If I jump really high, can I reach the top?

Annika was not planned, but I'll be honest here, I've always felt like she was meant to be. It's not something I can explain.

 And no, I did not purposely get pregnant.

I did not want children. I didn't like children. Before I had my own child, when women with newborns were in my presence, I tried to busy myself or pretended to be sick because I did not want to hold them. It felt awkward. I'd look down at the tiny baby and wonder just what the fuck people saw in them. They were not cute to me. They smelled funny. Their heads were floppy. They cried. I was annoyed by them.

Lest any of my mom friends reads this and is freaked out because she let me hold her baby, I'd like to also say that I do not feel this way anymore. I absolutely love babies. Now.

So, keeping that in mind, back to the topic of fate, I wonder if Annika was simply meant to be. And I was meant to be her mother. I cannot even imagine life without her or this world without her.

I've always struggled with whether I believe completely in fate/destiny/divine intervention, or do I believe that we have complete choice over our lives. 

It's pretty logical that I would be pulled between these two sides. I grew up in a family with a mother who was/is a die-hard Christian. She absolutely believes in the Bible, literally, figuratively and all the crappola in between. To her, the Bible is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. If you believe in the Bible, it is necessary to believe that at the very least, you are not in complete control over your life.

My father, on the other hand, is an atheist.

Right. (I shrug my shoulders.)

Oh, yes. They are still married. I don't know the answer to that question in your head, so I am just going to skip on over that and keep going.

So, are our lives destined to be, or do we have free will?

Most intelligent people I know, including myself, would likely say, it's probably a little of both. Sure, we can make choices, choose our paths, set goals, etc. But ultimately, we are swimming along in the sea of life where at any moment a great white shark can swoop down on us and swallow us whole, completely taking us off course.

But, that's not good enough for me.

Lately I've been tripping out on Annika, watching her grow. It's amazing to see her turning into a real person, with her own thoughts and desires.

But, I've also noticed how much she mimics us, and everything else she sees.

Yesterday we were out for a morning walk. Before we left, I told her we were going to look at the pretty flowers. As we were walking, we came upon a lilac tree, she pointed at the flowers, way high up in the tree and told me she wanted to pick some. I told her they were too high. I couldn't reach them.

Then she told me that if she jumped really high, maybe she could pick the flowers.

I was floored. Wow. She thought of that herself?

Then later, she was watching a video, Max and Ruby's Christmas. She's already watched it several times.

They were putting up the Christmas tree and when they were finished, Ruby notices that they forgot to put the star topper on. The tree was done and there was no way for them to put it on without messing up the other decorations. Ruby says, "Maybe if I jump really high, I can reach the top."

Ah. So, that's where she got it. I was sure of it as I watched her reaction to the scene. She jumped up and down excitedly and told me that Ruby was going to jump really high.

Watching my child grow up has made me -- an already reflective person -- wonder more and more about life. What it is that we decide? What it is that we think for ourselves? And how much is simply a matter of following along the course of our society and our families? Do we really decide anything for ourselves?

I don't expect to find the answer. There isn't one to get. Not from any human being. But I wonder.

I try really hard not to put things onto Annika. After reading Unconditional Parenting, I am careful about the messages I send her. But it's impossible not to send some messages to your children. In this world that we live in, there are so many expectations to follow, it's impossible to live an unburdened life.

So I will continue to wonder and be impressed with my child. It's amazing, watching a human being evolve. At least she chose to pull a positive message out.

Maybe if I jump really high, I can reach the top.

Happy Father's Day to Toyin

I don't often tell Toyin how much I appreciate his good parenting. But today seems like an appropriate time to say that he's a great dad. He loves Annika more than anything or anyone else in the world. He's never said that to me, but I can tell that it's true by the way he cares for her and how he responds to her.

Single men, particularly, Black men, are stereotyped in this country as being lame partners, deadbeat dads, generally bad fathers. But I want to take this opportunity to say that Toyin does not, and has never fit that negative image. He has gone far above what most people in this country expect of typical single dads who are not living with or married to their child's mother.

Annika was not planned. Toyin gave up a promising job in a new city filled with new friends to come live in Austin and be with us. He supported us for the first year and a half so that I could stay at home with Annika, thus securing a solid start to her life.

He sees her every day, even when it's not his night to take her.

He is kind, loving and attentive.

He's a good dad.

Happy Father's Day Toyin!

Stop the insomnia!

And just like that. It's done.

The co-sleeping/no cry it out years of insomnia-inducing sleepless nights are over. Well, at least, for now. At least I'm not getting woken up every. single. night. Anymore.

I actually slept an entire night without waking up for the first time in over two years last night.

I've gotten so used to waking up in the middle of the night -- either with a restless child, or just because my body is so used to getting woken up, I would wake up anyway and lie there cursing the sleep gods -- I started sort of enjoying my middle of the night web surfing. It usually lasted around two or three hours. I'd get loads of stuff done. Check my e-mail early. Hit all my news sites. Read my mama sites. Update my Facebook status. Sometimes I'd even get up and watch a tv show on hulu, then head on back to bed just in time for a catnap before waking up for the day.

I just gave into it. I stopped fighting with my body's desire for a full eight hours of sleep. I decided to ride this wave just like I know I am going to ride through phases for the next several years until Annika matures.

So I stopped fighting it and decided to enjoy it. For awhile I just went to sleep when Annika slept, then I'd wake up and do my evening in the middle of the night. I know. I know. It's not the kind of behavior recommended for insomniacs. You're supposed to stay in bed and pretend like you're going to go right back to sleep.

Fuuuuck that.

I've had insomnia for years. It started in high school. I used to lie awake every night staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with me because I could never ever fall asleep until about 2 a.m.

Then I learned in NurtureShock that teens circadian rhythms are different, so that they naturally fall asleep later and wake later. So much for the idea that teenagers are just lazy asses who like to sleep late.

Then I grew up and I started worrying. I worried myself into a tizzy often enough that it literally kept me awake at night.

Then I got divorced. But before I got divorced, I fought with my husband and he started staying up all night long and sleeping all day. So at night, I laid awake, trying to sleep, but really being pissed off that he was in the other room playing computer games and chatting with women who lived in different countries.

Then I was single again and by then my natural progression was to lie awake at night and then be tired all day.

I know insomnia. I know that staying in bed and ignoring the clock does not work.

So, instead of fighting with it, I gave into it. And now, it's over. For now. At least, it was last night. Who knows how tonight will go.

Celebrating multi-racial families

Looks like I have a new holiday to celebrate. June 12 is the anniversary of a Supreme Court decision that struck down the country's final Jim Crow laws, allowing inter-racial couples to marry and cohabitate. This decision was only a few years before I was born.

It's strange to think that only a brief period of time has elapsed where it was illegal for Blacks and Whites to get married and just one generation before, my daughter would have been the product of a union that was illegal in several states until 1967.

I am glad that the laws have changed. And I think that many people have changed their attitudes about inter-racial coupling. But I think we still have a long way to go.

Learn more about Loving Day, http://www.lovingday.org/

The weird wacky world of motherhood

Before I had Annika, I loved cheese. On any given day, I salivated at the thought of a soft, rich block of cheddar. Cheese crackers, chips and queso, forget BLTs, I made CLTs, cheese sandwiches, with tomato and lettuce, mozzarella melted over spaghetti, cheese quesadillas, burritos with extra cheese, chunks of cheese in my salads, chunks of cheese as a side dish with eggs over easy, enchiladas, lasagna, nachos, cheesy casseroles, apples and cheese or grapes and cheese, as a snack, were all part of my routine pre-baby diet. 

Once, when Toyin and I were still a couple, he told me that if he ever considered buying me a box of delectable bon bons, he would exchange it for a large sampler platter of cheeses from around the world.

I never thought I would be able to live without cheese. The thought of a diet that did not contain soft, melting, savory goodness left me feeling depressed.

I loved cheese.

Now? Eh, I can take it or leave it. It's nice. It's good. Sometimes, I even sort of wish that I still loved it as much as I used to. But for the most part, the love affair has melted into a fond and ever-so-slight wistfulness that I will never again experience the rich salivation for my beloved cheddars, monterrey jacks and mozzarellas, and yes, even Velveetas, of the world. I still like it. But I'm starting to realize that I could live without it.

If you've read my blog for very long, you've already figured out that I swear a lot. When I was pregnant, I was driving along one day listening to NPR. They story was about the effects of swearing around children. My phone rang. It was Toyin, calling to tell me that I needed to listen and he was going to send me a link so that I could hear it. Before he was done talking, my best friend beeped in on the other line. Can you guess why she was calling? It just so happened she was listening to NPR at the same time.

I swore a lot. Their concerns were not irrational. Actually, they were quite accurate.

Before I gave birth I just figured that when I had a child, I would go right along being the same foul-mouthed, cheese-loving person I've always been. I thought I would be one of those cool moms who tells her kids that it's okay to swear as long as they don't do it around certain people and in certain settings.

What I didn't count on was that it would start before she's old enough to understand that it's inappropriate sometimes.


Yes, I am duly horrified when I hear my 2-year-old drop something and go, "Fuck!"

Well, at least she's using it in the proper context.

I tried to give it up.

I exchanged shit, for poop. I rarely say hell or damn anymore. But the F-bomb has been the hardest one for me.

It's my favorite. I know mothers aren't supposed to admit to favoritism, but I am no saint. I like the F-bomb. I particularly like saying motherfucker. But that one's easy to switch out for mofo. Sure, people will still know what Annika is saying if she says it, but it doesn't sound nearly as bad as the full-blown version.


I tried switching fuck for frack, based on BSG, the best show ever made. But really, when a 1 or 2-year-old says frack, it still sounds like fuck. So, I'm pretty much screwed on that one. I just hope she's reasonable and agrees not to get me into trouble by using it at school and around her grandparents when she is old enough to understand the ramifications and the harsh judgments that will rain down on her mother. 

 My point is, motherhood changes things that we never expected it to.

A little over two years ago, after I went through 19 1/2 hours of torturous and hallucination-inducing labor that ended with a weak request for an epidural, three point five hours of pushing and me begging them to rip my daughter out of my body with forceps (no, didn't happen, I pushed her out), I thought that had been my induction into the world of motherhood.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

That was the easy part.

Pregnancy and labor, however strengthening, philosophical and intense they may have been, were not even close to the mind-bending changes that would come along with being a mother.

The stuff that people always say will change, is all true. You can't go on a trip at the drop of the hat. You can't make love in the rain on a sandy beach when you are carting around a toddler with you. You're stomach gets flabby. You have to eat healthy and keep vitamins stocked at all times.

But there's stuff that you don't expect.

Like, picking your friends based on how old their children are. Getting into nitpicky fights in online forums over which parenting methodology is best. Deciding on where you will live based on school districts. Realizing that your breasts really are that saggy, and they are not going to go back to the way they were before despite all the denial and reassurances you gave yourself during your pregnancy that they would. Waking up one morning and realizing that you haven't exercised in six months and you don't really care and I'll just have another beer once the kid is in bed instead of doing those 50 sit ups you swore you would do.

The world of mothering is not to be entered in to lightly. Motherhood changes you. Fuck. Well, maybe not completely.

A glimpse in to the world of being Bi-racial

I've been reading a book called, Half and Half. It's a compilation of essays by writers who are Bi-racial and/or Bi-cultural. All of the essays are compelling. But I wanted to share part of a particular one. It is written by James McBride, who is, like Annika, half White and half Black. I won't comment on it. It speaks for itself.

"I'm a black man and I've been running all my life. Sometimes I feel like my soul just wants to jump out of my skin and run off, things get that mixed up. But it doesn't matter, because what's inside is there to stay no matter how fast you sprint. Being mixed feels like that tingly feeling you have in your nose when you have to sneeze -- you're hanging on there waiting for it to happen, but it never does. You feel completely misunderstood by the rest of the world, which is probably how any sixteen-year-old feels, except that if you're brown-skinned like me, the feeling lasts for the rest of your life..... I hate it when people see my brown skin and assume that all I care about is gospel music and fried chicken and beating up the white man. I could care less. I'm too busy trying to live.

"Once a mulatto, always a mulatto, is what I say, and you have to be happy with what you have, though in this world some places are more conducive to the survival of a black white man like me than others... Washington is a town split straight down the middle -- between white and black, haves and have-nots, light-skinned and dark-skinned -- and full of jive talkers of both colors. The blacks are embittered and expect you to love Marion Barry unconditionally. The whites expect you to be either grateful for their liberal sensibilities or a raging militant. There's no middle ground."

Learning how to chill

Several years ago when I was living in Detroit and working at a bank in Grosse Pointe Woods -- an affluent and very White suburb that juts up against Detroit's border -- I got a lesson about race that is coming in very handy right about now.

It's funny how life teaches you everything you need to know, before you need to know it.

The bank I worked for was typical in that almost all of the employees were women. However, there was a divider. It was race. At any given time, we were usually about half White and half Black, sometimes fluctuating higher on the White side.

When I first started working there, the racial divide did not strike me as very pertinent. I had worked with all various shades of people in my life. I had lived in Okinawa, Japan for three years on a U.S. Air Force base where I worked with more Japanese and Filipinos than Whites. (It seems in some areas of the world, U.S. military men have a penchant for marrying Filipinos, hence, the high number on base.) So, I believed that I had a little bit of insight as to what it was like to be a minority.

Having moved around the world and back, I had become acquainted with learning about cultural differences since I had left my small hometown of Abilene, Texas.

But in Detroit, racial tensions run high, even to this day.

When I moved to Detroit, I was a naive 26-year-old. I had had a number of friends who were of different races and skin colors, but for the most part, I was sheltered from any major racial divide growing up.

It didn't take long for me to realize the division at work. I was used to women taking sides with each other during the fights that are usually a result of a hormonal imbalance. But no matter who your friends were, the racial division was as clear as Moses parting the Red Sea when a the fight was between a White woman and a Black woman.

While living in Okinawa, my best girlfriend was a Black woman from Cleveland. In my naivete I told her once that I believed the United States had eradicated the problems with race due to affirmative action and desegregation. I informed her that with a few exceptions, for the most part, most Americans were no longer racist. She assured me, in no uncertain terms, that I was highly highly mistaken.

So, there's the background to my story.

At the time this happened, I had been working at the bank for a couple of years. One morning I was sitting in our drive through area -- a small isolated building -- with two other co-workers. One was a Black woman and the other was White.

The White woman was someone who I found particularly annoying for a variety of reasons. She had a cackling laugh. She was a know-it-all. She wasn't as smart as she liked to think she was. She told stupid jokes. Her husband was a dick, but she seemed to think he was god's gift to the world. For all of these reasons, I hated it when she began to speak.

So there I was that morning, drinking my coffee and listening to this cacophonous harpie. Somehow, she got on the topic of what ended her husband's career in the Army

Harpie: "So, yeah, my husband is not afraid to tell anyone off! He will tell you what he thinks about anything."

Me: "Really."

Harpie: "Yeah, let me tell you about why he got kicked out of the Army."

Me: "Ok."

Harpie: "Well, his commanding officer gave him an order once and he did not want to follow it. Oh, did I mention that he was Black? Yeah, his C.O. was a Black dude. And so anyway, my husband told him he was not going to take any orders from a n--ger."

(Reminder that the other co-worker sitting in the room was a Black woman.)

I froze.

I could feel my whole body tensing for the fight I was SURE was about to happen between my co-workers. I was prepared to jump to the Black co-worker's defense and if it came to it, help her make a complaint to management.

Harpie was laughing and looking at me, waiting for the laughter.

I just stared at her.

I looked up at my other co-worker. She was counting money. She continued to count. She didn't flinch. I wondered if she had not heard harpie speaking. But I knew there was no way she could not have heard.

I said nothing.

Harpie continues laughing as if it's the funniest story she's ever told and the other co-worker never said a word.

Later I asked her why she said nothing. Did she not HEAR this bitch using the N word?

She laughed and she said to me, "Martha, you can't tell ignorant people anything. The best way to deal with shit like that is to ignore it. If you let it bother you, then they have won. See, they want it to bother you."

It wasn't the only time I heard that in my years of living in Detroit. But it was the first time.

That incident stuck with me for years and I would play it over and over again in my head. At first wishing I had said something, gotten irate, complained to management myself.

Then I would hear it again from various minority friends as the years went on. I began to accept it as truth, but it still didn't resonate with me because I am used to jumping up and down and screaming for justice. I like to get passionate. I enjoy arguments and debate.

Then this week, something happened that brought this memory to the forefront of my mind. When it comes to what people believe as truth about race (really about anything) you can't tell them they are wrong. Especially when it is an innocent gesture.

You see, the harpie didn't even see what she had said was wrong.

I'm starting to have flashes of what kind of racist comments I'm going to have to shield Annika from. Most of them will not be nearly as obvious as that harpie. Most of them will not realize they have said anything wrong. Most of them will not believe they hold racist attitudes. I know the harpie didn't think of herself as a racist.

I'm realizing that I will have to start educating Annika now to listen to herself when it comes to that feeling of, "I don't know why that bothers me, but it does."

I can't leave it all up to Toyin even though he will likely have had some life experience to relate to her on that level. I don't have that.

This week a remark in an online forum led me to have a conversation with Toyin about racial attitudes. He explained to me that just because people make missteps or just don't get it, doesn't mean I should get all fired up.

We also talked about the apathy I felt last week after the nanny incident.

He said something to the effect of, "Instead of getting pissed off, maybe you should try to educate."

To which I retorted, "Why, just because I have a Bi-racial child, it's now my job to educate people?" 

To which he quietly responded, "Yes."

Oh. Right.

So, I have decided to chill out over faux pas.

I have decided that apathy is not the answer. Neither is fiery anger. Because really it's all the same.

And now, looking back, I realize that if it wasn't for all my experiences and compassionate friends who took the time to educate me, I would not have the knowledge I have today.

Tips on co-parenting through divorce

I got a call last week from an acquaintance, another mom who is thinking about divorce. She wanted to ask me about co-parenting. Her biggest concern? Spending the night away from her daughter, who, like Annika, is 2.

I could relate because ever since Annika was a tiny newborn, this was also my biggest concern.

When she was an infant I worried that spending the night away from me would tear us apart and destroy our tender and still-forming attachment. I worried that she wouldn't understand what was going on. I worried that she would have attachment issues if she spent the night away from me too soon. 

Ironically, this phone call came only a couple of days after Annika had her first real sleepover at Toyin's.

A few months ago we attempted a sleepover, but only out of desperation because I had an ear infection and I was in severe pain. (Yes, I know I need to migrate my old posts over to the new site, I'll get to it. :)

I felt torn about having her spend the night at Toyin's. I have been co-sleeping with Annika all of her life. She still wakes up a lot.

On the one hand, I felt like she wasn't ready because she still nurses at night. I also think she can do it, and she could easily be ready. There's a mental leap she needs to make and I think sleeping at Toyin's is just the impetus she needs.

We've gone through some rough patches surrounding nighttime nursing and made attempts at night weaning. I've given up. This kid likes to nurse.


Now that she can form proper sentences she has recently been very verbal about how much she likes my milk. I used to think that she wanted to nurse because she wanted the closeness. But she has told me lately that she wants milk.


Once I asked her if she'd like some rice milk and she leaned over to me, pointed at my breast and said, "No, I want that milk!"


How could I say no?

So, in reality, she doesn't need to nurse anymore. She can fall asleep without nursing. The attachment between us is solid. She and Toyin are attached, but they don't have quite the same bond that she and I do. I think this is partly due to the sleeping arrangements. Other than nursing, it's the one thing that has kept them from being as close as we would like, ideally.

Additionally, Toyin and I are both ready for her to start spending the night with him, for different reasons.

Sooo, back to the co-parenting conversation.

My friend wanted to know, basically, how does co-parenting work? We had a brief conversation. What I told her was this.

1. You must always, always put your child first in decision-making and when interacting with your partner.
2. Both of you must be committed to ensuring that your choices and how you interact with each other put your child's needs first.
3.You must (try to) avoid doing things out of spite or pettiness.

Coming from me, the world's most immature 38-year-old, it's kind of funny. I mean, I've done things... I could totally go off on a tangent here, but I need to stick to my point.

The truth is, motherhood has forced me to grow up. I'm not going to lie and say that Toyin and I have a perfect relationship or that we are always friendly with each other. But I do believe deep in my heart that we have done a good job of putting Annika first.

I really do.

That's not to say that we have always put Annika first, or that we haven't had spite-filled and angry interactions. But really, what couple can say that they have always behaved perfectly around their children? It doesn't happen.

But at the core of our connection, lies the desire to ensure that Annika's well-being is what drives our decisions.

People who choose to co-parent with an ex must function like a marriage in many respects.

You must be able to discuss things like eating habits, potty training, sleep habits. You should find a way to make decisions about these together. You also must trust your partner to make decisions about these things when you aren't around. You have to relinquish control, much the same as if you were married or cohabiting.

Living nearby helps.

It makes it easier to visit your child if you are not the custodial parent. Visitation times should be made considering what is best for your child, not what is convenient for the adults. They should be regular and consistent. But they should also be flexible if that fits your lifestyle.

You should be willing to spend time together as a family. Going out to dinner with each other or meeting at a park to hang out and play with your child together will make a world of difference.

One of Annika's newest phrases is, "We're doing it together!"

She got this from our walks around the neighborhood when we had to stay together and watch for cars. Instead of telling her to stay with me, or not to run away, I pointed out that we should walk together. She loved that and has made the connection in many other things that we do.

And lately she's been pointing out that we (all three of us) should go for walks "together." We do. We always have. She likes it and I can see that it makes her feel happy.

Since she began sleeping over at Toyin's, she's hit her second wave of separation anxiety. It's been really hard. She's been telling me that she wants to stay with me, that she doesn't want to go with Daddy.

But Toyin and I have agreed that we must be consistent. So we are sticking with our regular routines and doing things together.

It seems to me like many people think that if they get divorced the only option is to have court-regulated visitation with one custodial parent and another part-time parent.

I think this attitude toward parenting is a tragedy for the child. It is the general consensus among mainstream thought that children suffer because of divorce and in the long run they grow up more securely if parents are married.

I think that's because most divorced parents don't put their children's best interests at the core of their decision-making. I think that when people split up, they start putting their needs first. That, right there, is why the children suffer. Not because of the divorce. But because the parents stop putting their children first.

I'm here to tell you that co-parenting can work. It's tough work, just like a marriage, which is probably why most people don't do it. But it is possible.

Apparently, I could even be the nanny

Annika got mistaken for a boy at the park the other day. I guess the fact that she was wearing a black T-shirt and blue shoes won out over her blue nail polish and turquoise pants bespeckled with butterflies.

Those kinds of mistakes just make me laugh a little. At least they are the kinds of things that pretty much happen to everybody during the infant and toddler years. Mistaking a girl for a boy or vice versa is par for the course in pretty much any culture.

That experience far outweighed the interaction I had with a woman at the same park earlier in the week.

I was swinging Annika in the toddler swings when a graying White woman approached with a little blond girl.

I looked at the little girl and said to Annika, "She looks about the same age as you, sweetie."

The woman smiled and asked Annika's age. I told her, 2. She told me the age of the child with her, 2 and change. We smiled and murmured things about how cute they were. The girls giggled in their swings.

Then she turned to me and said, "Are you the mother?"

THE mother.  Not even her mother.

"Yes," I said.

This is where you expect me to get all irate.

But I didn't.

My stomach did not turn to bile or get all twisted up in knots. It turned more to a consistency of Playdough. Lumpy. Pureed. Mushy. Bored. Trite.

I felt my face go flat with disappointment at this now mundane question. It's getting a little tiring.

Even though Annika was still laughing and shouting "Wee, wee!" I asked her if she was ready to get down.

"Baby, do you want to slide?!" I asked her all excited.

"Nooo, SWING!" was the answer I got.

I just wanted to get away from the woman, who had noted that she was in fact, the little girl's grandmother.

Like I cared.

Either she noticed my lack of interest, or she understood that she had made a mistake. After a few minutes she said, "The reason I asked you if you were her mother is because you run into a lot of nannies here too."

"Oh," was my response.

That is true. It's the only park where I see nannies.

To me, the nannies stick out as nannies. They gather together with strollers and bottles and chat with each other while the children play within a safe distance. There is a distance in their interactions with the children in their care. They lack the tenderness that you see between mothers and their children. Maybe that's something only mothers notice.

I finally got Annika off the swing under the guise that we needed to change her diaper and offered her a snack.

Anyone who is not the mother of a Bi-racial child might not really get my point here. I even hesitated to write this because I'm not even quite sure I get it, but somehow I felt this experience was an important one to share.

That feeling - that dull, soft spot that has turned so quickly from irritation to lack of interest in engaging someone who would be even slightly insensitive to our familial difference - is very new to me.

I've never been one to turn away from a debate, a fight, a dialogue. I am always the one searching for knowledge and enlightenment. My curiosity peaks at the slightest hint of something new or out of the ordinary.

But this stuff, this is not new. Not in this country.

White people who are in denial about the state of the racial divide. White people who think that because we desegregated schools, and affirmative action placed Black workers further up the ladder, and the fact that we have a Black president makes it all better, makes it all okay, makes it all -- equal.

That soft, dull feeling that I can't even begin to describe as an ache, because it doesn't ache. It is more like a tumor. That is what I imagine dark-skinned people feel every time they interact with insensitive White people. People who think that a Band-Aid makes the wound disappear.

I spent nine years living in Detroit. I cannot even begin to tell you the hatred and vitriol that divides the metropolis. It is in ingrained so deeply that most people, Blacks and Whites, don't even see it as a color issue anymore.

I spent a lot of time chatting with my Black friends in Detroit. The ones who cared enough to attempt to enlighten me, about how it feels for your feelings to be swept aside as easily as, "Oh sorry, it was an honest mistake."

But I didn't really get it until now. Or, I should say, I am feeling it. Maybe I will never really get it. But I feel something that I definitely never felt before.

It's only been two years, of slip ups and insensitive questions about the maternal bond I share with a child who is not the same color as me.

And already, I have no desire to interact with someone who can't or won't even admit the possibility - until she has hard evidence - that she might be my daughter.

If I can get to this point in two years it makes me wonder how many years this country will pay dearly for the past mistakes we made. It makes me wonder how many generations it will take to slough off the ingrained anger and indifference, on both sides.

The First Sense to go is Fashion: or What the Hell are Jorts?

I fully admit that my fashion sense has been slipping away gradually for the last several years. I really don't care. 

But lately I've been wondering if I'm one of those people. That person who people look at and go, hasn't she seen a fashion magazine in the last decade?

Or does she go out in PUBLIC, like, ever?

Doesn't she know that (insert fashion faux pas here) is just LAUGHABLE?

I thought I was just blending into the crowd.

Well, the truth is, I haven't looked at a fashion magazine in like 10 years. I may have bought one once or twice. If I did I probably became quickly irritated with myself for wasting $4 - then took the quiz to find out if my boyfriend is REALLY that in to me - and then tossed it in the trash.

Thinking about how I look to other people reminds me of a woman I used to see around at parties during my early 20s who was still feathering her hair and wearing blue eye shadow. She wasn't even old enough to be leftover from the 1970s. I don't know what her deal was.

I don't think I'm that bad. But the truth is, I don't even know what 90s fashion looks like. So how am I supposed to know if I'm still wearing it? I mean, okay. I LIVED in the 90s. It was the height of my fashion sense years. But I dressed alternative. Yes, that's what we called it.

I wore baggy jeans and vintage tops and big shoes with buckles on them. Or baggy jeans and tight shirts with big chunky heels. I wore a lot of black. (This was after the hair bow and denim years. Don't judge, it was the 80s.)

I know I'm not still dressing like that, although, I would totally love for that stuff to come back in style. Maybe I should just start dressing that way again and make a real fashion statement.

My basic dress consists of jeans, shorts, jean shorts, flip flops, tank tops, blouses, a couple of skirts (that I never wear anymore). Ummm. Hmmmm. Yeah, that's about it.

These days I mostly hang out with other 30-and 40-something moms. Most of them seem to have it a little more together when it comes to looking cute. They wear skirts sometimes and they seem to know what kind of shoes are cool. I only recently heard about Keens. I mean, I've seen them before, but I didn't know what they were called. The clothes in my regular rotation are definitely not from this season. I shop at thrift stores.

In  case you are wondering, the impetus for this fashion angst is from a conversation I had on Twitter with an IRL friend in her 20s and a cute dresser.

Here it is:

punc_rock: yesterday i tried on a pair of jorts. and i liked it.
marthawood: @punc_rock what are jorts?
punc_rock: @marthawood jean shorts. usually used toward people stuck in 90's clothes, recently reclaimed by the hipsters that wear ironic 90's outfits
marthawood: @punc_rock interesting. Did not know that jean shorts were considered uncool. Am wearing some now. Also wondering if I look .....
marthawood:@punc_rock ... To 20-somethings the same way ppl w/ feathered hair looked to me in the 90s.
punc_rock: @marthawood haha, well keep them on, now you are a hipster! voila, just like that. :P jk.  

Yeah.

Well, I know I am not a hipster. Nor do I want to be. I'm too old. I really don't want to be like that 40-something woman who worked in the office at my high school and wore huge hair bows and denim skirts to go along with her bleached, permed hair. She looked ridiculous. Okay, we ALL looked ridiculous, but at least the rest of us had an excuse. We were kids. We didn't know any better. 

I took a picture the day I had that conversation with my friend.  

That's what I was wearing. 


Then I start to wonder if my shorts are too short. What kind of shorts am I supposed to wear that aren't denim. What kind of shoes would make me look cooler.

Aaargh, I need some new clothes! But then I think how ridiculous that is. To go out and get a new wardrobe. The majority of my social interaction is playgroups at parks, outside, with toddlers who expect you to pick them up even if they are soaking wet, have food on their hands, holding a wet sippy cup....

And I wonder, just why I would bother.

Hell, maybe I'll just go get some cutoff jorts and call it a day.

Wait a second. Maybe my problem is not my clothes, but the fact that I never hang out in the adult world. 
 

What scares me about the Better Homes and Gardens commandment debacle

Late last week Better Homes and Gardens blogger Heather W. posted The 10 commandments of dining with little kids. If you clicked that link, you will have noticed that the headline now reads 9 commandments.

They changed it. Quietly. Over the weekend when online activity is generally decreased.

Is it just me, or doesn't it bug anyone else that this magazine didn't acknowledge that the content was changed until the original version was being smeared all over the internet?

The editor's note that is now in place on the post was placed on top of the post on Monday, May 24. The article was posted on Wednesday, May 19.

I don't know when they changed the post, but I read it around 9 a.m. Monday morning after seeing in on Twitter, and that editor's note wasn't there. It was just the post, with the changed headline and the missing commandment.

A brief synopsis of what happened.

Some blogger who apparently doesn't like hanging out in restaurants where children are shrieking, throwing food on the floor, and running rampant wrote some dumb list for parents giving them the commandments for how to behave in restaurants.

What BHG took out was this commandment:

"THOU SHALT NOT BREAST FEED AT THE TABLE
Yes, I have seen table-side breast feeding at a four-star restaurant. If at all possible, take it to the ladies room. (Note: most upscale restaurants have really nice restrooms!)"

Unfortunately for BHG, enough people had already noticed the offensive proposition and copied it and pasted it all over a bunch of other sites, a Facebook page calling for a boycott was set up. BHG's very own FB page was littered with angry comments.

The magazine even posted a heartfelt apology.

So, on to what bugs me the most about this.

I don't give a shit that they have ignorant, uneducated and inconsiderate bloggers working for them. I don't even mind that they scapegoated her out, saying that nobody else had read the post before it went on the website. I don't believe that. I worked for a small community newspaper and my university newspaper and nothing got posted in print or online without at least one other person looking at it.

The magazine says that the post was "not vetted by our editors." What a load of horseshit.

But what really bugs me the most is that they did not post ANYTHING remotely close to an apology or a retraction. They simply removed the offensive part of the article and went about their business as if it never happened.

Until they got called out by thousands of pissed off moms.

A lot of people are saying that BHG has acted honorably and ethically by apologizing and removing the offending content.

That is SO WRONG.

It is highly highly unethical for a media outlet to ignore a mistake, and change content without reflecting that somewhere in the piece.

One example of an ethical media outlet, is the New York Times. Whenever they change something, typically a factual error, it is always noted.

In this time period, when online information is transmitted so quickly and easily, it is important to support media outlets that are honorable, ethical and honest. They must own up to mistakes. They must respect the sanctity of the transmission of information.

I know that some editorialized blog post on kids in restaurants is not exactly Watergate. But if the line gets blurred, there, where does it end?

Drlogging

So, even though I am still a tiny ass little fish in the big blogging sea, somebody likes me and I got an award!

Yippeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Before I write anymore I should tell you. I'm drunk.

Yep.

Well, good and buzzed anyway. I did it on purpose.

See, one of the potential requirements of accepting this award was that I get drunk. Ok, it was only ONE option, but as anyone who knows me IRL, you would know that I would have picked that one.

Here are the rules:

ONE: Get really excited that you got the coolest award EVER!

Yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

TWO: Choose one of the following options for accepting the OMB award:

a. Get really drunk and blog for 15 minutes straight or for as long as you can focus. I can totally do this. One, I'm from Texas. Two, I have a journalism degree. I was drunk when I wrote about Bush getting elected for the second time. Yeah, I know. What Democrat wasn't completely wasted drunk that night?

b. Write about your most embarrassing moment. Most embarrassing moment? Well, they would likely involve me being drunk, so why not just go for the purity of getting drunk and blogging at the same time?

c. Write a "Soundtrack of Your Childhood" post. Really? Now that would be embarrassing.

d. Make your next blog a 'vlog'/video blog. I thought about doing this, and naming is DRVlogging, but my Flip camera is low on batteries and to be honest I'm not sure how to recharge it. Yep, I'm old. Fuck YOU.

e. Take a picture of yourself first thing in the morning before you do anything else [hair, makeup, etc.] and post it. That's just stupid, what is this, the 1980s? Sorry if this offends anyone. In case you weren't paying attention, I'M DRUNK! And, for some reason I can't turn off the bold font. Screw you. I'm DRUNK!

 

 THREE: Pass the award on to at least 3, but preferrably more, awesome bloggers like yourself. Don't forget to tell them!

This is the hardest one because I have so many to pick from! 

Ok, since I'm drunk I'm going to be a sap and give the first award right back to the person who gave it to me because even though I've never met her in person, I think we'd totally be buddies. I LOVE YOU MAN!

1. Soy Mami Y Mas. I have no fucking clue what the name of her blog means, but she's open, honest, sweet and dedicated. I also think she has balls. I like women with balls.

2. MamaTrue: This is my IRL friend Sonya. She's going through a divorce right now and blogging about it as honestly and as respectfully as one can share their innermost thoughts and feelings with people who don't know her.

3. Late Enough. Late Enough is my newest favorite read. She's a mom, an ex-Marlboro Light smoker, a SAHM, with a doctor hubby and from reading her about page, I'm guessing she's gone through some sort of spiritual metamorphosis, which is very cool in my book. She's also funny. I'd wax more on this, but remember, I'M DRUNK.

Anyhoo, so on to the more important part of this post, (which I can tell you has gone on quite longer than 15 fucking minutes), the part where I blog drunk.

 

I'm one of those people who sway between super funny and super serious, or just pissed off when I'm drunk. DO NOT, AND I REPEAT, DO NOT LET ME DRINK TEQUILA IF I AM PMSING. 

Okay, now that I've gotten that very important PSA out of the way, I'm going to get all serious and shit on you because I don't have an audience to moonwalk in front of and I'm not pmsing.

I have often wondered what exactly my relationship with alcohol is. I grew up in a very Christian-like family. My maternal grandfather was a Church of Christ preacher. My maternal grandmother would have been a preacher if the CHURCH wasn't so fucking sexist. (My words, not hers, she's probably rolling over in her grave right now.) 

I spent most of my childhood wondering if I was on the path to eternal salvation and making deals with G-O-D. I often daydreamed about dying just for a minute so that I could ask God if I was on the right path, if I was going to the right church, if I was for sure going to make it to heaven. 

Then I went to a Christian university.

It didn't take long for me to start drinking.

Yeah.

Getting drunk for me back then was like, well, holy shit, I can take a fucking break from all this worry and guilt and shit. Who the fuck wouldn't want that?

Then I did a lot of shit that I may or may not share with the blogosphere at some future date, then boom, I'm married. To a guy who is total straight edge. So, I spent several years not drinking, much.

Then we got divorced.

That's when I realized I may or may not have a grown up alcohol problem.

Before I could just blame it on college life.

But now, here I was in my late 20s, nearing my 30s and most of my best memories involved me getting drunk, peeing in public, running from cops, or women who were mad that I had snatched flowers off of their lawns, smoking to cover my breath in front of cops and passed out pictures of me in front of bonfires, or getting into beds with my friends who were sleeping naked. 

I spent a lot of years drinking. Which is my point. I stopped basically because I had a kid.

I don't have a hard time not drinking. But once I start, I don't want to stop.

My paternal grandfather was, according to my mother, a big time alcoholic. When I was in my late teens the current train of thought was that alcoholism skips a generation.

Today, science has "proven" that there is an addiction gene.

I don't know if I buy any of this. I used to drink because it numbed my pain and my guilt and my anger and it helped me feel connected to people because when I was sober I was so busy hiding behind my shell.

Now that I have a child I have less pain and guilt and anger because she brings me joy and I don't have time for self-centered angst. I feel more connected to the world because I have a child who has forced me to get with the program.

I wonder if this whole addiction thing is real. I wonder if bad parenting is part of the equation. I wonder if I will pass on my problems to my daughter or if my experiences will help me decipher her teen angst and worry and maybe I will be able to pass on enough wisdom that she won't feel the need to drink and do drugs and party like I did.

I just wonder.

I sway back and forth between worrying that my problems will be a hurdle or a stepping stone for my daughter.

I could go on and on about this, but that would involve more thinking and to be quite honest with you, I just want to go to the store and get some tacos and cheetos and then pass out.

So, in case you are thinking that this post is way to cohesive and there are not enough spelling errors, remember, I'm a Texan and a journalist at heart. Being drunk has never impeded me from getting done what I need to do. 

Ok, I'm going to go eat some fuckking tacos now. Laterzioooooooooooooooooooo

P.S. 15 minutes? Try 2.5 hours.

So, what color am I? Scroll to the end to find out

The other day Toyin asked Annika what color her hair was, she responded, (to my surprise) "Brown!"

To me, her hair looks black. To Toyin, it looks brown.

Her hair, just like her identity, will look to each side of the cultural equation, more like the other one.

I realized recently that I have already made a mistake about the race discussion.

I have been waiting for Annika to get older, or to see if she brings it up, instead of doing what I knew subconsciously what I should have done. I should have already started talking to her about it.

It's not so bad. I mean, her language skills are still developing. As with many topics that are hard to discuss, I kept thinking I'd wait for her to notice that her skin color is different from mine. I mean, she's only 2. It seems to be so obvious to other people, I guess I didn't think she'd take long to notice.

But to her, we are normal. To other people, we are not, at least, not most people. Even our friends, who like us and don't care that we are a blend of colors, it is still a noticeable difference.

I have been asked plenty of times now if Annika is adopted. Some people with less couth just say things like, "Is that your daughter?"

Then the other day a little girl asked me flat out, "Why is your skin different colors?" as she watched me nursing Annika. Wow. I was totally unprepared for such a guileless question.

It was the most refreshing exchange I've had with another person on the topic since Annika was born. I mean, this kid did not assume anything. She had no judgments. Her only agenda was to get her question answered. It was so simple. So wonderful.

I told her that it was because Annika's daddy has darker skin than mine and so she was a mixture of our skin colors. Even after I said that, I fumbled more, trying to come up with something a little more.... profound, maybe? I don't know what I was searching for.

Her mom jumped in and explained, saying something like, "You know how my hair and your dad's hair are different colors and yours a mixture of ours? It's the same thing."

The little girl seemed satisfied with that.

I was grateful for the additional explanation. But even more grateful for the question.

It made me realize that even with all my reading and thinking on the subject I still don't know exactly what I'll say when Annika starts asking questions. It made me realize that maybe I'm not quite as comfortable with the topic as I thought I was.

So, I decided to test the waters.

Yesterday as I sat with Annika on the couch, I held our arms together. I pointed at her arm.

"What color is your arm Annika?" I asked her.

"Brown!" She said with a proud grin.

I pointed at my arm.

"What color is Mommy's arm?"

She looked confused and then looked up at my face for guidance.

I could understand her confusion. I mean, really, what color is my skin?

In all reality, it is just a much lighter shade of brown. But I was pointing out to her that our skin color was different. She understood that much.

I said, "They're not the same color are they?" I said.

She nodded, no.

"So what color is Mommy's arm?" I asked again, curious what she would say.

"Grey!"

Heh, heh. Well, I guess that's close enough.

Apparently being a douche makes Anderson Cooper an expert on racism

As a former journalist I defend the media whenever I get the chance. Sure, it has its problems, but it's a tough job.

HOWEVER, sometimes, the media gets involved in things they have no business being involved in.

Like talking to children.  

About racism.

Monday night CNN aired the first part of a series called, "Doll Study Research," on AC360.The topic was that Anderson Cooper and his team performed a "study" about how Black and White children see race.

I like how they named their study after a famous actual research study that actually used dolls.

I'm no scientist, nor am I child psychologist, but I thought the clips were way more telling about the producers of the show adults asking the questions, than the children. Additionally, the way these children answered was more a reflection of our society than the actual kids' feelings or beliefs.

One thing I've learned in the past few years is that how you talk to children makes a huge difference in the answers you get.

In the clip labeled "show me the dumb child" they asked the kids a bunch of questions about which kids were smart, dumb, nice, mean, ugly, good-looking, good and bad. The younger set of children was questioned in the wrong way. Children that young are looking to please. The older kids were way more articulate.

If you give a kid a set of pictures and tell him/her to pick out the ugly one, the child is not going to say, "Oh, none of them are ugly." They are assuming that there is an ugly one, so the way I see it, unless a child has been talked to about this topic, they are going to pick the one they think you want them to.

I really liked what this dad had to say about his daughter's answers. His daughter said that all the children were equal. Her response was well-thought out and knowledgeable. Then her dad noted that this is what he had taught her. Hello! Let's teach our kids how to think about racism instead of waiting for Anderson Cooper to tell us what they think.

In the headline, this mom was portrayed as a mother who is shocked by her daughter's "white bias" as this so-called study claims to have found. But if you watch and listen, her answers are pretty savvy. She knows her daughter isn't a racist. She understands exactly what the book NurtureShock tells us, that children pick out people who look similarly to themselves and their parents as being better than others.

These children aren't racist. Nor do they have a condition called "white bias." They are just kids. Who got asked a bunch of stupid questions.

As an aside, I have to add that I think it's great (sarcasm) how CNN has found a new label to give kids.

I hope my child never gets "white bias." But just in case she does, I hope the pharmaceutical companies are working on a pill for that.

Happy BirthMothersDay

True to form, I am late in posting this, by one day (or two depending on how you see it).

I realized around 11:30 p.m. Sunday night that I didn't mention Mother's Day on my blog. Where I mostly write about being a mom and most of my readers are moms.

Yeah. I figured that the wooden tits should say it all.

But in case it wasn't enough:

Happy belated Mother's Day to you all!



Really though, when you read this, you'll understand why I sort of forgot it was Mother's Day.

A. I've never been good at remembering holidays. Growing up, we knew it must be some sort of holiday if there was one of those gross lard-based grocery store cakes sitting on the dining room table.

My family goes through the motions when it comes to holidays, but that's about it.
 

Birthdays were about the same. Because of the mostly bad or non-existent birthday memories, I'm determined to make sure Annika always has a good birthday celebration.

And B. Yesterday was her actual birthday, but Toyin and I took her to Port Aransas for the weekend to play in the sand and splash in the salt water.

We had a blast.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, Annika's birthday will always take precedence over Mother's Day.

And that is just fine with me.

The Dolly Parton Tree

On our way to Port Aransas this weekend we stopped in the tiny town of McCoy, Texas. We stopped so I could use the facilities at a little barbecue joint where a guy was settin' outside actually cooking the meat on a grill. The owner of the place was super friendly and made sure to tell us all about the tree to the side of the restaurant.

"That's a Dolly Parton tree you know," she said to us, pointing to the magnificent 200-year-old tree on the side of the restaurant. I cannot for the life of me remember the name of the place, but if you get off at the exit for McCoy and head east you'll come up on it after about two miles. You can't miss it. It's the first sign of civilization. It's sexy, huh?

The hum of the road brings out the philosopher in me

Last night as we drove south on Highway 37 toward Port Aransas, we passed by what Toyin and I guessed was an oil refinery. It stretched for several miles and was lit up like a small city. The individual lights burned brightly like Christmas lights on a tree, glowing with serenity. The steam pumped out across the sky forming a soft burnt cloud-like smog across the city. It was -- dare I say it and offend my environmental sense -- quite beautiful.

It was like a small city within itself. It hummed with a sense of a tiny, organized ecosystem within a ragingly disorganized and painfully expansive system.

Ever since the oil spill along the coast, I only saw the negative impact of the oil pumping along the coast. Because of the oil spill, ocean life has been damaged, food sources have been lost, livelihoods are threatened, entertainment and vacation spots will be ruined. There is much to be lost because of this oil spill. It is sad. It is painful for our world. I get that.

But as we drove in the darkness while Annika slept, the sight of the oil refinery struck me with wonder and knowledge. It is its own tiny point of light and a movement of evolution in itself. Oil provides a way of life. It is a natural resource that we use to power things that are necessary for daily life in this century. I don't know about you, but I like lights and motor vehicles.

Maybe it was the darkness and the hum of the road that lends itself to seeing beauty in the openness of the unknown ahead of us. Maybe it was the silence of the sleeping child that one learns to enjoy to its fullest because you never know how long it will last. Maybe it was the beauty of the lights against the velvety sky. Maybe it was the smell of the ocean or the anticipation of vacation.
 
I'm not a religious woman, but I did grow up "in" the Church of Christ, as we put it. Three times a week for 18 years of my life I worshiped the Lord. I am very familiar with the teaching of Christ.

When we drove past that oil refinery all of these thoughts roiled through my head and I murmured, "One things dies so another may live." It was all very metaphoric. 


Today we spent the morning at the beach and once again I was struck by another ecosystem inside a larger one. The smaller ecosystem inside water that pools in between the beach and the edge of the rolling tide. It is a miniature system that is formed of the same things that forms the ocean, but it is more closely connected, more intense. It is the dregs of the ocean that are moving closer together to make their own tiny society of kelp, seaweed, gravel, shells, tiny fish and salt water.

Watching these newer, smaller ecosystems at work, the way they take what is there and mold something new that resembles its maker is like watching a child grow and become.

Become what? Just become. Become who they will be. Become the essence of you, your genetics, your childhood environment, your talents and your failings. For better or worse, they are our oil spills and our miniature oceanic ecosystems, taking what the world gives them and reworking it.

I wish I had some pictures for you but alas, I did not take pictures of either one. And, I forgot my cable for the camera. But hang tight because I'm going to try to find one tonight and instead of oil refineries and tiny pools of fish I have some pictures of a tree with tits! God I love Texas.

Mother's Day remembrances and a review

Mother's Day is just around the corner and thinking about it, I am reminded of a wonderful little bundle of joy I was given last year. No, not Annika. That was two years ago. Yep, she was born the day before Mother's Day. It was definitely the best Mother's Day gift I have ever gotten and every year she will continue to be the best Mother's Day gift.

I have already sworn that I will never one of those moms that hints around for gifts and instead I will use Mother's Day to remind myself that the best gift my child can give me is her presence (pun intended).

However, I am lucky in that, Toyin, even though he certainly doesn't have to, still buys me presents occasionally.

Last year, on my second official Mother's Day, Toyin gave me an iPod Touch for Mother's Day and it was hands down the best gift he has ever given me, other than Annika. And he, unlike previous men in my life, gives really good gifts.

The year before, a couple of months after Annika was born, he split the cost of a new laptop for me. The first year we dated, he took me to a bed and breakfast for my birthday and bought me a digital recorder, which would come in handy for my job as a newspaper reporter. He's bought me clothes, fancy dinners, and gadgets in the six years we've known each other. But even so, the iPod was the best thing he could have ever bought me and I'll tell you why. Even though it wasn't the most expensive gift he ever bought me, unlike those other gifts, this one saved my sanity.

At the time, Annika was working on about the fifth month of what looked like a never-ending life being attached to my breast for sleeping. And 1-year-olds sleep a lot! We're talking, like 14 hours a day I was strapped down next to her while she slept.

In the first months she did this too, but I could pop her on my breast on my Boppy nursing pillow and once she fell asleep, I'd turn on a TV show or read the news on my laptop.

But as she got bigger and more aware of the world around her, the noises from the laptop irritated her. At night, for a while, I could leave the light on and I'd read books. During naps, I did the same, but a person can only read so much, plus it's exhausting on the fingers and arms trying to hold a book up with one arm for an hour or two while flipping pages with the same hand because your infant is sleeping on top of the other arm.

So for several months, off and on I'd lie there, bored, staring at the ceiling, thinking about e-mails I wanted to respond to, news I wanted to read, things I'd like to write about, videos I could be watching, funny Facebook statuses came and went through my head that never got posted.

Twitter remained elusive. I'd hear about news events and be surprised, even though they had been all over every major news station in the world. Even though a lot of those moments were good extra time for sleeping and lots of good bonding with Annika also happened during that time, it was tiring and lonely, lying there while my child slept next to me with my breast in her mouth and all I could do was lie there, unfulfilled, bored and not tired.

So when Toyin bought me the iPod Touch, it changed my life.

I still use it even though it has gotten way easier to sneak out of bed after she falls asleep. Naps are still hard to sneak away, so I use it during those. But the iPod has actually made it easier for me to stay in bed longer with Annika at night and has given us even more cuddle time. Surprisingly, this little gadget has made it so that I am not longing to get up and often, after Annika falls asleep, I will get on my iPod for about an hour and then I turn it off and roll over for more snuggles as I drift into la-la land.

This little gadget isn't perfect by any means. Even though I've had it for less than a year, many of the apps I want need the upgraded version, so they don't work. And for some reason YouTube videos stop playing after we've watched them several times. Occasionally, the wireless gets hung up and I have to reset my modem.

Another problem that I didn't originally foresee is that now Annika fights me for the use of it. On the one hand, it's a nice toy for her because I have some cool toddler apps that she really likes. She has learned her shapes using the iPod and her eye hand coordination is remarkable for a less-than-2-year-old, in my opinion.

But she has gotten to the stage where she will demand the use of it. "Have it!" She tells me when I am using it to check my e-mail, or, she will demand to watch a "boo do" (video).

But all in all, the iPod Touch has been a lifesaver for me. I have often thought that it's something no attached mama should be without.

So if your husband or significant other has asked you what you want for Mother's Day, tell him or her that you want an iPod Touch, or hell, make it an iPad. It might come in handy during the heavy flow days. (Pun intended.)

The two-year mark makes me feel like a giddy school girl

I don't know what it is. This two year mark coming up on being a mother is somehow similar to how I felt when I moved from junior high (now called middle school -- yes I'm old) to high school.

It may not seem like much of an accomplishment on the outside. To the cool kids of the world I probably still look like an awkward, unkempt 12-and-a-1/2-year-old wearing purple eyeshadow and a bulky watch that does not go with my ruffly graduation dress.

But on the inside I feel like I am a new woman. I've figured out how to shave my legs without bleeding and the possibilities with boys are endless!

In all reality, I feel like I have passed the first big test and the first major hump of being an attached parent.

If parenting is brain surgery, attachment parenting is neuroscience. It's not just looking at what is there, it is looking at what could be there and trying to make sure that good things happen and bad things don't.

I'm not trying to debate the differences between mainstream parenting vs attachment parenting. But let's face it. The reason many people choose not to do certain things like, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, avoid sleep training and wear babies is because, it is fucking inconvenient. It's physically and mentally challenging. And it lasts longer. It's hard on your back and neck.

It's also emotionally tiring because in some cases people not only have the regular challenges of parenting, but they also have to defend their choices (or feel like they have to) to judgmental family members and/or friends and sometimes even their partners.

We will be celebrating Annika's second birthday one week from today. Last year, on her first birthday I remember feeling some sort of milestone, but she was still a baby. She wasn't really walking yet, taking little steps here and there. She was still babbling. She still nursed for most of her nutrition. She still needed me 150 percent of the time. She was still a baby.

But this year, man oh man, the second year has flown by. My neck is still hurting from the whiplash of this year. Or, hmm, maybe that's from the pretzel-like positions I've been sleeping in for the past two years.

This year on her birthday she is not only walking, but running. Man that kid is gonna be track star. She is talking in complete sentences. She can count to 17, if you don't count 14, 15, and 16. She knows about 12 percent of the ABC's depending on the day. She sings. She laughs at jokes. She defies me. She tests my patience. She forces me to grow as a human being. She makes me examine myself and see where my strengths and my weaknesses are. Oh, the weaknesses!

So yeah, the two-year mark is not just a milestone for me. It feels like I've been running and running around the track and I finally got to the first hurdle. And I made it over.

So come on y'all and give me some high fives! Next up, the slutty phase. Can someone please teach me how to put on lip liner?

New site: redirecting my redirection

Being semi-new to the blogging scene, I made an amateur move last week when I didn't announce anything and simply redirected all my traffic to my new site. I am hoping that I haven't lost any of my readers. I know I have probably confused a few.


So, anyway, I'm a big girl now! I have a real dot com. Visit me at www.momsoap.com.

Cheers!