not the nanny

So Sorry!

2009-04-14T20:26:00.004-05:00

This was a blog that chronicled my life as a stay-at-home mom of a precocious preschooler and fraternal toddler twins from October 2006 to August 2008. Originally titled "Our Kind of Parenting", the blog began as a great way for me to gripe, but later became an even better way to enjoy the company of like-minded parents.

There are several reasons why I stopped posting. For one, I'm no longer living in a rural, wooded area, where there are more deer than African American mommies like myself (my husband has since taken an academic position at the University of Houston, so we've moved away from isolation in upstate New York). Secondly, I'm no longer a SAHM - my kids are older, and no longer making me wonder how I'd ever make it 'til bedtime (most days). I've traded picking Cheerios up off the floor for writing for a living. And getting paid for it, can you blame me?

That said, I still miss the company of like minded parents, my kind of parents, so I'm very reluctant to shut the blog down - at least not yet. So instead, I'll periodically post links to some of my favorite essays for those who've asked where I've been. And in the meantime, if anyone would like me to recommend a product or service that may appeal to parents like us, do let me know. I'd be happy to post it here.

In the meantime, take care. It's been a wonderful journey.

Double Take

2008-08-27T17:10:00.007-05:00

If you've been here before, you're well aware that one of my biggest pet-peeves is silly questions about my kids. Well, finally, an amazing site called The Root gave me an opportunity to rant about what it means to have so-called "black and white" twins - and I've got to admit, it felt great.

The best part is that I'm now free to move on and be neurotic about other areas of my life, so stay tuned!

Gotta love Ikea

2008-04-15T08:23:00.001-05:00

Is it just me?

2008-03-04T17:52:00.012-05:00

My mother always told me not to stare, but I soon realized that’s not always possible. So I decided that at the very least, if one must silently judge another, it absolutely should not be done blatantly. And never, ever, with one’s mouth hanging open. (That’s just rude!) But I guess everybody wasn’t taught that, because this guy at the playground was ogling my kids as if he was a wolf in man's clothing, staring at my children like they were running around in red capes. Instinctively, I peeled myself off the park bench and made it my business to know why.

As I got closer, we made eye-contact and I realized he was smiling. Creepy? Yes — but not in the way that made me want to call the police (just yet).

“Your children, they are all so...different.” At least his tongue wasn't hanging out.

“They are,” I forced politely. My mother also taught me not to talk to strangers, but I’m grown now and I didn’t really appreciate his comments. I resented his taking a moment to point out how his ethnic group was “normal” and mine was “not”.

“I might not even know they’re all related, “ he chuckled, as if it was any business of his in the first place.

“They’re actually siblings.” I’m sure that whatever attempt I made at smiling back at him was canceled out by the fact that I was bracing myself – hard – for his next question.

“What race is the father?”

Bingo! “My husband’s mixed, actually…his mom is black and his dad is Irish American.” It came out with a sigh that was barely audible, but I couldn’t have cared less if he’d heard me.

“Unbelievable!” he marveled, “All the same dad?”

“All the same dad.” I repeated after him, just in case he was actually and undercover casting-agent for Maury Povitch. And then for some reason, I felt the need to keep talking, as if I had to have the last word on a subject that really had no conclusion to begin with. “If you really look at all three of them, they look alike…the twins actually look a lot like both sides of our families.” I was stammering like a Mormon tour guide at a sex toy museum. I hated explaining something so basic to complete strangers, as if my life is actually some great big science experiment.

“Twins!” he squealed in amazement. “On top of that, they’re twins?!” He giggled gleefully. “So different and both so unique!”

“Thanks.” Of course they are. But not for the reason you think, moron.

When I gave birth to two perfect babies with complexions as strikingly different as Hillary and Barack’s, I knew that the world might not instantly see that they’re actually brother and sister. But I never thought that perfect strangers would have the audacity to comment on this difference time and time again. I assumed most people — of any race — already knew that black people weren’t actually “black” and that the range of skin tones within the ethnicity could put Crayola out of business. But ever since day one, from the playground to the pediatrician’s, perfect strangers insisted on piping in: “They look so different!” or “You’d never even know they were related!”.

Or other things, like how different their hair textures were. It’s honestly left me often wondering if half the country flunked eighth-grade biology. At the very least eleventh-grade history, when were supposed to have learned about the “peculiar institution” of slavery.

Slowly, I began to gather up our belongings. Enough already. I shoved my son’s Curious George ball in my tote bag and started searching for my youngest daughter’s shoe. We might have to leave here without it, I thought, but at least we’ll go home with our dignity. I was so tired of protecting my beloveds from a world that sees them as anomalies, so angry at all of the supposedly educated people who felt the need to make a spectacle of them instead of seeing them for who and what they really are.

“It’s so amazing what happens when the races are blended together — you never know what you’ll get!”

“You’re right, you never know.” I said matter-of-factly as I fished my daughter’s mary jane from a puddle.

“So fascinating,” he smiled humbly, “so beautiful.”

Ladies First

2008-02-02T02:06:00.000-05:00

Why Michelle Obama's the woman (and Soledad O'Brien is, too).

Um, no thanks.

2008-02-02T01:16:00.000-05:00

I've never liked Oreos. Or many tv personalities. But at the same time, I kinda like seeing newscasters shed their game faces to make a joke, even a halfway crass one. As much as I want to scream "Stop laughing and get back to work!", there's a certain comfort in knowing that beyond all of that plasticine facade, there's actually a real, live, human being back there (that with any luck, I'll never have to meet in real life).

Double their pleasure

2008-02-01T13:16:00.000-05:00

Speculation is swirling around the billowy, tie-died, frock Angelina Jolie recently rocked at the Screen Actors Guild Awards: was it actually hiding a twin pregnancy ? Judging from the bump the actress/activist was reportedly barely able to conceal, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Why on earth would anyone as svelte as Jolie – someone who’d probably look amazing in a plain, burlap sack, dammit – choose to roll up on the red carpet wearing something so shamelessly shapeless? In all fairness, the silk number was actually quite lovely; I wouldn't mind wearing it myself. If I was pregnant. So my guess is that it's a twofer: twin pregnancies usually show early. Way early. Before the end of my first trimester, my own dynamic duo had already made their presence known. Week eleven, my husband stared at my formerly flat belly quizzically ("Uh, hon...are there two in there?"). By the time I was five months along, a carousel conductor in Ocean City, New Jersey nearly turned me away from boarding his merry-go-round with my three-year-old for fear a baby would drop out as I was climbing off a horse.

Of course the jury’s still out on this one, but we’ll soon know the truth (one source says Jolie plans to sell the information and donate the proceeds to charity). Until then, the internet remains rife with wild guesses on whether or not the hotter-than-thou couple is actually knocked up. And fussing about whether they even need any more kids in the first place. Most of the poop-slinging is coming from people who will never change a baby Jolie-Pitt’s diaper, but insist on staying right up in their behinds, with comments like: "Kids aren't high-end accessories" I'd have to agree...beyond being rather expensive and very cute, kids and Gucci handbags don't really go together. And then, of course, this one: “How greedy…look what they’re doing to the environment!”

Nice try. I have a hard time buying the “population overgrowth” argument, especially with Brad working so tirelessly to rebuild a sustainable New Orleans . I mean come on, they're even planning to adopt a cute Katrina orphan to go with it.

Along for the ride

2007-07-13T00:16:00.000-05:00

It doesn't take much for a parent to get thrown off an airplane these days. Just recently, an Atlanta mom and tot got booted from an Oklahoma bound flight because her three-year-old son insisted on repeating "Bye-bye plane!" before take off. He wasn’t having a meltdown or anything, he just wouldn’t stop talking. Is it her fault the kid is precocious? You’d think there’d be a warning on the
Brainy Baby DVDs.

Whatever the case, if that's how airlines roll (fly?) these days, I’m definitely in trouble. Each of my kids has the gift of gab and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. My oldest came out of the womb reciting Langston Hughes poetry. Her younger siblings, while currently only fluent in toddlerspeak (or pigeon English, Farsi or Mandarin, depending on the day) are quickly working their way up the precocious scale as well. I’ll admit it’s (mostly) adorable, but I can totally see how someone sitting near us on a plane might be tempted to reach for their stun gun.

My kids aren’t the only little ones that won’t stop talking, Manhattan’s got thousands just like them (they’re thick on the Upper West Side but you really can find them all over). So maybe it's time that airlines try and make flights more kid friendly (not banning sippy cups might be a start ) and begin thinking of ways to keep every passenger — including parents — sane.

Instead of glaring at children while the plane taxis before takeoff, flight attendants could give out crayons. And would it kill them to provide some stickers? At the very least, the latest B-movie — that no one under seventy is interested in seeing anyway — could be replaced by pixar hits that both parents and their offspring can enjoy (there’s only so much Sandra Bullock one can take).

In my mythical friendly skies, there'd be a "kiddie class"— sectioned off by a curtain (that’s preferably sound proof). Nursing moms could feed without wondering if Barbara Walters is going to lean over and say something she could have saved for The View. Chatty toddlers could chat, fussy babies could fuss and whiny children whine while we enjoy some chardonnay. All moms would get complimentary neck and shoulder massages as the kids watch Dan Zanes videos. And let’s not forget the free juice boxes.

But alas, genteel breeders, the entire world does not cater to the needs of the sophisticated, young family . We should probably just shut up and be thankful for Baby Loves Disco and Ikea. Of course we could complain, but it would be pointless (and besides, if everything was designed for the 21st century family…what would be left to complain about?). By the time the airlines give us a break, our kids will be way past the pull-up stage, anyway. At that point, we’ll be back to our old jet-setting ways, skipping off to the south of France while the tweens are off at summer camp.

Yeah, as it turns out there’s not only life before the kids, but after them, too. Unfortunately, we can’t get there with frequent flier miles…but I’ve heard it’s worth the trip.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column is called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Keep on moving

2007-07-01T02:06:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the scanty blog posts - we're in the process of moving to Houston. Parting is such sweet sorrow - it hit me when we had our farewell party last night with about thirty of the friends we've made in the past four years here. It's the people that really make a place special, you know? But it's time to go. The cost of real estate in Texas is reason enough! And Mr. J's new job, which is actually pretty exciting and will free up a lot more of his time for writing.

So anyway...a short detour in Philly to see family will happen before we finally arrive in the bayou (All they've had is rain lately! Hope that stops). Please bear with me, I'll be back in full effect within weeks. So will Mr. J, for those of you who visit his online lounge.

A side note, my regular Time Out Kids essay will be posted on Monday. The theme: Do toddlers really need pilates?

Thanks for your support, your input and bearing with me. Talk to you soon.

Content of their character

2007-06-21T16:12:00.000-05:00

Now that Tiger Woods is a dad, golf aficionados might wonder what princess Sam’s arrival might do to her old man’s game. Baby-boomers might wonder why the couple chose to name their daughter the tomboy-chic “Sam” instead of the time-tested “Samantha”. Others may wonder if Tiger’s wife Elin’s credentials as a former nanny means she’ll still need one of her own. But as a mom who’s doing her best to raise kids who take pride in their heritage, I’m wondering how the PGA champ plans to approach his daughter when it comes to the matter of race.

My query is far from unfounded. It’s no secret that Tiger Woods has a history of dodging phone calls from the NAACP requesting his support, of laughing off fried chicken jokes made by other golfers at his expense and publicly admitting to Oprah Winfrey that he’s not black or Asian, but ”Cablinasian”, meaning Caucasian, black, Indian and Asian, (despite the fact that neither of his parents were white). By this point, his publicists know better than to return phone calls asking the American Express spokesman to speak at Black History Month events.

Either way, I hope Tiger will prepare his daughter for the fact that despite however famous a person is or how wealthy they are, race still matters in America. I hope he’ll brace Sam Alexis for the fact that there may come a time when she hears a racially tainted joke uttered at the lunch table of whatever prestigious private school he and Elin choose to send her to. Or better yet, that there may come a time when she has an experience similar to my own, some twenty-odd years ago on the schoolyard:

"Come to me, blackie!"

I was mortified as I stood there in pigtails, watching Doug Cohn beckon me with his chubby little finger. My only comeback was to tell Lise Toplin, the safety guard (oooh, a big fifth grader!), who whinily told him to "Stop being mean."

Later, Doug ended up in my eleventh grade Sociology class. Regularly, as the teacher was explaining things like propaganda and the media. I felt Doug’s eyes on me. He wasn't waiting for the right time to ask me to shine his shoes, he clearly wanted more than that. By then there’d been plenty of time for new stereotypes about black females to plant themselves I his brain. It was the good thing that sociology class was at the end of the day. That way, if I felt the urge to run right home and take a shower, I could.

I think the best way to teach children about racism is to approach it in a similar manner to how one might begin talking to one’s child about other things that may (or may not) make a parent feel a little uncomfortable to discuss, like sex and death. Both topics are big issues, but also ones that will come up in a child's life whether we want them to or not. Like the birds and the bees, I think there are some things that kids should learn from their parents before they get misinformation from somewhere else.

Not unlike the facts of life, my husband and I take each of our daughter's questions about racism as they come. Then we try to break it down to a level she can relate to, given her age (five). A preschooler might want to know things like why MLK had to fight for freedom in the first place, but the answer doesn't need to be a lecture on the atrocities of slavery or a detailed account of lynchings in the Jim Crow south. That will come later. For now, we talk about how black people weren't allowed to eat in the same restaurants as white people or drink from the same fountains. How that would make a person feel (if they weren't white)? Is that fair? Preschoolers love to talk about what is and isn't fair, so at this point, discussing race has basically been a piece of cake.

We’re also careful not to dwell on the fact that in America, our ethnic group has been considered inferior, because we don't want them to become so self-conscious of others biases that it limits their ability, as evidenced by "The Stereotype Threat". Instead, we choose to focus less on racism and more on the accomplishments of African Americans and the aspects of our culture that have been written out of standard education. We know that racism will eventually rear its ugly head; we try our best to give them the ammunition to confront it head on when it does.

Yet people of color aren't the only ones who need to understand prejudice. White children should be taught about it too, so that by the time it comes up in school, they are sensitized to the issue, not dismissive of it. And like sex, if a child has reached 9 or 10 without ever asking about it, it's probably a good idea to go ahead and have "the big talk". At that age, a fifteen-minute history lesson should do the trick (I wish Doug's parent's had done that). The last thing a parent should want is to find out that their kid was off at college participating in a (insert favorite minority group here)"costume party". Much like catching one’s daughter on a commercial for "Girls Gone Wild", that would be proof that someone dropped the ball.

The toughest part is, most parents have the birds and the bees all figured out (or let’s hope so), but many adults, of all persuasions, are ignorant about the history of race in America and how it plays into our everyday lives...from where a person decides to sit in a doctor's waiting room, to the friends they choose, to who they elect for president. Knowing that racism will affect their children at some point in life (whether it's through white privilege or bearing the brunt of direct bigotry) should encourage any parent—including those who are famous golfers—to learn as much about it as they can. So when it’s finally time for “the big talk”, they’re prepared.

This essay is dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, the late William Howard May (June 17, 1911 — June 4, 2007), who taught me to be proud of who I am and took pride in the groundbreaking success of Tiger Woods as if he’d been a grandchild of his very own.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column is called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Baby in the air

2007-06-08T16:48:00.000-05:00

All knocked up with no place to go. That basically sums up my general disposition during the last trimester of both pregnancies. As much as I wanted to set foot on a plane and see the world, I was on house arrest by doctor’s orders, stuck at home, staring at my belly, guessing who’s coming to dinner.

It wasn’t anything serious, but both times, my OB suggested I think twice before traveling anywhere. My first pregnancy was perfect with the exception of a benign, but excruciating condition that prevented me from being in a close friend's island wedding (to this day, five years later, I still don't think the bride has forgiven me). The second, a twin pregnancy that left me looking full-term somewhere around month five, I was too huge to even take my two-year-old on a merry-go-round without the operator grilling me about my due date. A week later, when I asked my doctor what he thought of my bright idea to jet off and meet my husband who was teaching at a summer writer’s workshop, he just looked at my belly and laughed.

The only thing worse than being extremely pregnant is being extremely pregnant and exceptionally bored. Even if the nursery's not finished, there's only but so much nesting a gestating woman is capable of before losing her hormone-marinated mind. That’s why I refuse to badmouth the woman who recently boarded a Delta airplane pregnant and ended up giving birth before landing. Many criticized her for setting foot on the plane in the first place, but honestly, who can blame her? Life must go on, whether one already has kids with or just happens to be “with child”. In fact, as a parent of small children who’s terrified of flying (with them), I’m almost willing to pay someone to have a baby while my family takes our first flight as a fivesome this summer.

I actually think a parent flying with small kids would be crazy not to welcome a (non-terrorism related) mid-flight commotion that isn’t caused by their own offspring. Please, somebody distract the entire plane from listening to my youngest daughter squeal because she wants the Pirates Booty that I forgot to pack. Save the woman behind us from being distracted from her knitting because my preverbal son keeps flirting with her. Prevent the entire economy class from listening to my oldest serenade them because she's decided she's the newest member of the Cheetah Girls. Keep me from wanting to hit my husband over the head with my Skip Hop bag because he’s listening to his ipod and reading a comic book through all of this, pretending he doesn’t even know us. I'm not adverse to anyone who wants to help make sure my kids don't get our entire family thrown off the plane. To jet-setting parents of half-pints, a laboring mother on board is like a get out of jail free card.

So bring me your tired, your poor pregnant women who can’t stand the idea of putting their lives on hold while waiting for their special deliveries to arrive. We’ll make a seat for you in first class. Don’t even worry about the other passengers. In the rare event you’re your water breaks somewhere between the plastic cups being taken away and Zoolander being shown, your dignity will fly right out the passenger seat window anyway. You’ll care less about the nauseous businessman two rows in front of you, the flight attendant who’s too freaked out to serve pretzels because she’s hiding in the bathroom, or the baby boomer shouting “that’s not how I did it!” from the back.

Just know that no matter how stir-crazy you happen to be right now, or how gargantuan you insist you are, making the decision to fly in the third trimester isn’t anything to take lightly. It’s a lot different than wondering if a glass of merlot has a higher alcohol content than a glass of shiraz and if just one teeny glass of either of the two could cause fetal alcohol syndrome. It’s not like questioning the health risk of cooked sushi or wondering if the steaming hot bath you took the other night could mean your unborn child is destined to a life of pity. But if you have the nerve, I applaud you and any woman with enough gumption to laugh in the face of her OB, Mother Nature and of course her own mother to climb aboard with an almost baked bun in the oven. Let's just hope there's a doctor in the house.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Is there a problem?

2007-06-07T07:41:00.000-05:00

Racism is often treated as a "black subject", but we know it's everybody's issue. Being white shouldn't make a person exempt from having to consider race and racism in their everyday lives. Any a parent who want to raise well-adjusted children should probably be thinking about these kind of things. I was reminded of this as I was going through some of J-Jo's papers from nursery school. So much of it brought back certain memories, like:

...the day I brought J-Jo to school a few minutes late and Headteacher beckoned (only) to J-Jo and chimed: "Hurry up, we're taking about Africa!" (emphasis on the word "Africa!")

...or the day that we told Headteacher we were keeping J-Jo out of school one afternoon to take her to see a replica of the Amistad, which was temporarily docked at a harbor nearby.

Mrs. Headteacher: "Do you feel she's ready for the subject of slavery?"

Mrs. J: "She's known about slavery since she was two." In a general sense, but it's true.

Mrs. Headteacher: "Let us know if there's anything we can do here to help her with that."

Mrs. J: Uh, thanks.

What I wanted to say: "You all pretend like the holidays aren't even happening because you're afraid of offending people. Do you really think I expect you to teach my child about slavery? Do ya really think I'd TRUST you to?"

Oh well. It's over now. J-Jo graduated two weeks ago (in the form of a picnic, no cap and gowns up here). Next year, she'll be at a progressive charter school in Houston that's a lot more diverse. I know J-Jo will miss the friends she's made here, though. I will too. They're all sweet kids who I've watched grow from babies to toddlers to sassy-mouthed little kids right along with my own (not too thrilled about that sassy part). And I know she'll miss the little white schoolhouse and its intimate little yard. But I gotta admit, I'm still reeling from this upstate nursery school experience. While it was great in certain ways — the healthy snacks, organic "birthday muffins" instead of cupcakes, the fact that their learning was play-based — I can't say I'll actually miss it.

And just where do you think you're going?

2007-06-02T10:42:00.000-05:00

Ever been to a graduation where somebody's family acted a fool? I have. Thank God it wasn't my own.

Anybody who's witnessed what I reference knows the cringe factor here. Overzealous whooping and hollering is just not cute in certain settings. Those with home training (and you know who you are) know full well that at certain dignified, stoic events...weddings, baptisms, graduations there's a certain amount of decorum expected, no? Naturally heads are going to turn when all of the sudden, a name of a graduating senior is announced and an entire section — Uncle Jimmie, cousin Skeeter, Big Momma and ten more — decide to stand up and raise the roof. Almost as if they earned the diploma themselves, just for showing up.

But should that mean that the graduating senior should be penalized by
not receiving their diplomas, based on the reaction of their family members? According to the officials of Galesburg High School, the answer is yes. And as if that isn't punishment enough, the seniors — including those with honors — are expected to do several hours of "community service" (ie. filing, answering phones, and other menial tasks for the School Board) before they get their actual diploma.

From AP:

The principal, Principal Tom Chiles, said administrators who monitored the more than 2,000-seat auditorium reported only disruptions they considered "significant," and all turned in the same five names.

"Race had absolutely nothing to do with it whatsoever," Chiles said. "It is the amount of disruption at the time of the incident."

I would buy that if four out of the five students punished weren't black, and the other wasn't hispanic. And if I was certain there had been equal repercussions for other seniors, and their shenanigans.

Some people might need etiquette lessons, but what's wrong with being happy? And should any of us really be held accountable for our, how do I say, more eccentric family members? As much as I cringe at Al Sharpton jumping into the mix any time anything even remotely racial occurs anywhere in the U.S., I sure hope he's on his way out to Galesburg, Illinois right now.

What do you all think?

Mass MOCA

2007-05-29T21:32:00.001-05:00

Don't ask me who the crazy looking guy on the wall is, just trust me, this place is amazing. I'm still catching my breath after a whirlwind weekend visit to Mass MOCA in North Adams, MA (about two hours and some change from here). I was a studio art major in college and although my medium is now words, I have a sincere passion for high art and an extraordinary amount of respect for those who create it. Walking though contemporary art galleries is one of my favorite things to do in life and just setting foot in the museum's gift shop is damn near transcendental. So needless to say, mommy was one happy camper.

If asked whose work I admire the most, that of Ellen Gallagher and my former classmates (well almost classmates, they went to Morehouse), Kojo Griffin and Sanford Biggers would come to mind most easily, but there are a ton of contemporary artists I jock. I could care less about a painting matching my couch, I'm most impressed by the concept. The artist in the main gallery had an amazing usage of color and exploration of light. But my favorite part was J-Jo standing in front of an installation that was comprised of about 44 fans stacked on top of eachother, blowing at different times: "Fans are not art mommy, they're for blowing air." She was all over the Ugly Dolls, though:

Road trips like this one have me almost wishing we weren't getting ready to leave the northeast at the end of this summer. Yes, you heard me right, the J Family will soon be leaving upstate New York, due to Mr. J's new tenure-track gig. I'm ecstatic for my honey, but hate moving, so I'll leave the details to him (for those of you who haven't already heard).

For now, a few more shots from Mass MOCA, starring the J Trio:

A stranger offered J-Jo the purple balloon (at least it wasn't candy).

Check out the trees hanging from above.

J-Jo reminds me how much creativity I've lost in the third floor art studio dedicated entirely to kids.

Blowing off some steam before the ride home. Better there than in the car, bugging out all the way through the Berkshires!

A Public Service Announcement from COON: The Coalition Opposing Offensive and Negative Stereotypes

2007-05-24T15:59:00.000-05:00

Little Marvin: 4

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How to Be a Playa (or just accused of it)

2007-05-21T23:19:00.000-05:00

No sooner than Michelle Obama announces that she's leaving her job to hit the ground running on her hubby's campaign trail, she's accused of having a chip on her exfoliated shoulder. A new website, Jezebel (from the good folks who bring you Gawker), speculates that said chip is because old boy "messed up".

Not that they actually know anything. But according to the gals over there, Mrs. O's comments about "he's just a man" and her referring to him as the "the brother" somehow indicate that she got played. They go on to rant about how it was a City Hall aide and how "he's supposed to be all fresh and clean". No proof or anything, just a silly, speculative, rant passed off as snarky humor. For the record, even if it makes white people uncomfortable, calling someone "the brother" (even if it is one's husband) is not a diss. Especially when, in context, it is to say "The brother is smart", as Mrs.O actually did recently (to an all black crowd).

If the jezebels at Jezebel would slow their roll a minute — and put down their assumptions that all black men are dogs...no comment on politicians in general — before jumping to conclusions, they'd have realized that Michelle Obama is 100% behind her honey. And for better or for worse, that's really all that matters. This is a serious presidential candidate we're talking about, ladies, not you're effing ex-boyfriend. Save the cheap shots for someone else.

Sparkling Wiggle (say that ten times fast)

2007-05-19T20:30:00.001-05:00

Nice try, racist morons, but black people are pretty used to this kind of thing by now. That's not to say it's okay for parents to make fools out of their children by "innocently" taping them making unintentional racist slurs and broadcasting it on YouTube for the world to see. I'm just not worried about your kid sitting next to mine in AP classes, spewing racial epithets at her or anything. At the rate you all are going, she'll be lucky if she makes it past fifth grade.

So I'm just going to go about my life as you all go about yours. Where do you live, Anchorage? If you ever make it back to civilization, say in your retirement or something, maybe I'll run into you when we're taking our black grandkids to the park. Don't worry, I might be a little bitter in my old age, but I won't bite.

In Excess

2007-05-19T07:39:00.000-05:00

I can’t imagine my life without children. That said, there are certain things about having them I could easily live without. At the top of the list: toys. The ones I trip over constantly, that get played with for five—make that two—minutes before being discarded like last week's Times. Toys that make repetitive, annoying noises. Toys that do nothing to enhance the visual appeal of a room. That’s mean, right? Where do I get off being so superficial, selecting their diversions based on looks or their sound? Isn’t it more important that the children are happy, stimulated and fulfilled, regardless of the packaging the aforementioned entertainment comes in? I don’t think so.

The worst part about it is that my children barely even notice when plush animals and plastic playthings disappear because they’re bored with the toys they have anyway. Within what seems like a matter of days, they outgrow and abandon them faster than the small town girl who gets dumped by her high school sweetheart after putting his butt through med school.

Provided they even want to play with toys at all. My oldest would much rather play games on the computer, my younger daughter would much rather get her cute, chubby fingers on some crayons and proceed to add her personal touch to anything within arm’s length (except paper). And my son just wants to eat. So when I finally realized that collectively, my kids’ M.O. involved dumping their toys out of the various baskets that pepper their playroom and our home before abandoning them, something clicked. Loud. I could very well maximize my time and productivity—rather greatly, I might add—by eliminating at least half of the random things that piss me off.

I began with the Happy Meal toys because these weren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. My kids practically live on Yo Baby yogurt and Annie’s Mac and Cheese, not Chicken McNuggets and fries. But on certain occasions, I backslide. I’m not proud of it; it’s just the truth. It’s way too easy to give into the Golden Arches when daddy’s working late, my back is killing me and just the idea of slaving over a hot stove would be the final, rusty nail in my coffin. That said, I hate Happy Meals and the associated accoutrements. I resent the fact that they linger around the house, in all of their tacky, plastic glory, evoking my guilty feelings for even going there. So into the trash they go.

Next up, the noisemakers. I swear the people who design them hate their parents, but is that really our fault? Rowdy toys are not my friends. I don’t really care if their intention is to “teach” something. They make computers for that. And that Fisher Price tea set, the one whose little teapot makes muzak every time you touch it can go, too. Along with the toys that player-hate me for having an adult life. The ones that, without any prompting at all, decide to pipe in with their two cents after hours, once the kids are asleep and I’ve wound down with a glass of merlot and my husband’s putting on the Barry White. Noisy toys are just evil.

Maybe if the majority of the toys we had actually got any play, I’d feel differently. But it took me three kids and (at least) thirty trips to the Salvation Army to realize that when it comes to toys, most kids are cads. To this day, my five-year-old only consistently only “plays” with one thing, and that’s Zozo, a stuffed bunny she named at age two that my dad’s friend picked up for her at Harrod’s when she was born. Sure, Zozo’s fur is matted, his (her?) green, grosgrain ribbon is missing from around the neck and it smells a little funny. But that bunny s a survivor. Zozo’s seen many a plaything disappear from this house. He (she?) has also seen many toys get used and abused, loved and left in this house. Zozo’s also seen mommy send many a stuffed animal down the river to Goodwill—faster than an antebellum slave master. Zozo ain’t going nowhere. The rest of them better watch their backs.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Meet Teddy P. Brains

2007-05-15T22:06:00.000-05:00

After fussing with the remote for a while, J-Jo flung it down on the couch, obviously demoralized. "Whatever happened to Little Bill? I always look for it, but it's never on."

I'd noticed that too...but did my best not to shatter her image of a pollyanna world by telling her what I really thought. I hesitated for a minute, kind of hard pressed to find an answer, but she quickly summed it up for me: "Oh, I know mommy. Maybe it comes on while we're sleeping."

"Maybe". Riiight. Just like "Perspectives" featuring Tim Meadows on the old Saturday Night Live episodes. And every other black talk show on public access tv.

Good thing for Teddy P. Brains. He and Little Bill might look similar on paper, but J-Jo's decided that Teddy's actually the better catch.

In the new 3-D animated children's program, Teddy P. Brains, his cousin Tempest and his dog Dartagnan seek knowledge on their missions back in time, through space and around the world. It begins with Teddy getting a very special present for his kindergarten graduation: a magic diploma that summons a rocket capable of traveling through time and space. Must be nice.

You know something's working when your child and her playdate (who looks just like a character from a Hans Christian Andersen tale) ask to watch a character (who isn't played out on backpacks) over, and over. And over. Again. The animated series targeting 3 to 8 year olds does an incredible job helping kids learn about history and natural science while letting them live vicariously through its protagonists. Smart.

Why God Made Moms

2007-05-11T21:05:00.000-05:00

Answers given by 2nd grade school children to the following questions:

Why did God make mothers?
1. She's the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
2. Mostly to clean the house.
3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?
1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
3. God made my Mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?
1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
2. They had to get their start from men's bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.

What kind of little girl was your mom?
1. My Mom has always been my Mom and none of that other stuff.
2. I don't know because I wasn't there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
3. They say she used to be nice.

What did Mom need to know about dad before she married him?
1. His last name.
2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your Mom marry your dad?
1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my Mom eats a lot.
2. She got too old to do anything else with him.
3. My grandma says that Mom didn't have her thinking cap on.

Who's the boss at your house?
1. Mom doesn't want to be boss, but she has to because dad's such a goof ball.
2. Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
3. I guess Mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What does your Mom do in her spare time?
1. Mothers don't do spare time.
2. To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your Mom perfect?
1. On the inside she's already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.
2. Diet. You know, her hair. I'd diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your Mom, what would it be?
1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I'd get rid of that.
2. I'd make my Mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it and not me.
3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

The Little Things

2007-05-10T22:11:00.000-05:00

My firstborn forced me to wonder what I did with all of the hours in a day before giving birth. Once my husband and I got her home from the hospital (elated that they didn't expect us to bring her back) I soon learned that things like taking a five-minute shower was no longer a basic right, it was a privilege. Activities once taken for granted, like spending an entire Saturday morning in bed before heading to brunch by three pm, devoting an entire Sunday to laying on the couch reading the Times or taking my sweet old time in Sephora quickly became things of the past. All indulgences that used to be routine, like shaving my legs, for instance, suddenly felt slightly naughty. Slipping out to the mall child-free evoked even more guilt. A regular trip to the hair salon felt like a full-blown affair.

Yet just when it seemed as if those days were here to stay, somehow - almost as if by magic, I swear - they faded into the ether faster than acid washed jeans. I got over feeling guilty about pampering myself and remembered that it was something I not only needed, but also actually deserved. And now that all my children are far past the infancy stage, I can actually leave them with daddy for a few hours while I jet off to loll around in a white robe. I love the idea of a day when all I have to think about is me. What I wouldn’t give to have a hot stone massage, facial and pedicure before rolling out of heaven, I mean, Haven, feeling like whole wheat fettuccini. After taking my sweet old time waiting for the toenail polish to dry, I’d drive home barefoot, climb into bed and doze off for as long as I pleased.

Sounds like the perfect Mothers Day, doesn’t it? Of course it does, unless you’re me. Because, believe it or not, all I really want to do this Sunday is hang out with husband and kids.

I'm no masochist, really I'm not, but aside from a homemade card, I don’t even want gifts. I’d much rather spend time remembering the real meaning of the Hallmark co-opted holiday through the words that the activist poet Julia Ward Howe penned so long ago about all of the mothers of the world rising up in the name of peace. I want to call my mom, and then my ninety-one year old grandmom to thank them. I want to think about the day my kids were born and then I just want to enjoy them.

And then we'll pack up the car and head for the hills for some fun. Up here in the Mid Hudson, there will be plenty of mom-friendly things to get into that are all within a days drive. For one, there are at least a dozen historic mansions all along the Hudson River. Unless you're into antiques it sounds kind of boring...until you actually set foot in one. And there are day trips a plenty: in the time it takes for Dora to come on, followed by Diego we could drive to Dia:Beacon or Great Barrington. And if we're really feeling adventurous (and nobody's too cranky) we could hightail it to North Adams, MA to check out MASS MOCA. And last but not least, thanks to the CIA, there are a myriad of fine places to absolve me of dinner duty.

That would really be enough, because as much as I adore Red Envelope, there's nothing that can replace the fact that I already have my gift. I might not be able to go to the bathroom without a small army standing in front of the door as if I’m plotting to escape through the commode, but my children are more than enough (in a good way). Their laughter sounds better than anything I could download onto my ipod. Their eyes sparkle far brighter than any token I could receive in a little blue box. And although I can often feel them peeling years off my life with their unwarranted whining, there’s really no place else I’d rather be, nothing else I’d rather be doing and nobody else I’d rather be but their mom.

I say all of this knowing full well that one day down the line, at least one of them will wonder what I once asked my own mom out loud: “Hey wait a minute, how come there’s a Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Grandparents Day…but no Kids Day? And I’ll patiently respond with the patented answer: “Because every day is Kids Day”. I'll leave it at that because hopefully, one day in the distant future, they’ll realize what it took me until now to understand: every day is Mother's Day, too. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go treat myself to a massage (my mother didn’t raise a fool).

Old School Thursday (courtesy of J-Jo)

2007-05-10T02:18:00.001-05:00

She almost picked ABC, but this one wins this week.

I Want You Back, Jackson Five
(the year was somewhere around the time I was born!)

No Comment

2007-05-06T21:26:00.000-05:00

Sorry about the lack of a comment button on Friday's post (you know I love to hear what y'all think!). For some reason, there was no no way for anyone to leave the comments I look forward to reading over the weekend. I even cut and pasted into a different document (so now it technically says last Thursday), but that didn't help. Anyway, so sorry about that. Hmm, Wordpress is looking more and more appealing to me these days...

The Apology

2007-05-06T21:14:00.001-05:00

Little Marvin: 3

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This Little Marvin vignette is the funniest comeback to the Imus controversy I've ever seen (thanks for finding it, honey!).

The Immunity Challenge

2007-05-03T07:50:00.000-05:00

While I can admit I've finally grown accustomed to country living, there are still certain things I miss about city life. Mostly the cliches that people who live as far as Idaho have heard of, like being able to get a gallon of milk at three am, the first-rate culture and the world class cuisine. You know the rest. But as a parent, I have to come clean about something: I don't miss the germs. I don't long for the days that a trip to my Manhattan cubicle meant being exposed to the virus of the week, the one that even folks in Queens were catching. I couldn't afford it then, but I definitely can't afford it now. Holding on to the lukewarm metal pole on the D train takes on a whole new meaning when you're chiefly responsible for keeping a family of five alive.

For some reason, I thought that moving to a rural area would somehow grant our kids instant immunity from a multitude of contagious diseases. But just because the sweetly-scented, mountain air we've got up here could put Glade out of business doesn't mean there's nothing floating in it. It's gorgeous country, but we're not exempt from the less idyllic aspects of everyday life. I guess that explains why the coxsackie virus, also known as the lovely hand-foot-mouth disease, is also the name of a real town just several miles up the road. I'm not even going there.

And I'm not sure what the city preschoolers are into, but amongst the preschool set up here, sickness is tres chic. My almost kindergartner is quick to let me know this through her regular updates: "Ella has an ear infection! She has this fabulous pink medicine for it that she gets to bring to school." Even if I remind her that ear infections aren't fun, she persists, starry-eyed: "Okay. Can we paint my room that pink medicine color?" With her pointed, red carpet-style reportage of the pint-sized, A-List infirmed, my girl's well on her way to becoming the next Tanika Ray. She even has the nerve to get upset when she's not invited to the hottest chicken-pox party (I'm not offended in the least).

I guess it doesn't help that my husband's career requires regular exposure to coughing college students who survive on Lucky Charms cereal and cigarettes (Dear student: Being nineteen and having your own apartment does not mean you have common sense). Last week, when he was forced to cancel class because he was laid up with strep throat, tonsils the size of red globe grapes, I ran around like a nut, trying to figure out how I could possibly prevent the rest of the house from coming down with it too. And how I could possibly even know if the twins had sore throats when the only language they're fluent in is Toddlerese? Somehow, my honey's illness passed and the remaining eight tonsils in the house were left unscathed. But soon everyone except mommy had a runny nose and our youngest daughter had some suspicious looking goop coming out of her bloodshot eyes. Great.

One of the realities of being a mom of three kids is accepting the fact that quite often, for months at a time, somebody is always going to sick. The only upside to this phemonena is that I've developed an accute awareness as to which symptoms to ignore and which are actually worth interrupting our pediatrician for while he's at home on the couch, watching Lost. On the pediatric terror alert scale, I decided the pink eye was probably somewhere around yellow. I knew that meant a trip to the doctor was required. While coercing my baby girl to stay in my lap as her twin brother pointed and cracked up at the doctor's Disney tie (what can I say, the boy's got good taste), we learned that not only did she in fact have pinkeye, but she also had her first ear infection.

Even though I wasn't glad to hear it, I was rather impressed that it took almost two years for the first ear infection to catch up with her. Still, I left that office feeling somewhat defeated, convinced that even if I spent the next sixteen plus years wiping down counters with tea tree oil and Mrs. Meyers Clean Day (the harsher stuff scares me), someone in our house would always be ill. All the echinacea in the world couldn't help us.

Sure, it's great to live like Swiss Family Robinson (minus the actual Swiss part of course), but that doesn't mean we upstate people are immune from real life. I don't miss packing into suffocating elevators and and impromptu trips to ebola-ridden public bathrooms, but my family still gets sick. I won't give up though. I'm not about to stop making sure they get their fresh air, their 5 a Day and whatever else seems to work (plus, I love the fact that the staff at our small town health food store treats me like Norm from Cheers and provides first rate customer service, so I'll keep going back for more home remedies). I'm determined to conquer each ailment as it comes and hopefully the warmer months will provide a nice respite from the nasty winter and colds we endure. I'll just keep a travel-sized version of hand sanitizer in the cup holder on the jogger stroller (and in the diaper bag and the glove compartment). That should do it.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

The Me Nobody Knows

2007-05-01T08:31:00.000-05:00

It's almost been four years since Mr. J and I packed up our belongings and J-Jo (who was, at that time, the same age as the twins are now) and headed north to our current home in the Hudson Valley.

When we first got here, I was very conscious of the fact that I was the only black woman up here. For miles. You'd be more likely to see a wild turkey crossing the street than a sister at the supermarket (yes, we really do have wild turkeys up here).

It was a bit of a culture shock, to say the least. Even in the 'burbs I grew up in, there were other black people. But with time I learned to stop worrying about people's stares and just go about my business. Instead of worrying about how the lady at H & R Block began filing out as single (never mind the ring or the fact that I was seven months pregnant at the time), I got the terrific accountant we have now and never looked back. I ignored the stares at the supermarket. I even stopped caring if the old lady at the pump across from me just jumped in her car and locked the doors after seeing me get out of my Honda Odyssey (yeah, they say most muggers drive those).

I got over standing out. Or at least I thought I did.

Until yesterday, when I took a huge bag of clothes to donate to a local charity-based thrift store. For some reason, I felt the (odd) need to apologize while handing the bag to the lady over the counter, because nothing was ironed or on hangers or anything. She took one look at me and replied:

"As long as everything's clean."

Clean?

I tried to recall what I looked like when I left the house that morning. My hair was pulled back into a neat pony tail, I had on a black peasant top and jeans. And my favorite chandalier earrings (they weren't these or anything, but so what?). Sure, I'd been running around with the kids all morning, but we weren't rolling in the dirt. Of course my clothes were clean. Of course the huge bag of used clothes were clean, too. So why'd she have to go there?

I felt the sudden urge to write Barack Obama, something tells me he'd understand.

One of the biggest things that annoys me about race in this country is that just when you're going about your business just thinking you're a person, somebody has to point the finger at you and shout: "No! You're not a person, you're a BLACK (or whatever else that's not white) person!" As if that's all that matters. As if there's nothing else. As if I owe anybody an explanation, just for being me.

At least she didn't call me "inarticulate".

He Knows He Loves His Wife

2007-04-29T21:44:00.000-05:00

In case you haven't heard already, Chris Rock is about to take a DNA test to prove (hopefully) that the adoescent child of a 36-year-old Atlanta journalist isn't his.

Recently, Rock and his lovely wife, Malaak, went public, disputing gossip that their marriage is headed for splitsville:

"It is extremely hurtful to us, our children, and our extended family. We remain, as always, very happy and committed to our marriage and the beautiful family that we have built."

I have to be honest, I've heard quite a bit over the years about things not going so well for them, tales of his infidelity and her planning to leave, but that doesn't mean they were true. And even if there was a bit of truth to it (or a whole lot of it) here and there, the bottom line is that they are clearly trying to make it work. Clearly, they're still in love and value what they have.

And we all know that for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, the only people who reeeally know what is going on in anybody's marriage are the two people in it. It they're alright, shouldn't everyone else be, too?

But that said, (cough) I really hope the kid isn't his.

I just couldn't help but doing the math to figure out if Chris and Malaak were together at the time the child in question was conceived. Regardless, I applaud Rock for doing the right thing by agreeing to take responsibility if he's the real dad. Truth be told, the baby mama seems kinda off (and why is it that it's always those types who pop up screaming "love child!"). But either way, something tells me the family will be alright no matter what.

Wish I could say the same for Eddie Murphy. That paternity situation of his is looking quite scary these days.

Speak for Yourself

2007-04-25T20:38:00.000-05:00

For years, I was pretty much indifferent towards The Baldwin Brothers. I'd have been hard pressed to tell Alec, William, Daniel and Stephen apart, even for a million bucks. I had no idea there was also a fifth Baldwin, cousin Joseph. But that was before I met Jack Donaghy, the character Alec Baldwin plays on NBC's "30 Rock".

And fell in love.

With the character, mind you, Alec Baldwin's not even my type. Come to think of it, neither is Tracy Jordan, I mean, Morgan, but I depend on the comic relief they give me to pave the occasionally bumpy road of motherhood. Race, age, body type is unimportant: men who make me laugh just have me open. My surprisingly unjealous (and quite hilarious) husband is aware of this, so it's all good. He knows his wife has needs: I have to laugh. Often. I depend on comedy the way some women crave chocolate. And we know what they say about chocolate.

So naturally, I was stunned upon hearing the verbally abusive voice mail message Baldwin left for his eleven-year-old daughter, Ireland, last week. Once I got over my initial embarrassment that I, along with the rest of America, was eavesdropping on a message that really wasn't meant for my ears or anyone else’s (except his ex-wife Kim Basinger’s, apparently), I was shocked. It was hard to believe that such words could come out of the smiling-eyed actor’s mouth while he wasn’t even in character for anything. Towards his child.

And then I got mad. But not for the reason one might think.

I was miffed because anyone who’s ever been a parent (or has ever had one) knows full well how unperfect we are. Half the time, we’re winging it. Hopefully, we do our best to stay calm under pressure, remaining conscious of the words we use. We do this because we love our children, not because we don't want them to write a tell-all about us one day. Or maybe for some people it's a little of both. Either way, I don’t condone using harsh language with children. I hate hearing teenage mothers threaten to beat their babies with Snapple bottles as much as the next person does. But what prompts strangers to program C.P.S. into their cell phones, threatening to push the button at a parent’s first false move?

Such was the case one chilly Mid Hudson morning I took all three children out for a walk on the college campus where my husband teaches (and where, coincidentally, we reside), only to discover it was actually effing freezing. We weren't even a stone's throw from the house before I decided to corral the kids and turn around to head back. But my oldest had other plans, which included romping in the grass like she was the missing half-sister from The Sound of Music. After six pleads to coax her indoors, I lost it: "Come on. Now. Come. ON!". And then, as if they'd been hiding behind bushes or something, two undergrads appeared out of nowhere, glaring at me like I was Joan Crawford . I swore I saw the shorter of the two with one finger on her cell phone, daring me to make her press send.

To this day, I still wish I'd told them to mind their own business, but it's okay. They'll get it eventually.

I guess that's what irritated me about all of the heated, passionate responses to Alec Baldwin's hissy fit. Most people without children have no idea how emotionally taxing parenting can be. And most people of the parental persuasion can admit that they’ve lost their temper at least once. Or twice. Or more. I've never used scathing, diminishing language with my kids (and don't ever plan to), just as I'm sure that most people reading this haven't either. But I can remember times when, to put it gently, I could have said things a little differently. Most parents can.

Don't just sit there and act like you can't hear me.

I have no idea what prompts a dad to sound like he wants to jump through the phone and strangle his daughter. It's terribly sad that young Ireland has to be stuck between her parent's bitter divorce. One minute, her dad's playing "This Little Piggy" with her, the next thing she knows, he's calling her one. Nothing good can come out of that. Eleven is a tender age: hopefully she won’t end up on a the couch of a Beverly Hills therapist for the next twenty years, too weak from anorexia to get off of it. And hopefully, her dad will realize that she’s the one who deserves the apology, not us; we'll be fine.

But until then, I refuse to join the ranks of people who are insisting that Alec Baldwin does community service or pledges $10,000 to the Boys and Girls Club to make amends. I refuse to contact whomever the attachment parenting version of Al Sharpton is to organize a march. I refuse to applaud Baldwin for threatening to quit "30 Rock" in order to become the poster boy for "parental alienation issues" (come on, Tina, can't you talk some sense into him?).

Most importantly, I refuse to stop watching my favorite sitcom just because one daddy had a bad day; it brings me too much joy. As the old adage says: when mama's not happy, ain't nobody happy. And we wouldn't want that now, would we?

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Word to the Mother

2007-04-24T19:33:00.000-05:00

Just when I thought it would never happen, Big L uttered his first sentence this morning:

"What's THAT?!?"

Not about anything specific, just a general question. So while the girls were still asleep, I sneaked him into our bedroom to see if I really heard what I thought I did (or if it was just some early morning dementia). Turns out, I was right: Prince Charming proceeded to run around the room pointing at things, repeating his new sentence over and over again. I spent the next twenty minutes answering him: "That's the bed, that's a lamp, that's a shoe, don't eat that! That's a book, that's the nightstand, that's...uh, gimme that!"

Even Mr. J, strep throat and all, woke up laughing his behind off, because for months now, our boy's been making absolutely no sense. Maybe to his twin, but not to us. And there was little to no effort made. He seemed to think that the "I cry, you get me what I want" method was working for everybody (namely himself). Not so. Sooo not so. I guess that's why Toddlerspeak: The Toddler Lexicon, the blog that lists every unimaginable toddlerism was created. I added a preverbal term of Coco's there a few weeks ago.

And as much as I try not to get caught up in comparing them, the fact that J-Jo was practically reciting monologues by their age doesn't help (the thought that she might have been somewhat atypical never crossed my mind once). So needless to say, I was elated. When the clock struck a more Godly hour, I called my dad to tell him that the mystery words Big L kept saying to him during our visit last weekend as he pointed at a picture on the wall actually meant something:

"e-TAA?" = "What's that?"

Who knew?

Of course in another six months I'll probably be dying for him to zip it. All of them, for that matter. But right now, for the two weeks it'll probably last, it's the cutest thing in my world.

Umm, okay...

2007-04-23T23:22:00.000-05:00

I'm not really into personality quizzes and generally assume they're kinda cheesy. But I thought this one was fun (and strangely accurate!).

You Are a Cappuccino

You're fun, outgoing, and you love to try anything new.
However, you tend to have strong opinions on what you like.
You are a total girly girly at heart - and prefer your coffee with good conversation.
You're the type that seems complex to outsiders, but in reality, you are easy to please

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Each One, Teach One

2007-04-23T07:42:00.000-05:00

I wish I could report that the J family spent the insanely beautiful weekend picnicking and frolicking in grassy knolls of the Hudson Valley, but alas. We were homebound and didn't stray much further from the backyard, due to the fact that Mr. J was under the 80 degree weather. So while he mustered the energy to watch the kids as they played out back, my time was spent preparing for our upcoming move (more on that later).

I began by packing up books to get rid of, mostly:

1) books that have anything to do with birthing babies . J-Jo's five-and-a-half now. The twins are almost two. Life is just starting to feel "normal" again; we don't plan to follow up with a remix.

2) books that were advance copies of novels that Mr. J's publisher and/or agent sends him that he hasn't even breathed on in seven years because he's usually working on one of his own.

3) sewing books that I bought hoping they'd inspire me to learn how. Same goes for cookbooks with recipes that include the kitchen sink amongst their ingredients.

4) kids books that bore me (I'm fine with reading to them fifteen minutes a day, but I'm sorry: if mommy's going to read it, SHE has to like it too. At least a little bit).

5) college textbooks that haven't been cracked since the day before finals, nearly fifteen years ago (Just plain embarrassing).

So, what to do with these dusty old tomes?

At first, I thought I might look into selling the books online to one of those online book resellers, but had to rethink things after learning that out of the one hundred or so books I have waiting in boxes by the back door to go, I could only get $1.55. Those used book sellers have veeery specific ideas about what they want.

After boxing the books up, I had half a mind to cart them over to the local hospital thrift store. Then I recalled how rude those ladies were to me the last time I tried to donate something. Excuse me, Miss America 1948, if I'm bringing you over $500 of clothing that is perfectly good, perfectly stylish, but just not perfect on my post-partum body (that will never, ever be the same again), please don't act like I'm trying to steal from YOU. Parting with my hot pants is painful enough.

And don't bark at me that you "can't give me a tax receipt", like I've got plans to cash it in for crack.

So after recalling the unfortunate incident, I decided that I should look into sending the books someplace where people will actually appreciate them. Here's what I found:

The Camel Book Drive brings books (literally by camel, see the picture on the left) to the children of Kenya. Many published authors are donating their books to the effort. Hat tip to Lori for telling me about it.

Housing Works, the well-known NYC thrift store and outreach organization,dedicated to improving the lives of people living with HIV/AIDS. They used to have free-shipping, but will still accept donations by mail.

In China alone, more than 1,000 university libraries and 3,000 reference rooms need collections of English language teaching and research materials. Bridge to Asia seeks to rectify this situation by accepting tax-deductible donations of used books.

Adopt a Library is a great site that provides resources to promote world literacy and help encourage donations to libraries and schools in the U.S. and around the world.

Okay, I'm off to ship the boxes. There's a certain type of comfort I take knowing that they'll find a home on the other side of the world, gracing the shelves of someone who really wants them. And while I wish that I didn't have to pay for shipping, it feels so much better than taking the chance that these books will end up in a landfill somewhere.

Now, if I can only figure out what to do about the ridiculous collection of CDs. Especially the ones we haven't listened to since '93, when were so cool like that, the contents of our entire lives could fit into our backpacks.

Barney vs. Hip Hop Harry

2007-04-20T23:30:00.000-05:00

Barney V.S. Hip Hop Harry - Funny home videos are a click away

This is an advertisement for their long-overdue Battle Royale.

For the record, I should probably just mention that any one of us would gladly take either one of them, especially if it meant never having to watch the shows again. No offense to dinosaurs with hypoglycemia or retired bear mascots who think they're Fat Joe.

But feel free to go ahead and correct me if I'm wrong...

A Love Supreme

2007-04-19T13:16:00.000-05:00

It took me until last year to realize that checking on my then four-year-old five times a night might be getting to be a little much.

Now that I’ve gotten that fear out of the way, I just try really hard not to think about the day when the tiny bed I tuck her into each night will be too small for her. But something tells me I won’t be sleeping any better by then.

The recent tragedy at Virginia Tech has been a somber reminder that a large part of parenting means relinquishing control. In the beginning, we cross our fingers on the sonographer’s table, praying the ultrasounds are okay. Then, once the baby gets here, we anxiously wait to see if they’re meeting all of their developmental milestones on time (“Wait a second Ms. BabyDoc, mine’s not talking yet – is that okay?”). We spend time wringing our hands over organic peanut butter vs. generic and whether play-based preschools are really the best way to go. And before we know it, we’re kissing them goodbye in the residence hall lobby. Unsure if the dorm is also home to a troubled student who might randomly commit the unspeakable.

I guess that’s when it clicks: the first time we realize how much (or how little) power we ever really had to begin with.

Right now, my kids are still small; my husband and I talk about saving for college in the same conversations we have about The Little Gym. We squirrel away money for higher learning and ponder where it should be spent (because of course they’ll have plenty of options!). We compare and contrast the finer points of both Ivy League schools and HBCUs and why we both think they should at least leave the state. But for all the investing we do – both financially and emotionally - there will never be enough in the 529 Plan for me to picture our kids away at college until they actually get there. For some reason, the mental image of us sitting in the audience of their high school and college graduations are easier for me to imagine (even if my hair is grey) than what will take place in between. These days, that thought’s just too scary.

Of course I expect that the four years will be well spent – that they’ll thrive academically and socially – it’s the unknowns that haunt me. The parts that even the most vigilant attachment parenting can’t prevent. And not only the heinous crimes, but also the soul crushing things. Things I can easily imagine like my son’s study partner from, say, biology class – the blonde kid who always insists on hi-fiving him - making fun of black people at a “Ghetto Party” (for MLK Weekend, how thoughtful!). Or how one moment we could be marveling at our daughter's impressive gross motor skills, the next going to away games cheering her on...only to later send her off to college where her entire basketball team's success is marred by some jerk flinging cheap shots at them? (Oh, hell no!)

It’s probably a good thing that kid-sized beds are as small as they are. While we can’t pretend they’ll fit them forever, it’s not the same bed they’ll sleep in until they’re eighteen; it lets me pretend they’ll be little for at least a little while. I can tuck my son into it without imagining his legs eventually dangling from it, because by then it will long be outgrown. I take temporary comfort knowing that it will never be slept in by a person that doesn’t love Goodnight, Moon. Just looking at it lets me conveniently ignore the fact that one day, they won’t want me to read I Love You Forever to them ever again.

Because as much as my husband and I dream of the day when all three of our kids are big enough to drop off at a relative’s while we jet off to Jamaica, as much as we hate picking Cheerios of the floor of the car and who knows where else, every milestone makes me long for the last. Every tiny Zutano hat that gets tossed in a box headed for the Salvation Army reminds me we don’t get these days back. I guess it’s practice for the day this nest is empty, mud no longer tracked through the back door (unless we have a dog). And I'm sure that even then, I'll probably catch myself check on one of them, only to be reminded that they’re off at college and the next time I’ll probably see her is Spring Break. Provided she’s not off getting jiggy in Cancun.

Nobody warned me that 95.5% of my time would be spent pointlessly trying to protect my kids from every paper cut that could possibly happen. And that no amount of reliance on Supernanny or Dr. Sears would prepare me for the parental unknowns. The things – of which there are many – that remain outside of one's control. Because each time any one of them is out of my sight, I’m constantly reminded of those words my Bradley Method instructor gushed on the first day of class. Not about giving birth, but what it actually felt like being somebody's mom:

“It’s like your heart has grown little legs and is running around outside of your body.”

“Um, okay…” I remember looking down at my swollen belly, trying to figure out why the baby preferred to lay on one side instead of the other. Hiccupping. I rubbed the unidentified lump as I crunched on a Luna bar , wondering if everything was okay.

I had no idea that was the safest she’d ever be.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Fries With That?

2007-04-17T23:54:00.000-05:00

Interesting news from The Holistic Pediatric Association:

French fries have appeared in the medical research news once again. This time a large study examined the correlation between breast cancer incidence later in life and a list of 30 foods eaten during the preschool years. Interestingly, the food with the highest correlation to breast cancer was French fries.

For one additional serving of French fries per week consumed during ages 3-5 years, the risk of breast cancer increased by 27 percent.

Click here to continue...

Little Richard Sings Rubber Duckie

2007-04-17T10:31:00.000-05:00

The classic Little Richard on Sesame Street segment came on this morning and the twins were going crazy! It was an instant flashback to why I was so fascinated with the guy when I was a kid. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the You Tube clip, but here are the lyrics (why they're online, I have no idea). Just a little routine for the routine. My voice is worse than Sanjaya's, so I'll just stick to the spoken word intro, but maybe you guys could try the whole thing.

(signature piano intro)

Well, here I am in my tubby again. And my tubby's all filled up with water and nice fluffy suds, honey. And I've got my soap .... looky here ... and I got my washcloth ... look at this ... and I got my nifty scrub-brush, honey, just scrub, just scrub. And I got my big, BIG, fluffy towel to dry me off when I'm done. And I got my piano. And there's one other thing that makes tubby-time the very best time of the whole day, honey. And you know what that is? A very special friend of mine, my very favorite little old friend .... (music starts)

(sung)
Rubber duckie, you're the one
You make bathtime lots of fun
Rubber duckie, I'm awfully fond of you
Rubber duckie, joy of joys
When I squeeze you, you make noise
Rubber duckie, you're my very best friend, it's true
(patented-Little Richard-ooooooh!)

Every day when I
Make my way to the tubby
I find a little fella who's
Cute and yellow and chubby
Rub-a-dub-a-dubby
Rubber duckie, you're so fine
And I'm lucky that you're mine
Rubber duckie, I'm awfully fond of you

Oh every day when I
Make my way to the tubby
I find a little fella who is
Cute and yellow and chubby
Rubby-dub-dubby
Rubber duckie, you're so fine
And I'm lucky that you're mine
Rubber duckie, I'd like a whole pond of you
Rubber duckie I'm awfully fond of you!

Flower Child

2007-04-11T21:42:00.000-05:00

It's the type of inspiration Hallmark copywriters would kill for. My best friend, the one I've known since we were eight-year-olds teetering across the balance beam in gymnastics class, is getting married. Tomorrow. There aren't many people more excited for her than I am. And nobody's more excited to walk down that aisle than she is.

Except the flower girl, of course.

Which is absolutely adorable, if she weren't my daughter. The one who's decided the world is a stage. Unlike most mothers of the flower girl, I don't worry that she'll hesitate to walk down the aisle, I'm praying she won't decide not to moonwalk down it. We're talking about a child who sings showtunes (in full voice) in the checkout line at Target. The one who, at age two, insisted on singing "The Ants Go Marching One By One" to business men from Philadelphia as they disembarked the Amtrak at Penn Station. The one my husband jokingly refers to as "The Black Ruth Buzzi" and we both swear is the next Maya Rudolph (Should she do Second City or Groundlings? Before or after college?"). I'm speaking of our resident ham, the one that makes Heavenly Ham taste like hell.

Don't get me wrong, I'm honored that J-Jo's about to be a part of my friend's special day, especially considering that the rest of the bridal party is comprised only of immediate family (and that my dear friend spared me the annoyance of buying a dress I'll wear once). But right now, I'm kinda worried that J-Jo's comedic timing might put a damper on the blessed occasion.

Of course none of this would be a problem if I knew how to give The Look.

I'm sure you've seen it before. It's the facial expression that black mothers who refuse to be publicly embarrassed are famous for. The one that with a slight arch of the brow and purse of the lip simply states: Don't even think about it. The one Claire Huxtable brought into the mainstream. Five years into this parenthood thing and I'm still waiting for my instruction manual to come in the mail.

So in the meantime, I'm going put the Claire Huxtable in me aside and remember that this wedding is much bigger than J-Jo's inner diva. I'm probably overreacting, anyway; everyone says that kids in weddings add levity to a joyful, yet tense, occasion. Maybe I should just focus on the symbolic beauty of the occasion and remember that most people can't actually manage to get hitched without hi jinx of some kind. I'm going to take a deep breath and put this whole flower chile thing into perspective because life is far too short. In a blink of an eye, a grown-up J-Jo could very well likely be walking down the aisle once more (provided Tina Fey isn't keeping her too busy at 30 Rockefeller Center).

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Coffee Break's Over

2007-04-09T21:04:00.000-05:00

In the best of times, being black is absolutely beautiful (let the choir say "Amen!"). In the worst of times, it feels something like this:

Three men went to hell.

The devil said to them "You have come to hell, and you must now choose whether to spend eternity in room 1, 2 or 3"

He then opened the doors to the three rooms.

Room 1 was filled with men standing on their heads, on a hard wooden floor.

Room 2 was filled with men standing on the heads, on a cement floor.

Finally, room 3 had just a few men, standing in human feces up to their knees and drinking coffee.

The men thought for a while, and decided to go with room 3, as it was less crowded and they could drink coffee.

They entered the door to room 3 and just as it was closing behind them, the devil said "OK men, coffee break's over. Back on your heads."

Sometimes, all you can do is laugh. Because just when it looks like everything's cool, that no public figure has acted out in a while and offended black people, some modern-day Jimmy the Greek has to come out of their face with a racist insult. For no good reason at all (not that there ever is one). By now, just about everybody in the black blogosphere has weighed in on Don Imus' ignorant and offensive remarks about the Rutgers' Women's Baskeball Team. The comment that referred to the impressive athletes as "nappy headed hos" (for those who've been under the mommy - or daddy - rock for the couple of weeks).

I've read countless, incredibly astute reactions to the "shock jock's" remarks, but thought one of the most pointed came from Deborah Dickerson's The Last Plantation: "You never see the racism coming. You're minding your own business, say, playing basketball or buying groceries or eating at Krispy Kreme when an Imus comes along and forces you to be 'black' so he can be 'white'." As a woman who deeply despises misogynistic language and has has proudly worn just about every natural style known to 125th Street, all I could think was, (to quote The Millionaire's Wife from Gilligan's Island): "Well (snif). I've never!"

Oh, wait a minute. Yes I have.

Like my friend Field Negro so eloquently alluded to, this Imus business is par for the course for those of us LWB (Living While Black). I don't like it, I don't condone it, but do I expect it? Sadly, yes. Because, just in case anybody is late coming to the party, there are a lot of ignorant people in the house. To narrow the group even further, there are a lot of ignorant racists dancing poorly, to their own rhythm. And to whittle it down even one degree further, there are a lot of ignorant racists throwing their hands in the air like they just don't care, 'cause they really don't think they're racists. I'm fairly certain Don Imus is one of those clueless types. The type that thinks that having a couple of black drinking buddies gives them free reign to say whatever and end up getting left at the bar (or in the studio) wondering "Hey...where did everybody go??"

I say this for one reason only: the term "hos" is one highly offensive thing, but how many white guys do you know actually even know the word "nappy"...until now? Hugh Grant thinks it means diaper. So does Paul McCartney. Of course they do, they're English. But what about white American guys (the ones that aren't married to black women)? Sure, terms like "diss" began popping up on sitcoms back in the early nineties and "bling" crossed quite seamlessly, thanks to people like Puffy (who I blame for many things). "Hos" I could see (rappers throw that one around all the time which is a seperate post altogether), but "nappy"? Where'd he get that one from, BET's Comicview?

All I can assume is that, much like the old anti-drug commercial, where the hysterical dad confronts his adolescent son when he finds weed in his room ("I learned it from watching you, Dad!"), Don Imus learned the word "nappy" by watching black people (not that I, nor my fellow ethnicists are personally to blame for any of this nonsense). Whether it was through listening to hip hop, watching School Daze, or hanging out with Robin Quivers, somewhere along the way, Imus caught on to another N-word and assumed the word was fair game. Or maybe he caught somebody proudly sporting one of those old school "Happy to Be Nappy" t-shirts I picked up junior year of high school at The Greek Picnic. I don't know.

What I do know is that there are words that are okay for black folks to say in present company that other people just can't use (sorry). Is it a double-standard? Yes. Is it a rusty, jagged, double-edged sword? Sure. Is it fair? Hell, yeah. It's called code-switching people, and it's high time black folks get back to that. If every word that is a part of African American vernacular is pumped into the mainstream, a critical part of the culture will be lost. I'm not saying we should go around speaking Gullah, but I do think there's a certain power to the A-B conversation. If for no other reason, then to prevent racist jerks from appropriating African American terminology and then using it to insult people.

Maybe there should be a Negro Lexicon of sorts, for words that are an historical part of the vernacular, meant only to be used in certain company. That way, they'll never be used incorrectly and nobody's feelings could get hurt. Everybody with some African ancestry would receive the book; it would be sort of like the National Do Not Call Registry. But for black people. I'm not talking about words like "pimps", "playas" or garden tools (which the Rutgers Women's Team is far from by the way, and I resent that, too). I'm talking about the words your Nana used to say when she was doing your hair in the kitchen Saturday night before church. Does Don Imus know what "baby hair" is? What "edges" are? Dear Lord, let's hope not.

It seems like every time I think the coast is clear, somebody has to slip up and say something stupid to inform me that they really think I need to forget the college degree and go scrub dirty toilets for a living. In this particular instance, what we can take from Don Imus' comments is that to some, hardworking, talented and college educated young black women will never be seen as anything more than hypersexual chicken heads. Those young ladies deserve better than that. We all do. Right now, OK Go's "Here It Goes Again" (and that mesmerizing video on the treadmills) is stuck on continuous play in my brain. Here it goes. Again.

Okay black people, coffee break's over. Back on our (nappy?) heads.

Happy Easter & Happy Spring!

2007-04-08T11:59:00.000-05:00

It's too cold for an egg hunt right now (did that on Thursday, anyway) so J-Jo and I are spending the afternoon making these:

Aren't these just the lovliest Easter eggs ever?
Courtesy of Design Mom

My peeps.
Courtesy of Kids Craft Weekly

All the best to you and yours!

Mrs. J, Mr. J, J-Jo & The Dynamic Duo

Josephine Too?

2007-04-06T14:20:00.000-05:00

My friend Lori over at My American Melting Pot is starting to wonder if Angelina Jolie is starring in her own period piece as the late Josephine Baker. I have to admit I'm beginning to think it too, with the whole Rainbow Tribe business and all. Word has it that Jolie is now planning to adopt a fifth child, this time a daughter from Chad.

I don't know where they'll find the time, but I'm not mad at 'em. They certainly can afford to send them all to college. Even though we already know that Maddox will probably be a rock star and Zahara the next Iman. And I think it's just great that they took my advice and are planning to give little Zahara a sister that actually happens to be one.

What do you think? Is Brangelina buggin'? Or do you think it's a beautiful thing?

Rock the Vote

2007-04-06T13:51:00.000-05:00

A few months ago, I posted a powerful short film directed by seventeen-year-old named, Kiri Davis. She's received widespread critical acclaim for "A Girl Like Me", her gut-wrenching exploration of how race impacts our perception of beauty. Now, she's up for a $10,000 CosmoGirl Film Contest Award! Anyone who's seen the short knows that this young lady doesn't play, so let's spread the word and hook a sister up.

To watch "A Girl Like Me", click here. To vote for it, click here.

Million Dollar Baby

2007-04-05T08:52:00.000-05:00

At one time in my life, a trip to the supermarket meant picking up a few things from Fairway on my way home from work. Within a few minutes, I could be in and out, without answering anything beyond "credit or debit?". Today, a trip to my small town grocery store is a major life event. As if toting my three under six isn't challenging enough, I never manage to get past aisle six without answering a truck load of questions about them. As if it's any of their business, strangers want to know how it's possible that my kids share can the same brown eyes, but skin tones that range from basic beige to caramel brown. How I gave birth to a Whitman's Sampler and they all have the same biracial dad.

These questions at the supermarket are typical for many women whose children don't resemble The Von Trapp Family Singers. One would think that in an era when celebrites adopt babies of different races as if they're shopping for Jimmy Choos, mainstream Americans would get used to seeing families that don't "match". With time, I've learned to answer these questions politely before letting them roll off my back. If my kids are within earshot (and not begging for Pop Tarts), I want them to hear a response that validates who they are, instead of something that sounds like an apology. In doing so, I let them know that even though America calls us "black people", they themselves are technically shades of almond, butterscotch and caramel. That African American families come in all colors, it's part of the beauty of being black. I do this not for the strangers' benefit, but because I want my kids to be proud of who they are.

I hope that Nancy Andrews, the Long Island mother who is suing a Manhattan fertility clinic for impregnating her with a "black baby" will do the same. Upon discovering that their daughter Jessica was born several shades darker than she is, Mrs. Andrews (who identifies as "white" despite the fact that she's Dominican and looks a whole lot more like Halle Berry than Nicole Kidman) and her husband, who happens to be white, had DNA testing done to find out if the baby was actually theirs. As it turned out, the results proved that the Park Avenue clinic had erroneously implanted the donated sperm of a black man (gasp!) into Mrs. Andrew's womb. The result was a beautiful, Afro-Hispanic baby they named Jessica. The couple is currently in the process of filing suit, claiming that Jessica "looks nothing like them" and that she will always be a reminder of a terrible mistake. As if Jessica won't have enough to contend with growing up.

One can only imagine what it must be like for a woman who desperately wants a child (in this case, a second child) to endure the emotional trials of infertility, the miracles of modern science, the inconvenience of morning-sickness, leg cramps, insomnia and who-knows-what-else during pregnancy only to find that her dream baby has been fathered by a complete stranger. I'd like to think that the race of the donor or appearance of the child would be of little importance in a case of gross negligence such as this. Based on the couple's claims, however, I'm not fully certain that they'd have had the same reactions if Jessica had been born blue-eyed and blonde. Regardless of the clinic's error, the shade of her skin, the kink of her hair, Jessica Andrews is absolutely Nancy Andrew's biological daughter. While her mother may never appreciate the African genes in her own bloodline, I hope she'll do her best to accept Jessica with open arms and that her husband will also learn to accept the child as his own.

And that with time, the Andrews will find ways to answer strangers' questions in the supermarket that will assure their youngest daughter she's 100% loved.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Deck the Walls

2007-04-03T22:31:00.000-05:00

Ever wish you could find something to decorate your daughter's room with that went beyond the standard flower/princess/butterfly motif? And if it has to have a character, can't it be one that actually looks like her, thankyouverymuch?

Problem solved. Check out Yoon Kids for their collection of modern wall art that portrays a diverse mix of kids being kids. You can choose background colors, patterns, hair colors and yes, even skin colors from a unique assortment of canvas prints. Currently working on a boys line, the indie line goes far beyond the generic, tapping into the unique attributes our kids naturally posess.

Rich Dad, Poor Dad

2007-04-01T19:28:00.000-05:00

Mr. J woke up bright and early this morning to take J-Jo to the little bakery they like frequent on the weekends. That's it pictured there on the right, it's actually about that big, too. But I have to tell you, those cinnamon buns are the bomb (as evidenced by the remainders in the bottom right corner).

Before they left, I asked for a coffee and handed Mr. J some change before shooing them out the back door. I was despareate to take a catch a nap while the twins were sleeping.

Oh, but what I wouldn't have given to have heard this exchange:

Mr. J: (Counting his change) Okay, I think this is it...

J-Jo: Daddy, are you rich?

Mr. J: Uh no, I'm really...not. Are you?

J-Jo: Oh yeah (nodding head), I'm rich.

Mr. J: Yeah? How do you know?

J-Jo: Because I have more money than I can count.

How Ya Like Me Now?

2007-03-31T19:53:00.000-05:00

Go 'head Uncle Ben. Our friendly rice man by-passed the mailroom and is now the CEO of his entire corporation. Oh yes, he's got his own cushy office where mere mortals like ourselves can go snoop around all the stuff on his desk, with just a couple clicks of the mouse. Some might find his new role rather offensive, but think it's a trip. Those notes he jots down in that leather bound journal of his had me dying.

So now I'd like to motion that we give Aunt Jemima a promotion too. Not from mammy to receptionist, mind you; I want to see the flapjack genius break the glass ceiling. And once she does, let's subtly convince her to grow out the relaxer and start sporting some locs like B. Smith, who's recently agreed to hook Betty Crocker up with some of her marketing.

And then, lets slip Uncle Ben Aunt Jemima's cell phone number. I know they haven't always gotten along so well, but that was a long time ago. Besides, they've got so much in common... I'd hate to see old boy go and try to seduce Betty (and get accused of sexual harrassment) when his perfect match is sitting right beneath his nose. I'm not saying she's a gold digger, but Aunt Jemima would be happy for an evening out with the successful brother. Slaves need love too. We'll have to figure out what to do about that Jet Magazine wedding announcement though, considering neither one of them has a last name.

Oh well, I guess we can't have everything.

Leave it to Larry Wilmore

2007-03-30T22:32:00.000-05:00

I know, I know...you're probably sick of my Princess Maddy ramblings by now...but this discussion between Larry Wilmore and Jon Stewart about black folks and Disney has all the makings of a classic! Larry knocks it out the park.

Meet Misa

2007-03-28T21:16:00.000-05:00

It's Misa. You know, the one who's responsible for styling just about every hip hop and r&b maven you've ever heard of. Anyway, you might know her from hair salon gossip...something about how she's the mother of Daddy Diddy's son, the one he named his restaurant after.

But Misa Hylton is much more than a hip hop egoiste's baby's mama. She's a fashion maven, business woman and a savvy mother of three. Just the other day I was yapping about being a mommy and finding time to put on lipgloss. Meanwhile, girlfriend has her own clothing line, Madison Star Couture (named for her daugter, Madison Star) which has catapulted into a thriving company. Somehow, she still finds time to looking fierce while opening juice boxes (or instructing someone else to).

I swear, I don't know how she does it, but whatever the case, it sure looks as if she's doing something right.

What's in a Name?

2007-03-28T12:20:00.000-05:00

My best friend and college roommate was the one we all assumed would marry first—not because she was desperate, mind you, it’s just that she was that good of a catch. But instead of getting her Mrs. degree, girlfriend became a gallerina. Most of her Friday nights were spent setting up wine and cheese tables at art openings, not getting her freak on at cheesy nightclubs. She toured Europe and made the obligatory art historian's pilgrimage to The Louvre. She obtained her Master's in Arts Administration, eventually landing a coveted curator position at a prestigious institution. All that hard work left very little time for play, much less meeting The One. But just when she thought she'd be kissing frogs forever, Ms. Right met her match. And apparently, he's the Magnolia Bakery-worthy icing on her cake; after a magical, eight-month courtship, the happy couple plans to wed next month. The professionally accomplished, thirty something bride has no intentions of keeping her name. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

A handful of feministas might assume that my dear friend thinks her new place is in the kitchen. But even with the granite counter tops and a shiny Sub-Zero, I'm pretty sure she doesn't plan on getting knocked up, kicking her mules off and slaving over Le Creuset just yet. In fact, I'm fairly certain that given her track record, the future wife will be just as goal-oriented as a "Mrs." as she was before jumping the broom. I say this mostly because even among my most ambitious married friends (meaning all of them), I have yet to see a clear-cut trend indicating how a married woman's last name influences her success. More than anything, the prenuptial name game seems like a matter of personal discretion and taste over anything else. For some, the choice to become Mrs. Hislastname is a no-brainer, prompted by a desire to establish a public cohesiveness with their partner and the family they hope to have. Others opt to leave well enough alone. And then there's always the Toyota Prius version of a bride's married name: the practical, politically correct, hyphen.

Before I got engaged, my husband told me that he didn't care if I kept my last name or changed it to his. He even told me that my last name sounded much better with my first name than his did. Once he proposed, however, all indifference flew out the window: "Take my name with a hyphen, baby...please??" All of the sudden it mattered to him that kids we planned to have would share a name that belonged to both of us. I loved this man; there was no point in breaking his heart over something so trivial (at least not to me). So I decided to use a hyphen not only because it would make him happiest, but also because it suited my needs at the time. For one, I was at the beginning of my publishing career: my maiden name had already made its way onto the masthead of a national magazine for an issue or two. I was proud of the accomplishment, and wanted that my title to reflect both my past and my present. Besides, there were so many high-powered, intelligent and successful African American women I'd admired who used hyphens: politician Carol Moseley-Braun, my Spelman College professor/author Dr. Gloria Wade-Gayles and actress Jada Pinkett-Smith, just to name a few. I knew I'd be in good company.

Click here to continue reading.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

A Brand New Day

2007-03-28T10:23:00.001-05:00

There's still a little snow on the ground, but it's 64 degrees here today! I've been humming this classic from "The Wiz" all morning.

Happy springtime, everyone!

Face Time

2007-03-26T08:05:00.000-05:00

In the days before children, I used to design pages and direct photo shoots for the beauty department of a popular African American women's magazine. It was exciting, even though I didn't fully appreciate it at the time (at the end of the day, work really is just that - work). But every week we'd be gussying up somebody (sometimes famous, sometimes not) to appear in the pages of the mag. I've got enough stories about those days to write a bestseller. At the very least, a bad, self-published novel.

First there was the beauty closet (think The Devil Wear's Prada or Ugly Betty's fashion closet, brimming with makeup instead of clothes) that editors and art directors had permission to raid on a regular basis. Hot date? Beauty closet. Bad hair day? Beauty closet. Hating your boss today? Better get your behind to that beauty closet. There was nothing that place couldn't fix. Mind you, I wasn't much more than a lipgloss girl before the job started, but it quickly became addictive.

Sometimes, after shoots, we'd end up having dinner with Roshumba(very sweet) or Tyra Banks (not so much). I only say the latter in regards to the look of disgust on her face as I was telling the table about a special vacation I'd just returned from. It was a look that said "You went to the Carribbean of all places...for your Honeymoon?!". But it figures, Tyra's been all over the globe to all kinds of tropical locations. She probably went to Bora Bora or something for her own honeym- oh wait, never mind. But some celebs were nice, like Beyonce. I'll never forget the surreal moment that the dreamgirl, 19 at the time, politely offered that she liked my hair color but thought I should "go lighter". Not that I asked, but thanks, girl!

Manicured hands down, the best part about that job was not unsolicited advice of starlets, but the free beauty advice from their personal makeup artists. Jay Manuel (you may know him from ANTM, but he was a freelance makeup artist at the time) informed me that bronzer should "look as if it kissed you where the sun hits your face". I once hit up
Oscar James for some L.A.-based hairstylist's cell phone numbers (not that I could afford any of them). And Sam Foine, I mean, Fine, plucked my brows for my wedding (only after admonishing me for overplucking in the first place).

My how things change. I miss those days of fabulousity. This business of stay-at-home motherhood may very well be the most rewarding job on earth, but it's by far the least glamourous. Thank God for Modern Mom. Their latest beauty advice from pro-makeup artist, Ashaunta Sheriff, offers the latest scoop on how moms like me can create a fabulous, everyday, make up look in a flash. Their video step-by-step how-to is simply genius. Not that I think that word should be used in reference to clothes or make-up, but still. Thanks to this cool site, former working girls like me who have recently dedicated their entire lives to wiping noses and picking Cheerios up off the floor can stay fly.

Of course there's nothing wrong with wiping noses for a living, but it can't hurt to look cute while doing it.

Real Men Cornrow

2007-03-23T18:54:00.000-05:00

OFTEN, the women let out a little gasp. I look up, a hair twisty dangling from my mouth, a clump of my 5-year-old daughter’s hair clenched in one fist, a comb in the other, ready for attack. She squirms on the bench in the family locker room at the local Y, freshly showered after a swim class and bracing for her hair appointment with me, her father, hellbent on taming those tresses.

“Wow, you are really good,” one approving mother says one morning as my fingers weave three strands into a tight braid. I nod thanks and press on, fussing with another braid as I demand again and again, “Lyla, keep still for heaven’s sake.”

As Lyla and I depart, the receptionist at the counter coos.

“Who did your hair, sweetie,” she asks, knowing the answer.

“Daddy,” Lyla says matter-of-factly.

“Nice job, Dad,” says the receptionist. In another context, the look she gives me might land us in trouble with my wife.

To continue reading the New York Times article (3/22/07), click here

Mammy Two Shoes

2007-03-19T21:17:00.000-05:00

When I was five, I thought that woman on Tom and Jerry, the feet who walked around scolding Tom, was his owner. In fact, I thought it was her house. I mean, as far as I was concerned, why wouldn't it be? Black women owned homes back then, with cats in 'em, too.

As a matter of fact, wasn't until I was in college that I realized that character was a servant, and that Tom and Jerry was a racist-ass cartoon. Yes, college. I guess I was a little naive.

Anyway, my grandmother did "days work", just like many black women did back in the day, but I'm going to have to ask her about those slippers. I'm pretty sure she wore shoes to work. I'm willing to bet that cartoon maid just had them on to push the "lazy Negro" concept even further. Hmph.

So here's a big, fat, post-humous shout out to the memory of Lillian Randolph, an African American Actress who was the voice behind Tom and Jerry's "Mammy Two Shoes". You might even remember her from some '70's shows like Sanford and Son and The Jeffersons. While I'm at it, another big shout out to every other African American actress from back in the day who had to grin and bear it while (almost) living her dream.

And a special note to Jasmine from the Doodlebops: It's 2007, girl. You should really see about having them let you do something other than scatting all the time. Just a suggestion.

A Whole New World

2007-03-15T08:55:00.000-05:00

“That’s it Mommy, I want that one!” My three-year-old flung her arm towards a wall of shiny, sherbet-colored princess costumes.

“I thought you wanted to be a duck.”

“I changed my mind. I wanna be Cinderella for Halloween. See it, Mommy? Right there!”

I tried not to notice the crinkly, powder blue costume creeping slowly into my peripheral vision. “Um, how about a ladybug?”

“No, Mommy. Cinderella!”

Of course that’s who she wanted to be for Halloween. After all, the blue-eyed, bouffant-wearing princess was the it-girl of Four-year-old World. I knew that J-Jo was more interested in playing dress-up and looking "pretty" than actually looking white, but I still had my reservations about endorsing it. I was never that crazy about the Disney Cinderella with all of her whining and pining for Mr. Right; I’m not raising my daughters to wait for some guy on a white horse to gallop in and whisk them off to Wisteria Lane. I want my girls to aspire to become much more than daydreaming debutantes in ball gowns. The last thing I need is some cartoon character contradicting me.

And then there was that other part. As an African American mom, I resented the fact that for so many years, Disney had never bothered to create a black princess.

American Indians had Pocahontas and Asian Americans had Mulan (both sort of underrated, but at least they were there). And of course there’s Jasmine, who always seemed like she’d only been created to keep other minorities from getting mad. Clearly somebody at the mega-corporation knew that white people weren’t the only ones with Orlando timeshares, or they wouldn’t have created the few princesses of color they had. So where the heck was Princess Imani? Black families like Epcot, too. I wanted a princess I could, I mean, my girls could relate to. Several more seasoned moms had mentioned that the princess fetish is just a phase, but if I was destined to spend the next six years or so getting dragged into the princess aisle at Target (or even worse, the Disney Store) I needed more incentive to be there.

No one could convince me that plunking $19.99 on the counter for that costume would be anything more than a deposit on my daughter's future therapy sessions. I couldn’t stomach the thought of letting my beige-skinned daughter dress up as the archetypical porcelain-skinned princess for Halloween. At the same time, I wasn’t ready to tell J-Jo why she couldn’t make her own decision about what to be for Halloween. So I stood there for a few minutes, staring at the wall of flammable frocks. And then I caved. There’d be plenty of time to talk about the difference between real love and fairy tale romance later, right? And we could discuss race forever, considering we’ll be black all of our lives. But at that time she was three years old. She’d only be three once.

So much of parenting is about picking battles; this time I'd chosen to surrender. I gingerly placed the costume in my red cart and wheeled it towards the check out line. J-Jo just sat there beaming at me; her smile could have upstaged the sun. When Halloween rolled around, I removed the cheesy, plastic cameo (with Cinderella’s face on it just in case it wasn’t obvious) from the front and sent J-Jo off with daddy in search of strangers with candy. I tried to focus on the joy on her face when we bought that costume, instead of my resentment at the company that inspired it. Then I sat on there the couch nursing our two-month-old twins, fantasizing about a day when little girls like my own would know a princess character who wasn’t based on a Eurocentric beauty standard.

And then she arrived, Disney's very first animated BAP.

The ninth member of the $3 Billion Princess A-List is Maddy, heroine of “The Frog Princess”. The 2-D animated film is an original story set in 1920’s New Orleans. In 2009, Princess Maddy will join the likes of Jasmine, Mulan and, yes, Cinderella. She’ll be given the royal treatment, with her very own rides at Disney World and dress up clothes to match. Rumor has it that Alicia Keys, Dreamgirls’ costars Jennifer Hudson and Anika Noni Rose are all vying for the lead role. Keys reportedly called the producers and begged for the part herself (sources say she’s received a second audition). One might scoff at the persistence of these starlets, fighting over a part like it was a sale rack at Filene’s Basement. True, the role itself is little more than a glamorized voice-over, but to anyone who grew up too black to be Snow White, the prospect of a black Disney Princess speaks volumes.

Disney has dubbed “The Frog Princess” “An American Fairy Tale”, so hopefully girls of all ethnicities will be able to identify with its heroine…at least for a little while. As I write this, J-Jo’s Cinderella Halloween costume is crumpled in ball at the bottom of her closet; the princess phase has run its course. Yet I know that Cinderella won’t be the last Disney diva to join us at the dinner table. In no time, J-Jo’s baby sister Coco will want princess get-ups of her own. And princess sippy cups, princess pajamas and whatever else that dreaded Disney store has in stock. Not that I’ll always buy into it. I’m just thrilled that by the time she asks, there’ll be another choice: An African American Disney Princess, with her very own happily ever after.

Imagine that.

Hallelujah!

2007-03-10T09:04:00.000-05:00

Introducing Maddy, Disney's first black princess. Yes, you read it correctly. Disney's first BLACK princess.

Word?

Our girls will probably never understand the true significance of this, but will be all the better for living in an era where a chocolate Disney princess is considered commonplace. Not that I'm actually looking for another reason to be dragged into the Disney store, but still. Thanks for the heads up, gingerbreadlatte! It's about time.

Update on the Bronx Fire

2007-03-09T21:36:00.000-05:00

The African Services Committee is accepting donations in support of the Malian families affected by the tragic fire on March 7th the Bronx. They will send earmarked contributions to the Magassa and Soumare families directly.

To make a donation (even if it's just $10), click here.

And please remember to be safe. Check the batteries in your smoke detectors, make sure your power strips aren't over loaded...you know the drill.

What Should We Do?

2007-03-08T12:10:00.000-05:00

I was devastated to find out about the Bronx fire this morning, in which many members of a hard-working West African family were killed. Most of the victims were children.

Like many people, incidents like these remind me to stop and feel thankful for my blessings. Then, life continues. Somehow, many people (present company included) assume that the victims are being cared for, provided with food. clothing and shelter. That somehow, life will continue for them as well. Yet we all know it's not really that simple.

What can those of us who have (thankfully) never been in this type of tragedy do for this family? Does it begin with a clothing drive? A fundraiser? Obviously, they will need assistance to get their lives back together, any little bit we can do could help.

But where do we begin?

As Good as it Gets

2007-03-07T22:17:00.000-05:00

J-Jo came up and hugged me this morning, pressing her smooth forehead into my cheek before pulling her head back for a second. Then she paused dramatically and looked me in the eyes.

"Mommy," she sighed wistfully.

"Yes honey?"

"You're better than nothin'."

Another Reason to Watch Noggin

2007-03-05T23:57:00.000-05:00

Be sure to check out Cedric the Entertainer on Noggin, where starting today, he'll be promoting the network's Get Ready to Read campaign for the month of March. The proud papa will be alongside Moose A. Moose (aka in this house as "J-Jo's Ex" - long story), reading the Aesop fable The Tortoise and the Hair. Also spreading the magic of literacy is Isaiah Washington (am I slightly surprised they kept the brother on board?).

Of course the skeptic in me could get annoyed that they asked two black men to talk about the importance of not being illiterate, as opposed to two white or two Asian men. But I'm going to go ahead and give the network the bene of the doubt. As long as nobody breaks down crying and says they used to sign their name with an X, it's all good (besides, the illiterate black celebrity story is like, so two years ago (no offense, Fantasia).

Those network execs may not know of Gustavas Vassa, but my people been known how to read. Since before the end of slavery. Shoot...

Skepticsm aside, it's a good cause. And it's so nice to see the brothers appearing this month, instead of last, when I would have just called it Black History Month Tokenism. Instead, the station showed interstitials featuring Mae Jemison and George Washington Carver at regular intervals.

Mad props to Noggin for trying to represent.

Drink Like a Butterfly

2007-03-01T22:22:00.000-05:00

Great, an answer to "Momeeee, I'm boooored..." that's not "Go clean your room." (like that even works anyway). Check out this cool craft idea from one of my favorite parenting magazines, a wonderful magazine called Wondertime. J-Jo and I plan to get crafty this weekend while daddy catches his breath after the readings. ZenBaby and Big L are likely to hover about, attempting to "help"...which often leads to utter chaos. At the very least, double the mess. But I should really be used to that by now.

Mr. J

2007-02-27T22:40:00.000-05:00

My husband's on book tour with his latest work, an historical novel called The Great Negro Plot. Of course it's brilliant, not that I'm biased or anything.

He'll be reading at 7 pm on Wednesday night at the Melville Gallery (213 Water Street between Fulton & Beekman) in New York.

And on Thursday, he heads down to the lovely DC Metro area, home of none other thanNat Turner's Revenge, to read at the Oxon Hill Library in Prince George County, MD at 7 pm.

If you're in the area and have the time, please stop by and get your book signed. I wish I was going too, just for the remote chance that I might be able to rub elbows with some of you. Oh well, another time I hope.

Sorry there aren't more locations for the readings, but we've got too many children and too little time for a big ole tour bus.

Raising 'em Up Right

2007-02-27T22:16:00.000-05:00

My alter ego, the one who types in her pajamas, is a columnist for a fabulous site called Anti Racist Parent. It's terrific, brimming with thinking people who are committed to raising their kids without a biased perspective.

The mastermind behind it, Carmen Vankerckove, is compiling a primer on how to be an anti-racist parent. How great is that...a handbook to help parents raise sensitive, well-adjusted kids in this crazy, mixed up world. Who aren't bigots. They should really distribute these in maternity wards.

These are just some of the topics the free ebook will address:

What books, activities or toys do you recommend for children?

What books or videos/DVDs do you recommend for parents who want to educate themselves about racism?

How do you instill a good sense of self-esteem in your child?

How do you teach children about racism in an age-appropriate way?

Want to add your $.02? Click here.

Tips are due by tomorrow, but you probably have some good suggestions right now.

Oh Rats

2007-02-25T21:46:00.001-05:00

Maybe the theme song to the movie Ben was the first clue that Michael Jackson was kinda off. Sure, he had his old nose back then, but that doesn't mean he was right in the head.

Ben, most people would turn you away
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do
I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again
If they had a friend like Ben.

Now I'm not sure what they are, but I'm there's someone else out there, other than the King of Pop, who can list the attributes of rats. But as a former resident of New York City, I got no love for them at all. The first time I witnessed a rat was while I was waiting for the D train. From the platform - and not far away enough I must add - I saw that filthy animal scurry down those tracks as if it knew exactly where it was going. Bold. Unashamed. Unafraid of being seen or even worse - exterminated.

New to the city and the product of a suburban upbringing, I just couldn't understand how the critter was down there and nobody was doing anything. There had to have been at least twelve perfectly civilized human beings with me on the platform. They all saw the guy - so why wasn't anybody saying anything? Why were they just looking at their watches, talking to eachother or on their cell phones, and reading the New York Times? I was mortified.

And then, a few nights later, it happened again.

And again.

And again.

I soon realized that New York City was a rodent's world. The rest of us just happened to live there. My boyfriend at the time was completely unphased at my dramatic stories about all of the rats I'd seen. He'd lived there for several years before I had, and, like many Manhattanites, had accepted this sort of co-habitation that had been imposed on him. As far as he was concerned, if they hadn't found a way into his apartment, he wasn't worried about them. Why worry if they're everywhere? I was unimpressed by his cool, detatched, demeanor about it but eventually married him anyway.

Years later, he told me that the rats disgusted him too, but he'd come to accept it as a part of city life. Today, there's an unspoken ban on all things rodent-related in this house. Of all the random stuffed animals that somehow find homes here, plush rats (mice, too) will always find a way to the salvation Army before J-Jo can say cheese. You will never see any of these kids dressed as any type of rodent for Halloween. Even Minnie is still a mouse.

New Yorkers have come to accept the fact that the island of Manhattan is infested with them, but will there ever be a point that something gets done about it? The recent Greenwich Village Taco Bell that was swarming with rats last week should prompt more people to take a stand. They were playing and climbing on high chairs in there - another reason parents might want to work harder at saying no to fast food in general. You can't tell me there's never been a rat sniffing around a happy meal toy.

Last month's heartbreaking story about an infant being suffocated by his mother as she tried to protect him from rats in their vermin infested Bronx apartment (as the landlord was chilling in his Trump Tower digs) should serve as a reminder of how serious this problem really is.

Ben will never be my friend.

Good Enough to Eat

2007-02-25T02:17:00.000-05:00

Mr. J was at a convention in Manhattan on Friday and so of course I had to send him out of his way to pick up something that can't be found up here in the boonies where we live. Like black hair products. This man must really love me, because trekking to Sephora in the middle of the circus that is also called Times Square (where we both coincidentally once worked) is not exactly how he'd like to spend his time while visiting the city. Especially in 7 degree weather. I'm so grateful he agreed to stop off and picked up a jar of Carol's Daughter's Mimosa Hair Honey. That Brad Pitt might know something about black hair after all - this stuff works magic on our ZenBaby's hair, just like he claimed it did for his Zahara.

And it smells absolutely amazing, like some type of tropical smoothie (as if Mr. J and I need another reason to want to eat ZenBaby right up!).

Had I known I'd now be living 90 miles away from Carol's Daughter (or that I'd even have daughters of my own one day), I would have stocked up on her products when I lived down the street from her first shop in Fort Greene. Hindsight is 20/20...and I guess it's better that way. If my single self had been able to forsee a life in the boondocks with three kids under six, with no black hair products or even black people for miles around, it would have completely freaked me out. I might not even be here right now.

Whew! That was close. But I still miss the amenities.

J. Jo's Latest Computer Art

2007-02-24T23:11:00.000-05:00

Without any help!

We may never see a Disney princess and prince who look like these two, but I'm so proud of my girl for "coloring beyond the color lines".

Fitty's $.02

2007-02-24T09:11:00.000-05:00

Okay, I think I'm missing something here. When did Fifty Cent become a cultural critic? First, he publicly disses Oprah. Now he's weighing in on Britney's bald head.

Is it just me, or do Fifty and Ne-Yo have a markedly different attitude in this news clip about her cutting her hair off than the first dude? I'm sure all three were thinking "Why are you asking me about this?". But Fifty's reaction was almost emotional: "Why she do that?!?"

Granted, it's not a look for everybody...but why are so many brothers soooo opinionated about hair?

And why does America care so much about Britney's lack thereof?

Nia singing Reasons by Earth, Wind and Fire at age 2

2007-02-23T18:47:00.003-05:00

Where is This Child's Contract?

2007-02-23T18:47:00.001-05:00

Word to Big Bird

2007-02-21T11:43:00.000-05:00

From Moms Rising:

Putting Elmo, Big Bird, and the Cookie Monster on the chopping block is a prime example of politicians shortchanging the one demographic who can't vote. Children. For the third year in a row, the President's budget proposal slashes funding for PBS—and worst of all, Ready to Learn, which funds Sesame Street and other children's programming is at risk.

You can help stop this all too regular battle to save PBS, and educational programming for kids, by getting involved. Tell the new Congress: We don't want to fight for a PBS funding each and every year. Let Big Bird float above the political winds by giving PBS a permanent funding structure.

Sign the Moms Rising petition to support PBS.

Things I'd Just Rather Not See This Month (in addition to Norbit)

2007-02-19T00:19:00.000-05:00

The next time you stop to think about Black History Month, pat yourself on the back. Chances are, you've already made it yourself. No, seriously, you needn't be Condoleeza Rice or Dr. Ben Carson to make black history happen.

It can be as simple as it was for me back in high school, when I quit sports to try out for cheerleading solely for the purpose of integrating the squad (I was too tired of all the athletes being black and the cheerleaders white...I was gonna learn to do a split if it was the last thing I did). Quit lacrosse, made history. Or today, becoming the first black woman in my town to have twins. Or the first one to set foot in the new supermarket on Route 9. Small victories in black history, but I'm just sayin' - so many of us make milestones everyday. Without ever knowing it.

But there's a flip side to that coin. And I hate to break it to you, but it's not all that shiny.

For every great moment in black history - of which there are many - there's a step back. I'm not talking about the homeless brother singing Biz Markie on the corner, shaking his cup. Mental illness doesn't count. I'm talking about utter and complete triflingness (I know triflingness is not a word, but you know what I mean). Case in point - Saturday, about 7:30 pm: Mr. J and I were in Target with the kids. Funny what an exciting night on the town becomes once you have kids, but I won't go there this time:

Two women - ages anywhere from late 20's to late 40's - neither morbidly obese, but both a bit overweight, walked up to those motorized red scooters for the handicapped, hooked their carts up to them and began careening through the store. Did I mention there were kids in the carts? About two kids per cart? They were following eachother all over the store and finally through the checkout line where they paused to pick out soda, candy and read gossip magazines. I didn't mention their ethnicity, I'll let you take a wild guess.

It looked like a parade for the undermotivated. It made my eyes hurt. I almost wanted to laugh, but just couldn't - mostly out of disbelief. And then, in spite of myself, I felt myself turning green because those sisters with their scooters, carts, kids and Twix bars had more nerve than I've got in my little toe. I wanted to look over from aisle 12 and yell "Hey! I got three kids, too! I'm tired, too! My feet hurt, TOO! You see me riding around Tarzhay on a complimentary scooter for the handicapped?!" But refrained, for fear of getting rolled on.

Harriet Tubman walked too far and too long for us to do this in February or any other month. Harriet deserved a deluxe spa pedicure and some reflexology. Those sisters deserved a spanking.

I know I'm wrong, just plain wrong for even thinking that.

Otubenga Jones & Associates is Not a Hip Hop Law Firm

2007-02-12T09:59:00.000-05:00

These four brothers make up Otubenga Jones & Associates. And they're about to blow up.

The prolific collective, who met in drawing class at historically black Texas Southern U. back in 1994, are on the verge of taking the contemporary art world by storm. They take their group name from Ota Benga, who was a Pygmy brought to the United States in 1904, put on display in the Bronx Zoo and later commited suicide in 1916 (think depression might have had something to do with it?). Not without irreverence, the art of the Houston-based artists (Dawolu Jabari Anderson, Jamal Cyrus, Kenya Evans and Robert A. Pruitt) takes jabs at ideas about race, the art world and life in America. Their work in the prestigious Whitney Biennial allowed observers to peek into a miniature landscape, diorama-like, with a host of heads, called “Exploring the Outer Reaches of the Garden of Pro-Black Sanctuary.”

A lot of brothers can write fresh lyrics, but how many are doing this?

Enhance your black history month by checking out their recent press.

Still I Rise

2007-02-09T14:31:00.007-05:00

Happy February

2007-02-07T21:23:00.000-05:00

"When you control a man's thinking you do not have to worry about his actions. You do not have to tell him not to stand here or go yonder. He will find his "proper place" and will stay in it. You do not need to send him to the back door. He will go without being told. In fact, if there is no back door, he will cut one for his special benefit. His education makes it necessary."
-- Dr. Carter G. Woodson, "The Miseducation of the Negro"

In our house, every month is Black History Month. We're black. We appreciate our history. And that includes everyone else's too. For Mr.J and I, a fun evening at home often begins with curling up on the couch and watching History Detectives (hey, it's not easy finding a babysiter for three kids). But speaking of African American history in particular, it's really not all that hard to intentionally and unintentionally weave it through the discourse of our daily lives. It would be impossible to limit the exploration of such a rich and textured heritage to twenty-eight (or twenty-nine, depending on the year) days, anyway.

And we hope that interest will rub off on the kids. From an early age, we began sharing the positive aspects of being black with J-Jo and so far it looks like its sticking. Lawd willin', by the time the babies are able to start learning about who they are, J-Jo will be doing her own power point presentations of the Cross-Atlantic Slave Trade, followed by some Langston Hughes poety set to a beat and a grand finale of her own interpretation of Alvin Ailey's "Revelations". Not because we make her, mind you. I can't wait!

But we're even handed with it. No reason to overdo things so that ten years from now, she flips the script on us and brings Joe Skinhead home for dinner. I can hear it now, through blubbery tears, "You guys are so out of touch! Things have changed!!"And the look on her father's face.

The Daily Show segment, featuring Senior Black Corespondent, Ron Wilmore (who is no stranger to folks, by the way, he's been behind the scenes on "The Fresh Prince of Bel Aire", "In Living Color" and "The Bernie Mack Show", just to name a few) left me wondering. Does Black History month need an overhaul? Or are things just fine the way they are?

Oh la oh la aaay...

2007-02-07T00:41:00.000-05:00

Sorry, maybe it's the part of me that's eternally sixteen years old, but I can't think of Dan Zanes' House Party without a mental flashback to the House Party we knew from back in the day. Whatever happened to Kid n Play?

The Daily Show - Black History Month

2007-02-05T14:23:00.001-05:00

To quote the constantly "feklempt" character from Saturday Night Live: "Tawk amongst yourselves..."

No, really, I want to know what you all think about this segment. I'll offer my $.02 in the comments section.

Father Goose and Dan Zanes

2007-02-03T13:42:00.001-05:00

From MySpace:

Jamaican born Rankin Don Father Goose is a multi-talented entertainer breathing a breath of fresh air into the children's music scene. His unique adaptation of popular childrens music continues to garner impressive review and turnouts. His songs are fun for kids, more often laced with contagious rhythms, and enthusiasm that have everyone "grooving", young, and old. A unique blend of folktale, Reggae, rap, calypso pop and traditional childrens styles rolled into one. The Gooses shows always lean towards audience participation including a chance for the children and parents to play, sing and connect. Father Goose has performed on nine albums with kids music maestro Dan Zanes. Click the links below to check out some of the work they've made together:

Catch That Train

House Party

And click here for grammy nominated Dan Zanes' official newsletter.

Problem Solved

2007-01-31T18:11:00.000-05:00

Thanks for your suggestions on how to make the most of these indoor-weather days. Today, when J-Jo was at school, I took the twins to the public library in the next town, where they've just finished a brand new, self-contained play room. The best part: we were the only ones there!

And here's another life saver I came across: Kids Craft Weekly, a fresh, sophisticated (yet simple) new site straight out of Sydney, Australia. Subscriptions are free and the editor (also a SAHM) provides you with a "craft syllabus" for each week, delivered straight to your inbox. I can't wait to get started.

Here are a few of their solutions for what to do when all you need is 20 minutes and the kids are bouncing off the walls:

1. Paper chains

Cut some paper into strips. If your child is good with scissors – let them do the cutting. The strips don't have to be straight. Take a strip of paper and join one end to the other, forming a circle, and fasten with tape or staples. Take another strip of paper, thread it through your first loop and fasten as above. Keep on adding to the chain. As soon as they've mastered the art of the sticky tape dispenser young kids will be able to make paper chains on their own.

2. Foil coins

Cut a series of different sized circles from hard cardboard. Then cut some foil squares – large enough to completely cover your largest circles. Have your child wrap each of the circles up in foil. Get an old orange bag or purse to keep the coins in. These are great to use as money in pretend games of shop. You can also encourage your child to line the circles up from smallest to largest.

3. Confetti

This activity is so simple but so compelling for a young child. Introduce your child to the hole punch and provide some coloured paper from which they can punch out circles. Keep the confetti in your useful box – you can use it to decorate future craft projects!

4. Paper lanterns

Fold a rectangular piece of paper in half lengthways. Then make numerous cuts at even intervals from the fold towards to within about two centimetres from the opposite side. When you've made cuts along the entire long side of the paper, unfold and sticky tape the two short ends of the paper together. You can make handles using ribbon or another strip of paper. We recently had a great miniature lantern making session using coloured post-it notes. Just make sure you get the variety that are sticky at the short end and you won't have to use sticky tape at all!

5. Edible necklace

If you keep 'hole-y' cereal in your pantry (nutrigrain, cheerios, fruit loops etc) you can show your little one how to thread the pieces of cereal onto a piece of string or wool using a blunt wool needle. If you don't have a needle on hand you can wrap stickytape around the end of a piece of string to make it stiff enough for small fingers to manage. When they're finished with the necklace they can eat it!

You find the rest here.

Baby it's Cold Outside

2007-01-30T09:13:00.001-05:00

Okay. I'll be the first to complain about global warming, but I sure would appreciate some right now. Just for a little bit. Only long enough to take the edge off the days when it's way too cold to take those babies outside. And the days when it's just cold enough that packing them into their snowsuits, et al. just doesn't seem worth it.

So before I give you the detailed local forecast, let me give a big shout out to the dude to the right. Lord knows our genes weren't made for this:

Today: Cloudy. Snow flurries or snow showers developing. High 31F. Winds WSW at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of snow 70%. Snow accumulations less than one inch.

Tonight: Snow likely. Low 14F. Winds WSW at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of snow 80%. 1 to 2 inches of snow expected.

I know, I know, 1-2" ain't nothing (I can already hear you, Chi-town people...). But I refrained from giving you the rest of this detailed forecast – which I know you were sooo curious about – because it will NOT get warmer by the weekend. It's supposed to get worse. As in colder. With more snow.

Some black people – other than the Jamaican Bobsledders – actually like the cold. Remember Vonetta Flowers? I've heard through the grapevine that good old Al Roker owns a house near my sub-zero neck of the woods...and I saw Cassandra Wilson at the supermarket one time. I don't say this to name drop, but to state the fact that yes, there are African Americans who don't mind chilling out in chilly climates. The thing that seperates folks like Roker and Wilson, from say, myself for example, is that they're too wealthy to willfully freeze their behinds off. Surely, they own several homes in Manhattan, Paris, wherever and can get up on outta here when the temperature dips too low. Must be nice. *sigh*

Anybody have some new ideas about what to do when it's cold outside with two rambunctious eighteen-month-olds who have grown bored with their toys and still think Crayolas are something to eat?

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

2007-01-29T10:04:00.000-05:00

Well, my husband's back to his day job after nine months of (paid, thank God!) sabbatical. Yesterday the students returned to the campus that J-Jo beleives she's the queen of and spring semester is officially underway. In addition to being a husband, father, phenom of literary fiction and graphic novelist, he's Professor J again.

Since May 2006, we've been tag teaming it day to day with our brood, living through spilled Cheerios, stomach viruses and thankfully nothing worse. Sure, we've had our moments when we've wanted to strangle the other person for even suggesting the idea of going to take a nap, but for the most part, it's been blissful. I'm going to miss packing the kids up in the Odyssey I once thought he and I were both way too cool for to take our spontaneous adventures, but all good things (and challenging things, too) must eventually come to an end.

I hate to see him go. We have a couple of responsible and really wonderful babysitters, but at the end of the day, there's nothing like daddy. Thanks, honey, for providing for us while being here with us at the same time these past few months instead of going to your office to hide. Especially those times when there were two stinky diapers to change, dirty dishes in the sink and a five year old who insists on singing "Hey Ya", non-stop at the top of her lungs. We love you.

Hair and Now

2007-01-27T09:12:00.000-05:00

Originally published at Anti-Racist Parent:

A week before my five-year-old daughter's dance recital, her instructor, Miss Debbie, pulled me aside.

"We're asking that all the girls wear their hair in a bun."

I looked at Jasmin's golden-brown mane that was pulled neatly into a single puff on the top of her head. Each perfectly spiraled strand was infused with the genetic code of women who came before my child, myself and every other black woman in our family tree. These weren’t the girl next door’s curls. "A bun?"

The fitter-than-thou fifty-something in a black leotard, tights and pink leg warmers looked me squarely in the face. “Yes.”

"I'm not sure if it will do that." I knew I sounded kind of strange, sitting there talking about my daughter's hair as if it had a life of it's own. But it did.

“Try." Miss Debbie gave Jasmin a once-over before standing up to sashay down the hallway. I had no idea the woman was even half as narrow-minded as she had just revealed. I could have sworn I saw her do a pirouette before she went back into the classroom.

It wasn't the first time I'd had this type of discussion about the “proper” way a female of color should be coiffed for something. In high school, the captains of my cheerleading squad insisted that we all wore french braids. Never mind the needs of Tiffany Williams, who wore her hair in intricately designed cornrows, or Mia Kim who wore her jet-black hair in a chin length bob. I hated the idea that this incident was the first in a series that would drill a negative idea into Jasmin’s psyche that something about her “ethnic” hair is problematic. And I didn’t appreciate Miss Debbie for initiating the conversation.

Later that evening, I called to my mother for a second opinion. She calmly reassured me that yes, Jasmin's hair might be sort of "kinky", but I could surely get it into a bun if I wanted to badly enough. I just had to get Jasmin to sit still long enough so that I could blow dry it straight and then flat iron it with searing heat so it would be straight enough to twist into a bun (easier said than done). It wasn’t exactly what I’d wanted to hear. You’d think I never made my mom want to fling the comb at the ceiling in frustration (on countless occasions) as I ripped myself from her grasp – mid-braid, mind you – and ran to the bathroom complaining of “chest pains”. I wasn’t about to send her grandbaby on Miss Debbie’s stage looking like the African American understudy of Little Orphan Annie, but the bun wasn’t happening. Less because it couldn’t than because, at that point, I was pissed.

To continue reading...

Things A Girl Can Only Tell Her Best Friend...When She's Five

2007-01-27T00:45:00.000-05:00

OWD (Overheard While Driving):

J-Jo: Do you like your boots that way?

Friend: Do I what?

J-Jo: Do you like that they're brown?*

Friend: Yeah, I like them.

J-Jo: Oh. (silence) I like the flashy butterflies on them.

Friend: Thanks.

J-Jo: Even though they're brown.

* To this day, I've only been able to get J-Jo to wear one brown pair of shoes. And that's only because the boots have these little, metal, heart-shaped charms dangling from them. The girl loves shoes as much as the next sister, but they must be flamboyant. The more bells and whistles the better. I've been known to blink back tears of frustration in the kids shoe aisle at Target as J-Jo extols the virtues of hot pink Barbie sneakers with blinking lights and sparkly laces. What's wrong with plain mary jane? I just pray she keeps the habit in check: I suppose I could tolerate a wannabee Nia Long, who recently admitted to the shoe hoarding sickness...but please Lord, please don't let me raise a junior Star Jones.

I can already picture her begging me to take her to DSW. Not that there's anything wrong with that...

What Do You Want, a Cookie?

2007-01-25T17:09:00.000-05:00

I didn't write this letter, but I would have gladly co-signed. Thanks, Figlet!

Cancel My Subscription

Dear Editor in Chief of Cookie Magazine:

Yuck. Look, I'm not opposed to conspicuous consumerism. I'm a conspicuous consumer myself, and I'm sure my stats fit in nicely with your target demographic. I'm happy to buy my little darling expensive Italian leather shoes and trousers made of the finest, softest cotton. I won't apologize for my Yuppie Trophy Stroller, and if they ever make a double stroller, well, I might be inclined to invest in one of those as well. I'm all about organic and 100% cotton and the odd luxury hotel myself. And yes, I'm willing to spend $10 on bubble bath for my kid because I can convince myself that it's better for her sensitive skin.

But.

But.

But.

I'm flipping through your latest issue and I can't help but notice that the only people of color in the entire "American Beauty" issue appear in a handful of ads. I went back and scanned every single page three times. Lots of sweet looking blondes and carefully coiffed white moms. Yo! Rocawear. Props to Guess and Dillard's Department Store. They at least pay lip service to the notion that conspicuous consumers come in all colors.

But I can't enjoy a parenting/lifestyle magazine that doesn't even attempt to speak to anyone outside upper middleclass white yuppiedom. Last I checked there were black yuppies, Asian yuppies, and of course Hispanic yuppies. The thing is, yuppiedom and conspicuous consumerism aren't the exclusive domain of white folks. Not every black woman pushing a Bugaboo is a nanny.

As a child I used to sit myself down with my mother's magazines and pore over recipes and parenting tips, and my favorite column, "My Problem and How I Solved It." I would be ashamed for my daughter, when she's old enough, to idly thumb through your magazine and realize her mother reads a magazine written for upper middle class white women with white children.

Since your editorial offices are based in New York, it's unforgivable, to my mind, that your staff wouldn't have caught this egregious omission. And I wonder if your advertisers noticed, or if they even care.

Sigh. To the bin it goes. Ick.

Sincerely yours,

Figlet

Buggin' Out

2007-01-25T00:06:00.000-05:00

You know who you are.

You're the stylish, sleep-deprived new parent who strolls through the city pushing your precious bundle in a chariot fit for a tiny royalty. You don't turn your nose up at Peg Peregos...you just didn't know they still make them anymore. Why? Because you're the proud owner of a Bugaboo, the stroller equivalent of a luxury car, the "it-child" vehicle of the moment.

I first spotted the Bugaboo several years ago when I was a childless newlywed living in New York City. I dreamed of one day joining the ranks of hip mommies who transported their wee little ones in style. Yes, it costs about the same as a year's worth of daily latte grandes, but my rationale was quite simple: if I had to trade my VW to ride on crowded subways and chase down stinky cabs, there was no way I was going to schlep a baby around Manhattan without looking cute while doing it.

But then we left the city and landed in a place where there are country mountain roads and hardly and sidewalks to speak of. Suddenly, a more practical, all-terrain jogging stroller seemed more appropos. In both practicality and on the purse. That still didn't stop my Bugaboo lust. Fortunately, I've never had the chance (or the nerve) to justify the cost of one to Mr. J.

But there is hope for the rest of us. Bugaboo Day Trips are open to all tiny passengers, regardless of their prefered mode of transport. You never know, some destinations might even offer free valet stroller parking.

About Last Night

2007-01-23T07:39:00.000-05:00

7:36 pm
Twins are clean, pajama'd and in their respective cribs. Their light is out and they're chattering away to each other in pigeon toddler.

7:48 pm
I climb onto my bed, ignoring the sound of the tv downstairs and shut my eyes – taking five between putting the babies down and J-Jo to bed.

7:52 pm
J-Jo pokes her head in my door "There's my beautiful mommy that I've missed so much!"

Okay, what does she want?

7:54 pm
J-Jo returns with The Wonderful House by Margaret Wise Brown. One of our – okay, my – favorite books. We read until I drift... off...

"Oh mommy, you really are tired! You fell asleep during this book and it isn't even too long!" J-Jo pulls the covers over me and disappears to the bathroom.

7:55
J-Jo returns with my (wet) toothbrush. I fight my type-A personality.

7:56
J-Jo is "brushing" my teeth.

7:58 I submit to fatigue.

8:02
I momentarily drift out of slumber and hear this downstairs:
"Daddy, I had to tuck mommy in, she was very tired. Could you put me to bed please?"

God bless that child. Think I could do this uh, once a month?

Good Help is Sooo Hard to Find...(Unless You're this Sister)

2007-01-22T00:16:00.000-05:00

Not too long ago, I went on a little rant about my experience trying to find a black nanny after the birth of ZenBaby and Big L and my negative experience with the caregiver I ended up hiring. My friend Deesha, however, has only good things to say about the babysitters she's used...all of whom happen to be white. I've cross-posted this recent essay from her terrific column, The Girl is Mine, at Literary Mama to provide hope for those of us who don't have the luxury of live-in help or any loving aunties/godmommies/madeahs nearby...and are holding out for Mary Poppins – whatever color she's available in.

A Little Help, Please?

by Deesha Philyaw

Recently, while setting the table for a dinner of Chinese takeout, eight-year-old Taylor suggested we put our soy sauce in the little white ceramic bowls we reserve for special occasions. "Which babysitter gave us these?" she asked.

"Casey," I answered.

"We've had a lot of babysitters," Taylor said.

And she's right. Over the three years-plus since Peyton was born, I've hired seven women to provide childcare in my home during the day. They came from one to five days a week as money allowed and as my schedule demanded, with freelancing, starting and running a custom writing business, and handling my mother's affairs after her death.

I'm happy to report that my high turnover rate is not due to poor work conditions, low pay, or unruly children. As I explained to Taylor, I've always been lucky to find sitters who have many talents and all sorts of work they want to do, but this means they can't be our babysitters for very long.

"That's right! We have had talented babysitters," Taylor replied. "Which one was it that made Sponge Bob out of Floam?"

Well, there was that. But also among the seven former sitters, there is an aspiring writer, an English Literature PhD candidate, two teachers, a future environmental scientist, and an architect.

And they've all been white.

Click here for the rest of A Little Help Please?

The Electric Company - C is for CA

2007-01-19T21:21:00.001-05:00

Now that J-Jo has started to sweat herself for being able to spell "cat", I figured this weekend would be a good time as any to teach how to spell some new words.

A Word from African American Dad

2007-01-18T09:36:00.000-05:00

Welcome Our Kind of Parenting correspondent, Keith Morton. He's a hard-working husband and father of a pre-school aged son whose blog, African American Dad, is not only impressive and insightful, but the first (if not only) of its kind. Keith joins us today to ruminate on the controversy surrounding the late James Brown's estate:

By now we all know James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, is dead. According to David Letterman this is significant because it means that now the hardest working man in show business is Regis Philbin. I’d argue Nick Cannon, but whatever. For black folk it’s significant for too many reasons to get into, especially since this article is not in praise of one of the greatest entertainers of our time. You can find that kind of article anywhere. This is concerning his five year old son, a little boy that was left out of his 73 year old father’s will.

Now we can make the excuse that it’s just like black folk to be sloppy in handling their business and leave it at that, but that would be wrong, stereotypical, and as ignorant as it gets. If I’m not mistaken the almost 100 year old (I’m rounding) husband of Anna Nicole Smith was a billionaire and he didn’t even have a coherent plan on how to dole out his estate among his family and his then 26 year old wife, and he was as white as they come. So look at it for what it is and that’s another dad failing to protect his child’s future because of his questionable feelings about his “baby mama.”

To continue...

That's Just Her Baby's Daddy

2007-01-17T14:58:00.001-05:00

Did anyone catch this on the Daily Show?

About four minutes in, Senator Barabara Boxer implies that part of the reason Condi's okay with the situation in Iraq is because she never had children of her own. Then Jon Stewart makes an attempt to change all that...

Don't blame me for the mental image.

Another M.L.K. Day

2007-01-15T17:20:00.000-05:00

In 1988, I took part in the Freedom Ride – an opportunity of a lifetime where teens from Philadelphia boarded an Amtrak train to make a pilgrimmage through the deep south. We spent a week visiting landmarks of the civil rights movement, such as the home of Rosa Parks and ended the journey in Atlanta at the Martin Luther King Center for Non-Violence. We spent the next week at the King Center, taking workshops on non-violence taught by one of Dr. King's four little children who was, by that time, a grown up.

In 1989, I was so transformed by the experience and so upset I had to go to school on M.L.K.'s birthday, that I went to my high school principal and asked (okay, begged) him to make it mandatory that all students watch Eyes on the Prize. He said no, but let me set up video monitors to air the documentary in the cafeteria during lunch. I tried not to blink back tears as my lunch period went on as usual. Students – both black and white – ate hoagies and chips as they acted a fool. Even during the part with the attack dogs. And hoses.

In 2007, there were no special events in honor of Dr. King within a forty mile radius of my home. The day started out like any other lazy Monday (except for the freezing rain outside). I proceeded to make oatmeal with vanilla soy milk and brown sugar as my three small children proceeded to tear the house apart. After they took their morning naps (at least two of them, anyway) I read them a story about Dr. King before turning on the television. The Disney Channel was airing a 12 hour That's So Raven! Marathon.

Huh?

I wonder when people will stop considering this American hero's birthday a "black" holiday. Or an excuse to catch a sale at the mall. Then again, I also wonder if just the fact that a show about a witty African American girl was on the Disney Channel for 12 hours straight would be enough to make the late Dr. King proud. Would he think the fact that we're now called African American (instead of colored) and can live in integrated neighborhoods is sufficient progress in itself?

I don't remember my mom mentioning any "colored" Mousketeers – so I guess it depends on who you're talking to and the generation they're a part of.

And if they had to go to school on what should have really been a national holiday.

Happy Birthday, Dr. King. We're still working on things here, but the world is a much better place for having known you.

Oprah Unplugged

2007-01-13T21:49:00.000-05:00

To the 152 students of the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for Girls, the talk show queen is far more than a cultural icon. She's the beacon of hope that apartheid surpressed. A post-modern Harriet Tubman – with money, power and a mani-pedi.

But fans and foes alike are questioning the media maven's motivations for building the exclusive, $40 million school in Henley-on-Klip, South Africa...instead of someplace like the South Bronx. Seemed like the whole world loved Oprah – swore she was their homegirl – 'til she sent out party invitations and their names weren't on the list.

But Winfrey had her reasons, which she matter-of-factly revealed in Newsweek:

“I became so frustrated with visiting inner-city schools that I just stopped going. The sense that you need to learn just isn’t there,” she says. “If you ask the kids what they want or need, they will say an iPod or some sneakers. In South Africa, they don’t ask for money or toys. They ask for uniforms so they can go to school.”

Uh oh. It seems that the same folks who cringe when Bill Cosby opens his mouth now have a new neck bone to pick with somebody. They took the blunt comment as an indictment of urban black youth (when "inner-city" became synonymous with only black youth, I'm unsure). They took serious issue with Oprah airing our dirty laundry, 200 thread count bedsheets and all. It's not that they entirely disagreed with her, they just didn't like that she said it. They felt she was selling us out. For building a school on the continent that happens to be our ancestral home.

Oprah might have her qualms with hip hop and the materialism it condones, but she's never turned her back on Black America. The millions she's contributed to historically Black colleges, taking the initiative to build homes for victims of Hurricane Katrina and the numerous other causes she's donated to – both publicly and privately – should confirm that.

I don't think Oprah's candid statement should have come as a shock to most. It's no big secret that she's one of the few examples – arguably the best example – of African Americans who overcame poverty to find unparalled success within America. She believes that despite its many flaws, the U.S. education system does its job. In South Africa, a nation still suffering from stark contrast in equality, only 5% of Johannesburg's public high school students finish school proficient enough to college. Most South African shantytowns lack electricity or running water while many people in our projects get BET. Just a couple of good reasons to think twice about asking Oprah for an ipod.

Perhaps she could have phrased things differently, but I'm glad Oprah was honest. The fact still remains that in this country – even in the most troubled urban school – there is a guidance counselor beyond those graffitti-covered walls who gets paid to help a kid see their potential. Of course it takes a village, but we don't need a hook up from Oprah to make it happen. Not as much as others might. Surprise! Turns out it's really not all about us.

Hopefully, Oprah's perspective will challenge American students to prove her wrong. What a beautiful thing that would be, if the opening of a school in South Africa inspired kids from the South Bronx to the South Side of Chicago and beyond to know as much about Marian Anderson as they do about Mary J. Blige.

That, too, will be something to celebrate.

Alternatives to Time Out (or more traditional forms of punishment...don't act like you don't know what I mean)

2007-01-11T21:09:00.000-05:00

I might blog about parenting, but one thing you'll never see me post about is about my stance on spanking. We're all so different here, no point in inciting a riot.

I will admit, however, that I'm a firm beleiver in time outs, the Naughty Step (nothing to do with Stomp the Yard), and basically anything Supernanny recommends.

My latest bedtime read - 1,2,3 Magic: Effective Discipline for Children 2-12 (exciting, I know), by Thomas W. Phelan, Ph.D., gives these options for alternatives when time out needs a time out of its own:

• Earlier bedtime – More time for you and your honey. If you're not too tired.
• No treat – But come on now...don't eat it in front of them, the way a certain parent I know once tried to do at Khors Bros. Ice Cream in Cape May. That's just wrong!
• Cancelled playdate – Uhhh, not really helpful if the playdate's at someone else's place, though. For God's sake, please don't go and shoot yourself in the foot.
• Loss of TV – Probably needs to go off anyway.
• Loss of a toy – Make sure it's one they'll really miss. We've tried this with J. Jo only to hear her respond : "That's fine, I'll just play with (insert random toy name here) instead."

Yeah, the sass-o-meter is way high these days. I really need this list.
So wish me luck! I'll be sure to let you know how it works out.

All Aboard!

2007-01-09T09:30:00.000-05:00

The first time I saw Choo Choo Soul on the Disney Channel, I said, "Oh good for Mya! She's come a long way since that video with Pink and Little Kim!"

And of course J-Jo corrected me: "That's Genevieve, mommy."

"Oh. Right. Genevieve..."

But even though this newcomer is still waiting to blow up, she seems to be on the right track. At least with the kids market, anyway. Choo Choo Soul is music parents can actually tolerate, almost up there with The Backyardigans.

Much better listening than Johnny and the Sprites.

Go, Nancy! Get Busy!

2007-01-07T22:13:00.000-05:00

"For these children, for all America's children, the House will come to order," Speaker Nancy Pelosi declared as she took the gavel, and made history as the first female Speaker of the House in U.S. history last week. What I wouldn't have given to have been a fly on the wall that day, witnessing history in the making.

By acknowledging the importance of family and children in her inaugural speech, I think that Pelosi sent a clear message to families of all backgrounds and economic means that a new day is on the horizon. There may come a day when American parents will have not only adequate, but optimal child care for our children. Who knows, we may even come to know such thing as paid maternity leave that doesn't end as soon as little Jr. cracks his first smile.

To show your appreciation for Nancy Pelosi's family friendly public statement, and to let her know we've got her back, too, you can click here. And while you're at it, take a look at one of my new favorite causes, Moms Rising*, a grass roots organization dedicated to improving the lives of American mothers and their children everywhere.

*Please don't let the Moms Rising logo of Rosie the Riveter holding a porcelain-skinned baby scare you away! After all, we, too, sing America...do we not?

Today It's a Turkey

2007-01-07T10:47:00.001-05:00

Now J-Jo's saying she wants to marry a turkey.We went online, looking for pictures of turkeys, so I could further explain to her that she can't actually marry one.

This is what we found and now she's saying she's in love. Should I be surprised? Her first crush was on Moose A. Moose.

Talking About Marriage

2007-01-06T20:02:00.000-05:00

My best friend is getting married this spring and she wants J-Jo to be her flower girl. J-Jo was so flattered to have been asked ("I'd love to, Aunt Birdie!") and is beside herself with excitement these days, picking out flowers for Aunt Birdie's wedding...at the supermarket.

Naturally, most of my oldest girl child's conversational topics are centered around the subject of weddings and marriage these days.

The latest:

J-Jo: Mommy, I'm getting married with grapes.

Mrs. J: Really honey? You want to walk down the aisle with grapes instead of flowers?

J-Jo: No, mommy. I'm getting married to grapes, not with grapes. I don't want a husband, I want to marry grapes.

Mrs. J: And why's that?

J-Jo: Because I love them.

Mrs. J: I love them too (popping one in my mouth) but why do you want to marry them?

J-Jo: Because they're sweet and they don't talk.

If Mr.J happens to read this, hopefully he won't take offense (who'd like to think their child wants them to shut up?). But it's nothing personal. J-Jo is a child who deliberately sings over top of televison commercials, has been known to enter daycare saying (in a sing song voice) "I'm here!!". She's the life of the party whether the room is full of stuffy nosed two year olds or stodgy college professors. She's never content outside of the spotlight, at least not for too long. Hopefully, the person she decides to marry (if she decides to marry at all) will understand that smiling and nodding politely can go a long way.

Good Looking Out

2007-01-06T18:27:00.001-05:00

Everday people don't usually bolt across the street to save a child's life or have the courage to rescue strangers from oncoming subway trains. So when things like that happen, it restores my faith in humanity. I think that it's time for Pedro Julio Nevarez and Julio Gonzalez, the Bronx residents who rescued a three-year-old who somehow ended up hanging from a fire escape to form some sort of Justice League style alliance with Wesley Autrey, the Subway Superhero.

But as a parent, I have to admit that I'm a little annoyed that the toddler was hanging off of a fire escape to begin with. Of course it's a blessing that the boy lived, with the help of a couple of good samaritans. But what if they hadn't been there? That child from the Bronx wasn't the first to get saved from a near death experience involving a window. Sadly, these kids are the exception to the rule. Far too frequently, small children in tenements lose their lives in tragic accidents that do not involve gunfire, just lapses of judgement on the part of whoever is supposed to be watching them.

One word: window guards.

The type of parent who hires a sitter that opens the window to have a smoke and then absentmindedly leaves it open – naw, bunk that – the type of parent that hires a sitter who smokes Kools while babysitting – isn't one that's going to be proactive about child-proofing. They're just not. So in light of that, you'd think there'd be a requirement on the part of local governments to make sure that all apartment buildings have them installed. Screens wouldn't be too much to ask, either (yes, I'm talking to you, Mayor Bloomberg). This should be a mandatory requirement for tenaments. Everybody doesn't shop at Right Start or have the One Step Ahead catalog delivered to their front door.

When we lived in an urban area, our pediatrician – part of a practice that had many Medicaid patients – routinely asked us if we had fire detectors installed. Now that we live in a rural enclave swarming with affluent Manhattan transplants, it's a given: our new pediatrician assumes we have smoke detectors because he assumes we should know better. Didn't even question if we were checking the batteries. It almost feels like there's a common assumption that the more education a person has, the more careful they are as a parent. While there may be studies to support that theory, I've met more than one educated, middle-class mommy (good mommies, too) who've been reported to Child Protective Services for common household accidents to completely believe it.

Maybe it's as simple as changing building codes in urban high rises and mandating that prenatal care includes a certain amount of parent education. Or maybe there just needs to be more public service announcements reminding parents to be more vigilant. Either way, it will be worth it if more public awareness about something so basic can help save the life of a child. Parents know what it means to have your heart existing outside of your body, running around out there tempting fate. That's what it's like having a toddler, a person with unlimited energy and willpower but not a damn bit of sense. Regardless of class or educational background, we don't want anything or anyone to hurt our kids, especially themselves.

When disasters like these are avoided, it's only fitting that we celebrate the heroes. But we really shouldn't have to when a near tragedy could so easily be prevented in the first place.

Much respect to the Subway Superhero and the Window Guardian Angels for not needing their own comic book series to become heroes. And they deserve extra props just for representing and allowing America to finally see headshots of brown men on the news for something other than playing ball or being accused of a crime.

Fiddling With Hip Hop

2007-01-05T12:27:00.000-05:00

Has anybody heard these brothers yet? My kids were going crazy over their video on Jack's Big Music Show yesterday. I searched for the Noggin video to no end – if anyone can find it online, please let me know. For now, you can hear a clip of their fresh sound on NPR.

Black to the Future

2007-01-04T13:40:00.000-05:00

This post is purely selfish, since we all know our kids aren't here so we can live vicariously through them, and that ultimately, they have the chance to grow up and become whatever they desire. But like many parents, I can't help but look at my kids without wondering what they'll do for a living one day. So help indulge me for a minute?

J-Jo is a natural born entertainer, she's been singing and dancing almost since day one. Now that the twins are here, she's upped the ante considerably, the world is a stage as far as she's concerned. So if she becomes the next Beyonce, I'd be completely unsurprised. J-Jo's a sparkle butt, I'm sure Ms. Knowles was too at one point (and now she has the sparkly outfits and the butt to prove it). It's fine, as long as J-Jo doesn't expect me to design all her get-ups, a la Tina Knowles, 'cause I can't sew for jack. And I'd hope she'll consider the booty shaking thing kinda played out by then, so that daddy doesn't decide to kidnap her and pad lock her in her old room. But J-Jo also talks about wanting to become a veterinarian. So who knows?

ZenBaby is the classic, textbook baby who barely cried when we brought her home from the birthing center. So sweet, we thought there must have been some kind of mistake the first week we had her at home (we flinched every time the door bell rang, 'cause we knew it was her real family coming to whisk her back home to Bel Air). Nowadays, while J-Jo and their brother are playing tag all over the house, she's curled up on the couch or in the playroom with a board book. ZenBaby's our quiet, reserved child who I know fifteen years from now will either be off in the corner with War and Peace or off in her room sulking "What's wrong with those people? Surely, I must be adopted!" Probably some combination of the two. Zen's an observer and a quick study, I wouldn't be surprised if she became a novelist like her daddy. Or a judge.

And then, there's our boy. At eighteen months, L-Boogie barely says more than three words, but can sing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star", "Elmo's Song" and floored us over the holidays with his own rendition of "Jingle Bells". Constantly, MJ and I are glancing over at eachother as if to say "the boy can barely talk, but he can sing?" I really wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be a musician. Especially with his middle name, Thelonious. He's got the coolness of a jazz cat, but the smile of a politician, which strangers in the supermarket have stopped me to comment on. Better a politician than a used car salesman I suppose. I'd be so proud if he ended up following the lead of Deval Patrick, the first black elected governor of Masssachusetts who was sworn into office this morning, placing his hand on the Holy Bible that had been given to John Quincy Adams, by slaves from the Amistad.

Governor Patrick's speech had me all choked up today:

''I am descended from people once forbidden their most basic and fundamental freedoms, a people desperate for hope and willing to fight for it -- and so are you,'' Patrick told the crowd. ''This commonwealth, and nation modeled on it, is at its best when we show that we understand a faith in what's possible and willingness to work for it.

''As an American, I am an optimist, but not a foolish one. I see clearly the challenges before us.''

If I was his mama, that inauguration would have been flooded with my tears. I'm talking life jackets and search parties, people. But that's not where it stops. My son's gotta crawl before he can walk, right? So let me just be completely honest and put it out there that I really wouldn't mind if L-Boogie became the next Barack Obama.

More than anything, most of us basically want our children to be happy, positive, productive people who care about making a difference in this world. That's not too much to ask.

But strictly on the employment tip – based on their current personalities – what do you see your kids doing in 2050?

Daddy Diddy's Birth Announcement

2007-01-03T10:15:00.001-05:00

As a follow up to the bling bling baby shower, Diddy made a video to announce the December 21 birth of his twin girls to his 665,267 "friends"on his myspace page, where he defines himself as a "Princess Maker".

Over background vocals of Cheryl Pepsii Riley, Diddy expains that he flew in for the birth from a film shoot and how he and girlfriend, Kim, honored their grandmothers by creating variations of their names. The video is complete with Hooked on Phonics style graphics so that nobody trips up and misspells them. Would I be wrong to predict that the old fashioned baby naming trend might go ghetto fabulous in 2007?

Congrats, Diddy! And thanks for sparing us the shot of your entire entourage nodding their heads and sipping champagne around the birthing tub. No, really. Thank you.

The Nanny Wars

2007-01-01T21:56:00.000-05:00

It was ninety-six degrees in the shade but I was way past the point of feeling cute in that Liz Lange swimsuit at our local pool (some maternity clothes just aren't designed for the third trimester). So while my oldest was at daycamp, I parked my pregnant self on the couch with my laptop propped upon my belly, ate watermelon – thanks to my doctor's suggestion that it reduced water retention – and browsed Craig's List for a nanny. I didn't need permanent live-in help, nor could I afford it, just someone who could help me survive the first weeks of life with our impending twins and our three year old. I needed a helper who could relate to our family both culturally and emotionally.

I hoped to find a caregiver who was experienced, reliable and if she happened to look like she could be a family member, that was all the better. I wanted someone who wouldn't make assumptions about us based on race and already knew how to do J-Jo's hair, especially when my hands were too full to make a straight part. And then I saw her: Westchester Baby Nurse. She had the kind of eyes that made her appear wiser than her presumably 50+ years. I looked at her sitting there in her white uniform, holding twins and I imagined what she'd look like holding mine. Perfect. Westchester Baby Nurse's credentials looked impressive, she had extensive amounts of experience caring for multiples and all of the things that came with it, so I decided to give her a call.

Over the phone, she seemed every bit as professional as she appeared on her website. The conversation was pleasant and cheerful as we tried to get an accurate impression of one another. We spoke two or three times at length within the next few days before setting up an afternoon to meet in person at a central location in New York City. She told me I could recognize her by her grey trenchcoat and that her hair would be in a bun. But I never got to tell her what color Mimi Maternity tank top I'd be wearing, because as soon as I began describing myself as black, she screamed "FIRE!" and hung up the phone. Okay, not exactly "FIRE!" But she hung up quickly and never called me back. Several weeks later, the nanny I thought was mine left a message on my voice mail saying she was busy with another family, and that if I still needed help, to give her agency a call. I'd been dissed by Jamaican Mary Poppins.

In the end, we went with Julie, a local, white American homemaker who was actually a concert violinist, but cared for post-partum mothers on the side. She came highly reccomended by a mommy friend of mine. Everything was fine with Julie until Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, and I spent the first two days cradling babies and watching CNN, worried sick for the people who were stuck there as they screamed at the cameras for help. Julie's response: "Oh, I'm sure they'll be fine." (in a tone that said, "our good President knows exactly what he's doing."). And the next day, she tried to reprimand us for letting J-Jo watch parts of the coverage on tv.

One of the reasons I wanted a nanny of color in the first place was because I didn't want to have to deal with the politics of race under my own roof. Especially not right after delivering twins by cesarean and instantly expanding my family from three to five. I gave Julie a few more days, but the tension was too real. Rather than echoing Kanye West's famous words that befuddled Mike Myers, Mr. J and I decided to make a change: Julie didn't have to go home, but she couldn't stay here.

In the weeks that followed, we braved caring for our newborn tag team alone. Sometimes we'd wonder how we were supposed to survive. Of course we were still in love with eachother and profoundly in love with our new babies, but the bootcamp they put us through was nothing short of brutal. The only thing that kept us from strangling one another on those late nights, was the fear that one of us would be left alone and outnumbered by the tiny creatures. In the wee hours of the night, between tandem feedings and unrelenting diaper changes, I couldn't help but wonder how things would be different if Westchester Baby Nurse had looked past skin color long enough to call me back.

Eventually, the fog lifted and those early days of twinfancy finally came to a halt. Maybe it was selective memory, but I never gave any further thought to it once that period ended, until a friend of mine sent me this article about the difficulty many black families have finding nannies for their children. I found the story fascinating, especially considering African American women's history as domestic workers, particularly nannies, in this country. Families retold experiences of interviewing black nannies who refused to work for them because they were African American.

According to the New York Times, black nannies complained to their placement agencies that African American families expected more from them while paying less. Several families from areas such as Prince George's County, Maryland, were refused service by well-respected Washington DC-based nanny agencies on the grounds that the agencies do not serve their predominantly black (and affluent) area. By and large, the story provides a very revealing snapshot of race, class, gender and the modern dilemmas of raising children today.

Like some of the parents interviewed, my family does not have extended relatives who are able to help us (or even live close enough) to help us out with our childcare needs. In those early weeks after the babies were born, we were fortunate to have loving friends and family members who were willing to travel here and help us out for a few weekends in a row. Emotionally, they offered us more than a paid helper ever could have. There's no adequate wage for someone who unconditionally loves your older child whose life has just been derailed because mommy and daddy just brought two new kids home from the hospital.

You can't adequately compensate another person outside of family and close friends to adore your children because love just doesn't work that way. When all was said and done, our loved ones went back to their own lives, leaving us here in our rightful place as sole care providers for our offspring. As well they should have – but in the middle of another sleepless night, I would have gladly paid for an extra pair of hands. Twice as much for a compassionate soul who could relate to where we're coming from.

Merry Christmas

2006-12-24T00:29:00.000-05:00

J-Jo wishing for world peace (or Bratz
dolls, whichever comes first)

Best wishes to you, your loved ones and your little loved ones
this holiday season and throughout the coming year.

Mrs. J, Mr. J, J-Jo, L-Boogie and ZenBaby

Hasta La Vista, Barbie

2006-12-21T23:09:00.000-05:00

My J-Jo's more into stuffing a Build-a-Bear, than actually playing with one. That goes for any plush toy or doll she owns. She still likes the idea of dolls, she's just not interested in committing to any of them. Most of her barbies now go without clothing, finding refuge in the dark under her bed. And I won't get into what happened to the one she took into the bathtub. Let's just say it had to do with soap (lots and lots of soap...). But it's all good, I'm proud that my J-Jo isn't caught up in looking like rapunzel and would much rather play with blocks and build structures that look like they came straight from the pages of Dwell.

Now her sister is an entirely different story. Just like the nurses at the birthing center declared within her first week of ZenBaby's life, she's "all girl". So I shouldn't be surprised she posesses a maternal instinct far beyond her seventeen months. ZenBaby selflessly offers up her bottle to pacify her twin brother without skipping a beat. She spontaneously grabs her daddy's face, presses her rose bud lips to his nose and says "mwahhh!" There isn't one doll or plush toy in the house that she hasn't done that to, either. ZenBaby loves her siblings, her parents and most importantly, her dolls. She was too young to beg me for a new one this Christmas (J-Jo's for now are just fine), but when the times comes, I want to choose one that's perfect.

How hard could it be? you might ask, "every toy store has black dolls now!"

That may be true, but do they have dolls that reaffirm? No really, dolls that don't look like the teenager you pray your daughter won't become. I don't think I want My Scene to be hers. Give us a doll sans cell phone. One with dark brown eyes and pretty caramel skin like ZenBaby's without the Mattel version of what's on special from the Beverly Johnson Wig Collection. I don't need a Bratz Baby, this child's sass-o-meter is through the roof as it is. And once that criteria's met, Santa, I'd prefer for the doll not to come dressed in a leopard bikini, complete with a pole in the box.

When the time comes, and ZenBaby begs me for a doll, I'll follow the lead of savvy mommy writer, Deesha Philyaw. Her girls are older than mine (respectively), and she's really done the research on what this buying brown baby doll thing is really all about. Quite brilliantly, too. Here's Deesha's sage advice for black moms – originally published at Literary Mama – on finding dolls that resemble the real live ones we have at home. It may be too late for Christmas this year, but next season, you'll have a head start:

The Girl is Mine: A Black Mama's Interactive Guide to Shopping for Dolls for Christmas: The Good, The Bad, and The Barbie

by Deesha Philyaw

In December, a Black Mama's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of celebrating Christmas. What will have the kids dancing with joy in the living room on Christmas morning and reassure Mama that she is affirming their wonderfulness and instilling good values? And eschewing rampant consumerism? And minimizing Santa? And not forgetting Jesus?

I make my list and check it twice:

_xx__Make sure girls know that Christmas is more about giving than getting.

_xx__Make sure girls know that Mommy and Daddy's hard-earned money buy their gifts (with one magical exception from Santa, per child).

_xx__Be joyful.

_xx__Dust off the collection of crèches and arrange festively.

_xx__Cuddle up with girls on the couch to read picture books about the Virgin Birth. Try (and fail) to avoid answering, "Didn't Joseph have a penis?"

_____Search for dolls which are not voluptuous and strip-club-ready, and which do not promote a blonde, blue-eyed standard of beauty.

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