over a few things. In these Daniel Moments, we’ve got to seek first the kingdom of God and acknowledge God in all of our ways. In these Daniel Moments, we need to be strong and of good courage and wait on the Lord.

Come in between the Lions
The lions were faithful. The lions were obedient. Look at the text. The Bible says Daniel was pulled from the lions den without a scratch. He went unharmed. Just a note: when even the little you had is suddenly gone, be patient, God is doing something. And so it was with the lions. Hungry, their only hope for a meal is a little old man whom God said they can’t eat and then, suddenly, even he is gone. I don’t know about y’all, but if that were me, I’d be a hot mess. “O God! What am I supposed to do now?” But the lions weren’t anxious. The Bible doesn’t say the lions jumped up after Daniel as he was being pulled out. It doesn’t say his feet were all scratched up. Nope. Lions don’t operate like that. Nope. The lions were patient, trusting God to meet their needs. The 104th Psalm says that the animals look to God for their food, that God provides the lions with meat. Even in captivity, the lions knew that God would provide for them. Even as they were being played as pawns in a kingly game, the lions were sure God would provide for them. Even when their meager meal – that they couldn’t even eat – was taken from their sight, the lions trusted God to provide for them. Amongst themselves, with their 6 different sounds and hundreds of different movements, the lions trusted God to provide for them. Between the lions there was faith. There was hope between the lions. Between the lions there was complete dependence on God. There was trust between the lions. Between the lions there was a blessed assurance. There was confidence between the lions. Between the lions there was peace. God stood between the lions. God provided for the lions more than the meal they let go. God gave them more than they knew how to desire. The Bible says the lions were given the entire families of those who plotted against Daniel. It says the lions overpowered them before they hit the ground, before they could run, before they could prove themselves a threat. My personal animal expert said this was aberrant behavior for lions. He said lions aren’t supposed to act like that. He said lions will retreat from groups of people, out of fear. But these lions were not afraid of these people. These lions had been visited by an angel. These lions had prior counsel with God. That’s what it says. It’s in the Bible. The angel of God was there with the lions and the lions obeyed. And because of the faithfulness of the lions in their Daniel Moment, God gave them power over many things.
Sisters and brothers, just like the lions, God is with us. Just as God provided for them, God provides for us. God will not leave us in our times of despair. God will not walk away from us when we are in need. God will help us and that right early. This isn’t a hope for a by-and-by promise. Nope. The Bible says that right here, right in this time, right in this era God will provide for us – God does it for the birds, God does it for the flowers, God will do it for us. God is alive and the living God knows our needs. The living God is an ever-present God, Emmanuel, with us in our captivity, Emmanuel, with us in our Daniel Moments. God is the Alpha. God is the Omega. God is the beginning. God is the end. God is peace. God is freedom. God is justice. God is the pillar by day. God is the fire by night. God is the way maker. God is the director of paths. God will rescue us. God will deliver us. God will cast our haters aside. God will place our enemies at our feet. God hears our every prayer. God prepares the proper and the proud to praise. God brings peace to our frenzy. God alleviates the burden of the hard times. God gives us relief in our journey. God releases us from our traps. God is our refuge and strength. God is our light and our help. Our fate is in God’s hands. Be strong and of good courage! Trust in the Lord.

On Tools
One day, when I was a little girl, I went in my mom’s room and found these wonderful parachute cape things. They were great! I could pull them over my head and spin around and around and they’d just billow up. I could put one side under my foot and run underneath the other side and hide. And, if I tied it just right, it could be a cape, like Wonder Woman’s. My mom had a white one and a gray one and I loved them. One day, as she was running around the house trying to find her clothes, she caught me playing with one of her parachute cape things. Yeah…that’s not what it was for. Turns out, it was a skirt. I was misusing it.
The lions were misused. Daniel’s haters were using the lions to hurt Daniel. The king was using the lions to prove his power. Yeah…that’s not what they were for. See, King Darius issued another decree. In the second decree he overturned everything he said in the first one. In the second decree, Darius gives all glory and honor to God. In the second decree, Darius says about God what Persian kings – who have defeated a lion – used to say about themselves. God will reign forever! God’s power is indestructible! In their faithfulness, the lions had taught the king a lesson about power. The lions had demonstrated God’s power and strength. God blessed the lions. And God used the lions to provide a blessing for Daniel. God used the lions to prove God’s power and bless the people of the earth.
And so it is with us. When are caught in the middle of a hater and a trouble-maker, squeezed between the hater and the hated, forced into the middle of mess, God uses us. God uses us as tools for God’s glory. God uses us to bless other people. God uses us to change the situation. And when we are obedient to God, when we trust God enough to let God use us, God blesses us. Even when we’re not the main characters in the story, God blesses us. God fixes the story, God alters our narrative.
God wants to use us. God wants us to be faithful. God is looking for our steadfast and consistent service. When we are obedient to God, when we are used as God’s tools, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick, we show our faithfulness. When we allow God to use as tools for God’s glory, we will hear God say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
God provides. God will provide for you. God knows your every need. Jesus said trust him. Trust God to provide for you just like God provided for the lions, just like God provides for the birds. God hasn’t brought you this far to leave you. Trust in the Lord, be faithful and your peace will be increased. Be faithful and let God work through you. Allow God to use you for the Glory of God. You will be blessed. You needs will be met. Trust God, be faithful even in the midst of trouble and God will rescue you.

Race, Religion and Family

Loaded. So completely loaded. But by necessity.
I'm Black.
I'm an Ordained Elder, a Christian, a preacher.
And I'm a single mom by choice.
All meshed together.
Sometimes I wonder what comes first: my family? my religion? my race?
It's not just theoretical. Very practical.
With no sleep and a tired, cranky child with a tired, cranky mom on a Sunday morning, do we go to church?
A blue eyed, ever-blonding baby on my hip - do I leave his hair loose and curly or lock it up? If I lock it, is it an attempt to prove his Blackness? To somehow cover up his identity?
Oh shit! I'm a Black single mom!

That one hit me early. I'm a statistic. Hell, now that I'm unemployed and have bill collectors looming, I really am a statistic.
Rev. Single Mom.
One guy actually called me that.
I think he thought he was flirting. But he had (at least) 2 problems: 1) That ain't cute. 2) He wasn't either.
Rev. Single Mom.

And, yet, here I am, up at midnight for a month contemplating just what I want to do.
Race is inherent, ingrained by societal labels based on the shade of my skin.
So they say.
But my child is beyond light, bright... he might as well be white. And he's a little Black boy.
So, is race just skin deep?
I'll have to remember to ask the scholars.
Religion can be changed.
Family, too.
Those are my stress spots.
My God! I love my God!
I am a theologian afterall. If all else fails, theorize about God.
That's my mantra.
The thought has occured to me on more than one occassion that it may be time for a change.
When I had a newborn and was trying hard to look presentable as I left the house, I envied Muslim women.
Then I got over the need to look presentable. And wondered why the hell anyone cared what I put on my body.
I figured out how to wear the Hijab.
Woulda worn it outside, too, except my child thinks it's a sheet. And sheets are, thanks to Gramma, toys. Kinda hard to do the Hijab thing when you have a giggling child crawling behind you pulling it off with every step.
But still.
Change is thick in the air.

My desire for number 2 is no secret. I want Salahaldin to have siblings. Money. Health care. Job. Obstacles.

Change is thick in the air.

Every religion has its issues.
Precisely because every religion has its leaders.
And as much as Revelation is central to my theology, the Resurrection is the heart of my faith.
Otherwise, I'd figure out how to teach my kid to leave my hijab in place.

And then there's home....

We moved home. Back to Denver. Not into my mother's home. But home.
No job. No income. Home. Friends... rather "friends". Home.
We've been here 4, almost 5, months. And I've learned a bit.
1) Not every friend is a confidant.
2) Not every single mom is a fan of single moms.
3) Not every blood relation is worth the relation.

So, we're home. And that's about it. It's a different feel from New Jersey. But it's still quite foreign. But home, nonetheless.


Salahaldin crawled. Now he's working on walking. Somewhere along the way, my precious child became addicted to Cheerios. We keep a permanent "Cheerio Island" beneath his highchair. :( As soon as I get it cleaned, it's back again. And, since we have a "no floor-food" rule, the only way to get rid of it is to vacuum. Dog not withstanding. I've always hated Cheerios. They way they look when they get wet and then dry out is creepy. And they stink. So my child's addiction has me flabbergasted. He doesn't get that from his momma. Must be the donor! But, he eats just about anything, really. Tonight he's having asparagus. He loves it. He doesn't get that from me, either.

He'll be 11 months old this week. And I've learned. Single motherhood, especially by choice, is an act of faith. Rather, it is a lifestyle of faith. And a lifestyle of humility. Perhaps motherhood in general follows the same rules. I don't know. I just know that the blind trust and faith it takes to conceive, carry, labor, deliver, teach, rear and raise a child all on your own is monumental. Sometimes I laugh at my pre-mom self's insistence that I knew how my child would be raised. This comes, especially, after the frantic Google'ing of how to handle each stage of his development. The constant self-doubt is nerve wrecking. But the faith that, somehow, this child will turn out right - despite his mom - keeps me going. The humility to ask other parents advice, to request assistance when needed was all new to me. I used to say, "You know everything until you turn 30 or have a child. That's when you realize how little you really know." I wasn't wrong.

So, this is a journey of faith; an ever changing, dynamic journey.

Dealing with Folx.

People who have no intention of actually helping just should not offer to help.

I'm steaming right now about so much: Nadya Suleman and these Angels in Waiting scam artists, my own life, etc. It seems to me that so many people who offer to assist are doing so with very malevolent intentions or, at best, with a multitude of pre-conditions. "I'll help you, but" does not, to me, translate into real help. First, let's examine this whole Nadya Suleman thing.

A single mother with 6 kids who is very clearly pro-life, refuses to destroy her frozen embryos, choosing instead to have them implanted. Oops. All 6 of them took. Uh oh! 2 split. 6+8=14. The problem? Well, you see, she's single, a student who lives with her mom. Then they go and interview her. Right after she's released from the hospital, right after she gives birth, even though her babies are still in the hospital. Yeah. Who in the world would be lucid at that point? I was in the hospital for 4 days after giving birth to my 1 child, who came home with me. If you had interviewed me within the three days after I came home I assure you I woulda sounded completely insane: 1) My mom and sister hated me and were trying to kill me by starvation. 2) My child looked like Mr. Magoo and was, therefore, blind (didn't help that he wouldn't open his eyes!). 3) I was in excruciating pain, refused to take any painkillers (because I could do this!), couldn't figure out how to nurse, refused my mom's help (because I should be able to do this!), insisted that my son would sleep in the Arms Reach, even though I couldn't sit up or bend over to put him in or get him out of it...refused my mom's help (because if I can't do this, I'm not a mom). 4) I was convinced (really, until my child was 4 months or so) that everyone who saw him wanted to take him, including my Mom and Sister who were IN MY HOUSE at the time. Imagine what that would've looked like on the Today show! Anyway, back to Ms. Suleman.... after she's interviewed postpartum, and everyone decides she's mentally ill, the declarations of judgment pour out of people's (and mostly people who, for the most part, think just like her; you're pro-life, what should she have done with those embryos?) hearts and mouths. Then come the offers for "help". Gloria Allred and Linda Conforti offer Ms. Suleman and her family a home with round the clock nursing care. Sounds GREAT, right? Except that the day before that offer, Allred filed a claim with Cali's CPS to do an investigation and take Suleman's children from her. And, well, there's the whole, "Linda Conforti is a Foster Care provider cloaked in the guise of a charity" thing. See this blog: http://thehollytree.blogspot.com/2009/02/how-did-gloria-allred-get-involved-with.html. So, it's not really HELP, per se. Is it? It's more like, let us continue to exploit you and your children. More than that: You've got all these kids, you're single. Let us help. Let us take your kids because, as we all know, the best thing for a child is to be taken from their home and put in the hands of the state - carte blanche - and, well, to be honest, that's the only way the taxpayers won't end up paying for their upbringing. Right. Or, more apt: HUH!?

Okay. On to me. I need help. I'm 2000 miles from my closest family member and I'm struggling. I don't try to hide that and I have no problem admitting it. And, up until now, I take all offers of assistance because I NEED HELP. Okay. So, one offer was pretty much, "We'll help but only if you move into a tiny little apartment next door to us otherwise, you're on your own." Because 30mins away is just doing way too much. It's pretty damned amazing to me how people decide what it is a single mother needs and how their version of assistance is actually the best thing for them. I had one offer to help me get child support from my Baby Daddy. One offer to provide me and my Baby Daddy with relationship counseling. RIGHT. I don't HAVE one of those.

But I still need help. Nadya Suleman needs help. If the assistance you're offering to provide is not led by the true needs of the person but you judgmental and arbitrary ignorant assumption, well, shove it.

End of Rant. Going to Pack. I'm moving. Afterall, I need help. What better place to find it than close to family?

Things I Learned From My Son@3months

1. All meals should be interrupted with a brief nap. All naps should be followed by a meal.
2. If you don't like where you're placed, pick up your feet and use your head.
3. In the case of discomfort or pain, make as much noise as possible.
4. Stay in close proximity to those you love, touching them frequently.
5. When moving large burdens, make sure you have the proper leverage.
6. Never miss the opportunity to laugh.
7. Tummy time should happen 2-3 times a day, for 10-15minutes each, never less than 30mins a day.
8. Never miss the opportunity to drool on your mommy.
9. If you can't find the real thing, improvise.
10. Remember, when you're standing on your own two feet, that you're still standing on someone's lap/shoulders.
11. Never let anyone put words in your mouth; always speak up even if your audience won't quite understand you,
12. If you're not sure where you're going, wait to poop until you get there.
13. The best tasting things are often found at home.
14. Always look your toys in the eye.
15. If it sounds strange, stop what you're doing and investigate.
16. Make sure your hands are free at all times.
17. If you're not sure where you are, move your feet!

Everything Must Change

OMG! He's two months old! Time is flying by ever so quickly!
Motherhood is such a challenge. Everyday, every minute is about change - changing diapers, changing clothes, chaning spaces, an ever changing baby, even my own changing body. Funny thing is, I don't deal well with change....

We went to a lecture today. A scholar, with whom I'm merely barely acquainted, was visiting campus so we went to hear her speak of way making, ancestors who are immortal (which is, I will forever maintain, the wrong word for what she's attempting to say but, well, she's stuck in a particular framework that uses that word so...) and "creative transformation". In short, it's all about change. Quite a theme for the day, I think.

Transitioning from thinking, to planning, to trying, to being - the process of Single Motherhood by Choice - is replete with change. I can honestly say I'm not the same person I was when I was a Thinker or a Planner or even a Tryer. But it's on even a smaller level than that. My expectations have changed, my goals have changed, my fears have changed, my hopes have changed. Everything has changed.

That simple truth has caused life to be so difficult right now. I came to New Jersey to get a degree. That's it. A singular goal with 3 parts: Course work, exams, dissertation. I planned 4 years, maximum. I'm in my fourth year now, and everything has changed.
When I got here, I was so focused on my career. I had my career planned, my life planned. I knew how to be successful in the academy. I was focused and motivated. Then it all changed.

At some point I decided that the academy wasn't enough. Now I wonder if the decision I made was more like, "I'm not doing this at all" than "I need a real life". I wonder if I made a choice between family and this degree. I'm clear, to the core of my heart, that I made the right decision, chose the correct option. But I thought I was choosing to have it all. When did that change? Why does it have to change?


I'm trying to get my scholastic ass in gear. I need to propose exams. I need to write one simple paragraph for three different exams. That takes a focus that I just cannot seem to find right now. I blame it on the time issue, but that's not so much the truth. I just find it difficult to focus on violence and neo-orthodoxy and Schleiermacher when I have the most adorable infant I've ever seen. And I'm stressed because of it. Something has to change.
For the first time... well, in the last few years, I asked myself if or not I actually want to finish this degree. I don't really think I have any passion for it anymore. It's more of a way to make sure my child is fed. And that about it. I don't know if this is something you can do if you're not passionate about it. Did I choose a family in lieu of a career? Is that old axiom true? Can you really not have it all?
OMFG!
For years and years, women have heard that we have to choose between family and a career. I refuse to make that choice. At least I thought I did. But, by choosing single motherhood, did I, in fact, make a de facto choice?