On April Fool's Day, Blessings, and Hardships...

It's April Fool's Day!

Today, I'm thinking about how far my husband and I have come (no kidding).  On April Fool's Day fourteen years ago, Rashieme called his mom, and despite my frantic protests, he left a message on her home-phone answering machine (yes, we had those back then) that informed her I was pregnant.

I was, by the way.

And due in June.  And we hadn't told her yet, because we were terrified, especially me.  We were young.  We hadn't been a couple very long.  We were living together out of wedlock.  I wasn't confident that his mother liked me very much, because Rashieme had flown down to Florida to visit me for a week the previous spring, and instead of flying back home, he'd ended up staying with me, until we both returned to Maryland that fall when I got into graduate school.  He'd went home for a couple months before moving back in with me when we got our first apartment (after we'd realized I was pregnant).  If the tables had been turned, and I had been Schelita, I probably wouldn't have approved of the woman who lured her son to Florida, then stole him away to another county when he finally came back home.

I remember freaking out as I watched Rashieme record that message, and when he hung up the phone, I was beside myself.  What was she going to do when she figured out this wasn't an April Fool's joke?

Truth is, she responded the way I hope I will, if I'm ever placed in a similar situation:  She didn't judge us at all.  She didn't lecture us, aside from the fact that she scolded us for not telling her earlier.  She was in love with that baby the moment she found out about her, and she immediately got to work buying everything imaginable for Kaliah.  Clothes, toys, a crib for her house so Kaliah could spend the night.  From the day Kaliah entered the world until Madea left us, Schelita loved her unconditionally.  They had an unbreakable bond.

And it all started with an "April Fool's" announcement.

I see some women posting on social media, encouraging others not to participate in any sort of joke pregnancy announcement--and I get it.  Pregnancy is not a joke.  Some women try for years to get pregnant to no avail; others suffer one or more miscarriage.  It makes for a touchy subject, and I ,of all people, would never tell another woman how she should feel about the matter.

Our stillborn Jasmine Celine was born in 2007.  I carried her for six long months, about five of which I knew she was sick.  I held her for one day, when they baptized her in the hospital room.  I picked out one soft, pink blanket to wrap her in.  I chose her shiny pink coffin.

This didn't stop me from participating in a similar April Fool's announcement when we learned we were expecting with Shay.

It was Rashieme's idea, again--he wanted to tell his mom the same way he had the first time, ten years ago.  And I agreed, because for us--it seemed fitting.  So we drove to her house, and this time, instead of panicking that she wouldn't believe us, that she'd resent me for playing games with the truth, we eagerly showed her the photo on the my phone of the positive pregnancy test.  I still remember her smiling suspiciously, checking the rings I always wear, pictured in that photo, with the ones that were and still are on my finger.  It took several minutes of convincing, even though she knew we had been about to start trying.  I think it was a nice full-circle moment, considering how she found out about Kaliah a decade before.

We told the rest of the world that night--I'd already told my mom shortly after I found out, and we'd already informed Kaliah she was going to be a big sister.  We'd sent her on a scavenger hunt, and the last clue was a pair of baby booties, with a sign that said, "Happy Easter!  Baby McFadden December 2015."  We texted a few other people we wanted to know before I posted the photos of Kaliah's search to Facebook--one of Kaliah holding the booties, and one of that sign.  I captioned it, "We're Pregnant!  April Fools?  Or Naw?"  I added a hashtag, "OrNaaaaaw!" (it was also cool, at the time, to say that).

I still stand by the way we told the world.  For us, it was perfect.  We've always been a family who jokes.  (Schelita especially.  When I went past my due date, she wanted me to buy a realistic-looking baby doll, cover it with jelly, get in the shower, and start yelling for Rashieme.  I, of course, said no.  You have to draw the line somewhere).

But Rashieme and I have also grown a lot.  We've suffered two more pregnancy losses--both very shortly after I found out I was expecting.  I get why some women would admonish others for making any type of joke about such a situation.  So for that reason, if our announcement about Shay offended you, and you happen to be reading this--I apologize.

But if we got to do it over again--I'd do it the same way.  It's what Schelita would have wanted.  It was exactly the kind of joke she and her son shared together, often.

I miss her everyday.

I'm sure some people would disagree with that choice.  They have the right to feel that way.  For me, every pregnancy announcement I see is bittersweet--but I don't think I've ever actually had a friend who wasn't pregnant post that they were.  Maybe my friends are just more mature than most people.  Or maybe it really isn't all that common, and all the posts telling people not to do something are addressing an issue that isn't super present.  Every year I see far more posts (several, at least) telling women not to joke about pregnancy than I see actual posts joking about pregnancies (0, by my count--unless you count my own four years ago--then I'm at 1).

Back to the bittersweet part:  I'm always happy for whoever is expecting.  I pray continuously for healthy pregnancies, for healthy babies.  I don't want any other family to go through what we have.  And I am legitimately happy for friends, colleagues, former students, family members.

But every announcement also reminds me of the three announcements I didn't make.  One because we learned our child was sick before you get to "the point" where it's recommended that you tell the outside world.  Two because the pregnancies ended even earlier.

The one child I held in my arms, that I won't get to hold again this side of heaven.  The other two I never got to hold--I never even knew if they were boys or girls.

So the me that types, "congratulations," or the me who shows up smiling, gift-in-hand at your baby shower, is still the me who is triggered by memories, the me who wonders what might have been.  You know how I told Rashieme we were pregnant last October?

I pulled into the parking spot "Reserved for those with children" at the grocery store after picking him up from work one night.  He laughed, and asked me if I was pregnant, and kissed me--we were so happy.

And in January?  I ordered a "Baby Shark" onesie.  It read, "Due due due due due due September 2019."  It arrived in the mail the day after I miscarried--so rather than announcing a pregnancy to my husband, I came home from work early, crying, announcing instead that we were experiencing yet another loss.

More and more, I see women sharing their stories about their losses.  I think that is a really healthy and beautiful thing.  For every woman who does decide to share, there is someone or some couple out there who is more private--and that's okay, too--but maybe even for those who don't want to share, they can benefit from reaching out to the woman who does feel called to tell her story.  I'm encouraged by the frequency with which women have begun writing about miscarriage and infertility. It breaks down the stigma.  It reminds us that we're not alone.  And really, that is why I'm sharing these thoughts here--not because I do or don't want you to joke about pregnancy.  Not because I want you to feel badly for me.

But because there is power in our stories.

I've written about Jasmine a lot; I talk about it some.  I share some of that writing; other pieces are more personal.  Writing about it and talking about it reminds me that I had another daughter.  That her life mattered.  That it changed me (in a really powerful and positive way, actually).

I've written far less about our losses after Shay.  Having had a few months to think about them, I am grateful that God didn't decide I should carry another non-viable pregnancy to delivery--I don't know if I'm strong enough to go through that again.

They are still raw and painful losses, though they both happened even before the heartbeats could be heard.  After the first one, I burst into tears.  It didn't feel fair to me, that I should lose another pregnancy--not after burying a child.  It felt impossibly cruel.

And when it happened again?  I felt, upon discovering I was pregnant again, that I could make peace with that October loss.  That this must be the reason--that I wouldn't have been blessed with that new child, I couldn't have met that child, if not for the earlier loss--

But then, we lost that one, too.  And honestly, I just felt enraged.  I felt that my prayers had been answered and then, that answer had been snatched away.  I was at a loss.

I'm not angry, not anymore.  I still have moments where I feel the weight of those recent losses.  I still haven't made sense of it all--I'm not sure I ever will.  I'm not sure it's my job to.

But I do know that the more I've opened up and shared, the more stories I've heard in return.  We're not alone.  I'm not the only woman to have ever lost a child, and I'm not the only woman who has lost more than one, as gut-wrenching as that is.

I do know that I am blessed to have Kaliah and Shay.

I would like to have one more child, but as time moves on, I am becoming more at peace with whatever God has for me, still praying and believing that we might add to our family once more.  I don't know why we were chosen to go through so many hardships related to conceiving, nor could I guess why so many couples endure similar journeys.

I do know that I am choosing, one day at a time, to try to be better, rather than bitter.  To hold my girls a little tighter.  To take time for the little things.  To be honest about my grief and disappointment--with others, and especially with God.

I am not a perfect mother, anymore than I am a perfect anything else.  There are no perfect women, perfect wives, perfect teachers.  No perfect friends or daughters.  There are things I would do differently in this life, if I had the opportunity to do them over again.

But I will not live my life believing I am being punished for past mistakes.  Every new day is one that the Lord has made.  There is great adventure awaiting me around every corner, and like any good father, my God knows how to give good gifts to His children.

My losses are not some sort of Karmic punishment.  They do not mean I am undeserving of another child.  And whether or not I am blessed with another baby to call my own, I will live my life in wonder of the blessings I have received.

Whatever yours are, I encourage you to do the same.  Whatever hardships you face, I'd like to remind you that while they shape you, they, alone, do not define you.

Happy April Fool's Day.  Go play a lighthearted joke on somebody.  :)



From Easter, 2015. Top:  Ten-year-old Kaliah. Bottom:  Shaylin's announcment.

Spiritual Musings

I see my writing very much related to my faith, because I see my faith related to every area of my life.  According to my Christian beliefs, God gave us all of our talents; he also instilled in us all of our passions.  So whatever talent I have as a writer is from Him.  The desire I have to write is also a direct effect stemming from how I've been wired by my Creator--at least, that's what I believe.

I try to use my gifts for the glory of God--if you didn't know, I blog for my church, and you can check that out here.  I also think that in much of my writing, you don't have to look very hard to find the theme of hope that is a hallmark of Christianity.

Having said this, though, I generally refrain from directly writing about spiritual matters--except as they pertain to events I include in my short stories or essays (and they do show up there--sometimes explicitly, sometimes more subtly).  The reason for my avoidance, in general, is I don't feel equipped.  I read devotions from Rick Warren, Beth Moore, Max Ludado, Joseph Prince, and others.  And I'm not sure that God has called me to speak with authority in the same way that they do through their writing.  I'm not a Biblical scholar.  I'm sure there are many occasions when I'd flounder in even the most basic of debates with skeptics and non-believers.

But though my area of study is not in theology, I do hold an advanced degree (a couple of them, actually).  Once upon a time, in my undergraduate days, I was trained to be a literary critic.  This was only reinforced as I continued my graduate work.  So why, I wonder, when I spent so many years in academia learning to interpret texts and defend my interpretations, do I hesitate to voice an opinion on a Biblical passage?

I think maybe it's because though I've achieved success in many worldly ways, I sometimes continue to let my failures define me.  I see myself as unqualified to insert myself in Christian conversations, because of all the times I've had a choice to make, and I chose wrong.  All the times God called me to do one thing, and I did something else.  All the times I've let doubt take over, and decided I wasn't the woman for the job.

Or maybe, I'm just really not called to write in the style of a Rick Warren or a Beth Moore.  I honestly don't know.

But as I was reading my devotion the other day, I came across this, and realized I had something to say about it.  I'd like to share it here, and I trust that you'll take what I'm saying for what it is--the humble opinion of one flawed Christian woman.

Here's the passage that got me thinking:


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This is from Beth Moore's Believing God Day by Day:  Growing your Faith all Year Long, a wonderful book that I think I bought for myself as a pick-me-up some years ago.  I didn't start at January in the daily devotions; I just jumped right in, whatever day it was.  I think I kept it at my desk when I taught in public education, and I think I read it every weekday, and probably left it there over summer break (oops).

So I decided this year, when planning out my God time, that I would begin every day with this little book--and I have, starting January 1, 2019.  Before I get out of bed or do anything else, I read the verse and Moore's commentary.  I re-read the pages that seem to speak to me especially, and I re-read all of the verses at least a couple times.  I also read a devotion more than once if I feel it's difficult for me to relate the verse to her commentary, or if I'm struggling to follow what she's saying, or relate it to my life.

The above passage really spoke to me, for a number of reasons.  First of all, it's so counter-cultural.  For a skeptic, putting God above family is probably a really different thing to understand.  Honestly, it's a really difficult principle for me to follow, and I wonder if most Christians were being truthful, if they would confess the same--or if maybe, they are a lot more spiritual than I am.  It's just the tangible love that we feel when we hold our spouse's hand or kiss our babies is so strong and undeniable.  And the expectation is, we must put a far less tangible relationship, one that requires faith to enter, and faith to maintain, above all the others in our lives.

It is difficult for me to live this out.

Yet, while I sometimes place people above God, I do believe the truth in Moore's words here:  "My relationship with God preceded my present family and proceeded long after my mother died.  In other words, my longest and most effectual history with anyone has been with God Himself."

As I read the rest of that devotional, which invited me to think back about the memories I'd made with God, I was amazed that they did come easily:

 My early introduction to Him, when I used to attend a tiny Baptist church just a little more often than Christmas and Easter.  I felt this inexplicable sense of joy when the people in that church, most of them strangers to me, sang "Welcome/To the Family/Of the people who love the Lord."  There was something in their voices that was so honest, so warm.  It didn't matter that some of the voices were warbling and others were off-key.  There was something beautiful there.

The weeks I sat in church service in college--at the altar call, every Sunday, I felt this tugging, this pulling--this pleading, just about--every time the pastor invited any who had not received Him to come and do so now.  I can remember with vivid clarity the absolute sense of relief, the happiness in my surety, when I finally walked down the aisle to the cross one Sunday.

My baptism, not long after that.  I was nineteen.  Ironically, as I read the devotional that inspired this post, I looked up and saw the photo that I still have from that day--I'm holding my nose with my hands, I'm soaking wet, the pastor is grinning next to me--and every time I look at that picture, I remember exactly how free I felt.  That sense of joy, that I think is unique to believers.  Lest you think I stare at this picture daily--it was behind my daughter's scrapbook, which I'd happened to move, and when I looked at it after reading that devotional, that was the first time I'd seen that photo in probably a year.  Like it was God literally showing me--We've got plenty of memories.  Here's one.  See?

I remember when I was bleeding out on the operating table, just minutes after meeting my firstborn daughter.  When I realized that I was hemorrhaging--that was probably one of the most pivotal moments of my life.  You have no idea how helpless you are until you realize that you have zero control over whether or not you will live to see your next moment.  I remember praying--laying there on that table, body trembling, blood gushing.  It was odd the sense of peace I had, given the circumstances.  But there was this moment between me and God.  I started by apologizing--telling Him I was sorry for every sin I'd ever committed, all the ways I'd failed him, both big and small.  I hadn't been walking the Christian life back then--I had a lot to apologize for.  And I still had this absolute sense that He heard me.  That He forgave me.  I told Him that if it was my time, I was thankful for the years I had been given, and that I trusted Him.  But I asked him, could He please spare me?

So I could hold my daughter?

So Rashieme wouldn't have to do this alone?

And he did.  I lost three pints of blood and required a blood transfusion.  But I lived.

And what's more than that, I'm alive in Him.

My faith is the reason I believe I'll see my stillborn daughter again.  It's why I think I'll get to hug my dad in heaven.

Most importantly, I'll get to be with Jesus.

Have you ever thought about it--if He was who He said he was, and He did what He said He did--what greater love is there?  What greater love could there be?

I'm forever thankful.  For the reasons I've described here, and so many others.

 So, yes.  I am one of those of little faith.  I need to be constantly reminded that I do serve a great God, that He does care about me.  That He is real.  That He will never leave me or forsake me.  I constantly struggle to keep him first, in spite of all the ways He's showed up for me.

I know He knows I'm trying.

My family is an incredible gift.  I hope yours is, too.

But I do believe all gifts come from God, and the greatest of these is Jesus Christ.

Going to the chapel...

And we're... gonna get marrrrriiiiiieeeeeed.

Actually, we're headed to a state park.  It is my little girl, happy-ever-after, dream-come-true, knight-in-shining-armor fairy tale ending.

Except it's not--it's a beginning. 

We contemplated the courthouse.  But Rashieme said it before I would admit it:  "I'd feel like I never gave you the wedding that you wanted.... You want to get 'Disney-Princess-Married.'"

Now before we get all judgmental:  yes, it's true.  I want a special day.  I want the ending of every romantic comedy movie I've ever balled through and the happily ever after of fairy tales and Disney movies.  I've never claimed not to want that, even though I believe I am a strong and independent woman.

I don't need the wedding to be happy.  I already have everything I need.

But I want it.  I want just one perfect day where we can celebrate each other and our love.

And I do want to look beautiful.  I have the perfect dress.  The perfect colors.  The perfect place.

Most importantly, though, I have the perfect man.

He's not perfect in actuality, but then again, none of us are.

But he's perfect for me.

He makes me smile when I want to cry.  He listens when I need to vent.  He tells it to me like it is when I am unjustifiably angry or irritated.

He makes me laugh.  Every single day.

He is a wonderful father and will be an amazing husband.

Our road has definitely not been easy.  But by the grace of God, through the twists and turns and sometimes seemingly insurmountable mountaintops and darkest valleys, we have arrived on the other side.

And I am not naïve enough to believe that married life will be full of less ups and downs than were the fourteen years (FOURTEEN YEARS!!) leading up to it. 

But the difference, to me, is the commitment.  The knowing that we are in this for good.  That there is nothing I can't come to him with, and vice versa. 

So in two weeks we'll be saying, "I do."  "For better or for worse."  "Till death do us part."

And I believe that not even death can separate those whose love is founded in Christ Jesus.

So I want to thank my Rashieme, for standing by me through thick and thin, for letting me get a little Bridezilla from time to time, and for putting Kaliah and I first each day.  The last few months have been a challenge, with me hardly ever home.  He's not complained once.

I also want to thank our families and our friends for all their help and support as it turned out that magical fairy tale weddings don't just fall neatly in your lap, you have to actually plan them.  When you're not really a detail person (such as myself), the amount of work you have to do can come as somewhat of a shock.  I'm going to call this wedding a success if everybody shows up with clothes on.  And you know what?

It will all be okay.

Because most of all, I want to thank my God for bringing my soul mate back to me.  Big wedding or small, rain or shine, over budget or under... what matters the most is that we love each other, and for that?  I am eternally thankful to our creator, who imagined the moment that will occur two weeks from now (and all of the precious moments to follow) long before even I did.

Peas and carrots for life.

Father's Day Funny!

I thought long and hard about posting this one... first of all, because as a born-again Christian, it is not my intent to glorify drinking.  I hope that's not the message that comes across here, because while I don't have a problem with social drinking, I believe that overindulgence takes away from the fullness of life that Jesus wants us to experience.  And obviously, many people who drink end up battling addictions and losing control of their lives in what started as a seemingly harmless recreational activity.  Secondly, I didn't want to negatively paint a picture of my late father, because in this story, he comes off as a bit silly.

But here's the truth.  My dad was a drinker.  It was a part of who he was.  To me, it never defined him.  He was so much more than that, and I can honestly say that I hope he's able to enjoy a round or two in heaven, because he took great pleasure in doing so here on earth, and from my point of view, he wasn't less of a father or man for doing so.  Furthermore, in an attempt to create humor, it may seem that I'm exaggerating in this story... but I'm not.  I don't mean to write AT my father's expense.  It is actually these colorful memories that have stayed with me that, having lost him, help me to cherish his memory and love him even better.  So I intend no disrespect with this story, it's actually quite the opposite.

This story, though never before shared online, was actually the foundation for my latest book in progress, This is Going to Sound Like Fiction.  I wrote it during a winter writing retreat, and literally, before tentatively sharing at our open mic, I explained, "This is going to sound like fiction... but it's not."  The response I received that night was so encouraging and warm, I actually began weaving together a collection of similar stories that explore the everyday craziness of life.

So yes, this story is a little crazy.  No, we don't all come off as perfect in the version I'm about to tell.  But Dad, if you know my heart, you know I share this in love, to bring a smile to someone else's face.  You were much more than just a partier--you were a great father, a hard worker, and a fantastic friend.  But your colorful antics were always a reason for me to smile... so I hope you don't mind that I share this with the world.  I love you and miss you.  Happy Father's Day.

The Lebaron Meets A Sad End

            “So we’re sitting on the porch, chillin, hanging out, and all of a sudden Dad comes bursting in.  He coulda been drunk, or maybe not, with Dad, it was hard to tell, so who knew?”

            I laugh, pausing my brother in the middle of his story, as he stops to grin and nod.  We’re standing in my kitchen, Dad’s kitchen, except I’ve got new hardwood floors and shiny stainless steel appliances, and the walls are a soft yellow now.  I’ve heard this story before, and I love it.  I listen to Johnny tell it again.

            “So anyway, Dad comes busting in all upset.  ‘Johnny, Johnny, we gotta go now!  We gotta get my car out of the ditch down the road!'” 

            I can picture it—a younger version of my brother with his brown curls cut short, sitting around with his twenty-somethings friends, maybe drinking, maybe smoking, all wasting time in the leisurely way of the young before careers, marriages, and social obligations.  My father—six foot two, Albert Einstein hair, wrinkled and reddened but kind face—yanking open the creaking sliding glass door, stumbling onto the porch, squinting and glaring at the group of boys lounged about in mismatching outdoor dining chairs.  His naturally booming voice louder than usual from that extra round at Smitty’s and the commotion he’s just been through. 

            I smile at Johnny.  “How’d he get home?” I ask, forgetting this part of the story.

            Johnny grins.  He looks a lot like my father.  He, too, has been drinking.  His brown eyes are glassy, his pale complexion pinkened.  “He got a ride from one of your high school friends!  Remember?”

            I literally laugh out loud as I rack my mind trying to recall which of my former cheer squad teammates experienced what had to have been the very memorable event of picking up my sixty-six-year-old hyperactive father, rescuing him from a two-mile walk down a tree choked one lane road, black as coal during the night.  I bet that was a long five minutes in that girl’s life.  God bless her.

            We can’t remember which of my friends it was, and Johnny moves on with the story.  “Now mind you, this was Dad’s convertible, the Lebaron, but to Dad, this is the car to end all cars.  This is the f-in (my brother does not say f-in, but I can’t quite bring myself to say what he actually said) Mercedes Benz of cars in Dad’s eyes!”

            I remember this car, though I do not recall ever riding in it.  A boxy, early nineties red soft-top convertible, my Dad’s pride and joy.  Dad wasn’t a car guy, but I think he saw this car as a chick magnet of sorts.  I wonder if he thought of himself as Fonzie or James Dean as he cruised Rt. 54 to Smitty’s, trying on different pick-up lines with the fifty-plus crowd of white-haired women.

            On this particular evening, Dad had wrecked the car in a curve that was so steep it was practically a right angle.  A common mistake.  Tourists and teenagers who took the turn with too much speed were forever being fished out of that ditch.  I’d landed in it once myself when my best friend went flying around it on a rainy morning a few months after getting her driver’s license.

            After what I imagine to be much yelling and excitement, Dad convinced Johnny and a friend to drive him back to where a buddy was towing my Dad’s precious LeBaron out of the ditch, so Johnny could drive it home.  But when they got there, the cops had beat him to the scene.

            “Who’s car is this?” Johnny sneered, an unkind impersonation of the policeman who had arrived on the scene.  Cops, in general, hated my brother, with his punk t-shirts and baggy jeans and multiple earrings.  “So I said, ‘It’s my father’s sir.’  ‘This isn’t your car?’” He demanded, changing his voice into the high pitched snarl he was using for the police man.  “ ‘No sir,’” (a humble voice) “ ‘it’s my father’s.’ ‘Where’s your father?  How’d this car get in this ditch?  He drunk?  You drunk?’  ‘No, sir.  We’ve not been drinking.  My dad just took the turn too fast and ended up in the ditch is all, I think.  I wasn’t with him.’  ‘Where’s your father now?’  ‘He’s in my car, sir.  Shaken up from the accident.  He’s elderly and frail,’” which was the most ridiculous lie yet to have come out of my brother’s mouth, for, though he had silver hair and a lined face, my father moved with the energy of a high school quarterback and was built like an ox.  Frail was a perfect antonym.

            The cop wasn’t buying it.  Eventually the friend Dad called to tow him showed up, confirmed that the ditched LeBaron was indeed John Meister’s (the elder, not the younger’s), and I’m sure, fed up with the entire situation, the police officer finally just called it a day and ordered the car impounded.  Amazingly, no one got arrested.

            But the story got even better.  Adamant that his chick magnet be returned to him immediately, Dad insisted that Johnny get up at the crack ass of dawn (well, maybe seven o’clock, but to my partying twenty-one-year-old brother, that was essentially the same thing) in order to chauffer him to the impound lot so that his LeBaron could be rescued. 

            “Dad paid $250 to get that car out that day,” Johnny continued, an incredulous smile brimming beneath his words, “And that very same night…” he was shaking his head.

            I was laughing so hard tears were stinging the corners of my eyes.  After all his valiant efforts to save the LeBaron from first the ditch, and then the certain doom of impoundment, his insistence that this be resolved absolutely immediately….

            That very same night he got this aging convertible home safe and sound, parked lovingly in the driveway—

            “BAM!” Johnny managed through choking laughter.  “Smashed by a tree!”

            Our house, you see, sits in the middle of an acre of woods, mostly giant, stretching pines, hundreds of feet tall.  The evening that they had driven the Lebaron home, a thunderstorm had rolled in, causing branches to fall and trees to sway.  As had periodically happened when we grew up, sometimes the whipping winds would even cause and older tree to crack and fall.  On this particular occasion, one such tree had fallen on the LeBaron the same night it had been returned to my father.  So a mere hours after it had been secured and returned to him, mother nature and/ or fate thwarted my father once again, smashing his beloved car into smithereens with an unassuming pine tree.

            Maybe some things just aren’t meant to be.  Or maybe my father was a magnet for irony.  All I know is that despite his most diligent attempts, the LeBaron met a sad, sad end.

            Still, it makes for a great story.

 

 

 

Busy, Busy, Busy!

I've been neglecting my blog a bit lately... mainly because there is SO much going on right now.

At work, I just survived my final round of state testing with the kids.  The students also all made it out of the process without a single casualty.

At home, we've been celebrating Mother's Day, planning our wedding, and preparing to celebrate Mommom's 86th birthday this Sunday.  (Her birthday was actually yesterday, but we're all getting together over the weekend).

In other exciting news, I was accepted into the inaugural doctoral cohort at Salisbury University!  The degree is a doctorate in education, and pending the resolution of the financial implications of going back to school and their impact on our family... I may very well be headed back to school in the fall!

Kaliah is also doing very well in school.  She was selected to be tested for admission into an accelerated learning program, and so I'm very proud of her, and hope that she will be given this opportunity, as I think she needs to be challenged.

So all of these changes and happenings have impacted my writing a bit... mainly, it's just been hard to do any!  When I started blogging again, I promised myself I would stick with it this time, so I decided to make sure I'd update today, and then I realized that even with everything going on, I couldn't think of a really good blog topic for this week.

But luckily, this little gem emerged from the dark recesses of my foggy memory, where it was nearly lost forever:

I was chatting with my students this week about my upcoming wedding.  They all know about it and talk about it and some of them seem just as excited about it as I am.  One little girl asked me how my fiancé had proposed, and so I began relaying the story to her. 

(For those of you who've never heard the whole thing, I'll save it for another post).

In a nutshell, it was shortly after Valentines Day, and I had bought Rashieme an Xbox 360, and was eager to exchange gifts.  He had the ring with him, but wasn't ready to pop the question yet, so when I presented him with his present and asked him what he'd bought me, he froze.  When he remained silent, I assumed he hadn't gotten me anything.

I was at this point in the story with my student and was explaining, "So I started yelling at him, getting really upset, going off and screaming--"

At which point she interrupted me and said, "Oh!  Like you do with us all the time?"

And all I could do in response was laugh.

Hashtag--I'm really not that bad of a teacher?

An Age Old Question Addressed...

Do Blondes Really Have More Fun?

So I got my hair done this weekend!

I was way overdue for a trim and some color.  Like, to the point that my roots were something ridiculous.  But last time I got my hair done, my stylist Margaret put in highlights and lowlights, so as it grew out, I told myself that maybe that hombre look was still in, and went on my merry business, because with the winter I had, neither time nor extra finances came easily.

But with our wedding fast approaching, I had decided that I needed to make sure of what I wanted before the big day.  I was pretty confident that I'd prefer to get married as the more natural brunette version of myself.  But blonde and I go way back, too.  I was a blonde as a kid.  I was a blonde when Shieme met me.  I was a blonde when we began dating.  So yesterday, I went pretty blonde:

 

*Photo credit to Margaret Lazaro of Cutting Edge Designs in Delmar, Delaware.  If you're in the area, please go check them out!  Not only do they have amazing stylists such as Margaret, they offer extremely competitive, reasonable prices on all services, including tanning!  (If you go check them out, please mention me--Jenny Meister--and let me know you listed me as a referral, because I can earn goodies such as free tanning and reduced prices on salon services!  Then you can refer your friends and earn free stuff, too!)

 

By the way, please don't judge the "Before" picture too harshly.  While I'm as guilty (if not guiltier) as the next girl of a few bad hair days, this picture was taken directly after a rather intense running workout, and my natural curls had been rocking a pony tail that morning.  :)

So I love the blonde, but I'm glad I did it now, in celebration of summer.  When I go in again just before our wedding, I'll ask for highlights and lowlights that look more subtle with my natural light brown color, as opposed to a root touch up on this Barbie look.  While I think it's very pretty, I feel like my signature look in my thirties should be to rock a more natural looking hair style.  Plus, my headpiece for my veil is a beautiful pearl design that will stand out better if it contrasts with brown, as opposed to blends in with blonde.

Still, I adore the color and am very blessed to have found a hair stylist who can give me what I want no matter what I ask for.  For this point in my life though, I've decided that,

1) Blondes don't really have more fun.  People who want to have fun, have fun.
2) Blondes aren't any dumber than anybody else.  The ditzy blonde actually comes in all hair colors.  You only need about a ten minute interaction with general humanity to figure this one out.

I've been playing with hair color for years, because, well... why not?  It's fun.  It's amazing how much you can change your look with a good cut and color.  Every time I visit Margaret, I come back refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to take on the world.  With a good cut and color, a confident woman could single handedly take over whatever she felt like!  Here was Shieme's reaction:

Shieme: "You look like a cougar."
Me:  "I do??"
Kaliah:  "No she doesn't."
Shieme:  "She doesn't know what a cougar is."  (To which I thought, well, I'd hope not!)
Me:  "So I look older?"
Shieme:  "Older and richer.  Kaliah, doesn't Mommy look like she has money?  Like, a few hundred dollar bills in her purse? You look like you left to go to the bank, and came back after you bought the bank!"

So I may not own a million bucks, but at least I feel like I do!

Mad props to all the hair stylists out there that make their clients feel like a million dollars!

Never Underestimate the Power of Stupid

In the name of love (or pride, or a desire to not lose, or any other number of things), people can do some pretty stupid stuff. 

Case in point:  Yesterday, my family and I were spending some quality time at Martinak State Park, a lovely wooded area resting on the Choptank River, where Rashieme and I plan on getting married this summer.  This quiet state park features trees and shade and sunshine and trails and, to my daughter's delight, several playgrounds.  We were checking out each one as we had spent the day with Shieme's mom and were now just a few hours away from a meeting with a local restaurant owner, whose establishment we were checking out as a possible venue for a reception location.  Knowing we were having this meeting, I had opted to wear a sundress and cloth slip-on flats.

Being that I was dressed up, I opted out of Rashieme and Kaliah's game of tag at the first playground, which began with hysterical laughter and blissful joy and then eventually ended in tears because, much like her mommy, Kaliah does not like to lose.  We ventured on to the second playground which featured a tall spiral slide that looked promising, but unfortunately was not all that slippery, and Kaliah slid down with a dismal look on her face that made it clear that she'd rather be practicing fractions.  So off we went to the third location, where we discovered a completely in-tact piece of playground equipment that featured several different entrances/exits:  slides, monkey-bar style extensions, a rock climbing wall, etc.

Kaliah immediately came up with the idea of an obstacle course.  She explained that we would have to each take a turn using each of the "exits" and whoever could successful exit all avenues of the equipment the fastest would be declared the winner.  I certainly wasn't dressed for it, but what can I say?  One should never underestimate the power of stupid.  I'd like to claim that I did it out of my love for my child and desire to bond with her and spend quality time making memories.

But the truth is, I probably just wanted to win.

For those of you who don't know me, I am stupid competitive.

So her daddy yelled go, and off we went.  On the very first small slide, I struggled to keep my skirt covering everything it should cover, then scrambled back to the steps of the main entrance to navigate the next exit.  Despite my shaky start, Kaliah and I were neck and neck.  My long legs worked to my advantage, as did my height, when it came to jumping from certain points instead of climbing down.

We were maybe two minutes in, both running out of breath, both laughing and scampering about, and I was down to one remaining obstacle.  But first I had to re-enter the equipment.  Seeing that my daughter was already on the main entrance, (the steps), and deciding to go around her and cut in front of her, I opted to climb a short slide instead of race around, putting myself behind her.  As I jumped on the slide and began striding upwards, I immediately realized the error of my ways, as my cloth shoes had absolutely no traction and I began slipping back down, like a surfer skimming a wave.  I tried to stop the momentum, but somehow my legs got tangled up and I went sailing over backwards, falling with a resounding thud, as I crashed down on my legs, back, and shoulder, head clunking down into the stupid wood shavings that always line these kinds of play ground.

"Alright, you're done," Daddy the referee announced, shaking his head as he strode over to help me up.  Meanwhile Kaliah was shrieking in amazement and I was laughing so hard I was almost crying.  Rashieme pulled me to my feet, and both of them went to work brushing the wood chips from my sweater, dress, and hair.

"We've got a meeting in an hour.  'What happened to her?' 'Playground accident?'" Rashieme demanded, rolling his eyes.

"But I was doing so good," I protested.  "I think I was winning."

Clearly, I wasn't.  Not after the Cloth-Shoe-Sliding-Board-Fall.

Lesson Learned:  When you're trying to beat the pants off your kid at some outdoor activity, wear sneakers.

And maybe a helmet.

And something other than a dress with granny panties underneath.

For the record, Rashieme and Kaliah went next.  With the aid of sneakers and pants (as opposed to a skirt), Rashieme beat her by a landslide.  He didn't even need the helmet.

Please Pardon My Brief Absence...

So it's been a little over the week that normally goes by in between my obligatory blog posts, but I have a decent excuse:

EASTER!

Well, and the exhaustive daily events leading up to this joyous celebration.

My family and I had a beautiful Easter, and I pray that you did, as well.  We attended an awesome Easter service at our church home, Oak Ridge Baptist, where we were blessed with an inspiring abundance of visitors, tons of people getting baptized, and many first-time decisions for Christ.  It was a humbling experience, a day full of celebration.

We continued the good times at my mother's house, where she prepared a delicious meal for my family.  Kaliah got to dye eggs with my brother's girlfriend's kids, and it was really cool that after being the only child in the family for so long, she finally had somebody else to play with.  (Rashieme enjoyed it too.  An epic game of freeze tag may or may not have went down, in which I discovered I'm quite possibly NOT the fastest person in the family, in spite all of the miles I try to cram into each month).

So the holiday was about our Savior and time together as a family.  Mommom offered to take Kaliah for a few days, so Shieme and I can get some grown-up time in.  I'm hoping we'll get a chance to do a little wedding planning and a lot of relaxing.  I'm also going to have to squeeze in several errands of a boring nature, so I feel very blessed to have off this entire week from work.

But I know you guys don't stop on over just to hear the mundane details of my routine.  You're looking for funny.  So try this on for size:

'Twas the night before Easter, and I was freaking exhausted.

I'd just worked a shift at the Cottage.  It wasn't even really busy, but I'm not getting any younger, and it HAD been super slammed the night before, which I had also worked.  I got home just a little after Kaliah's bedtime, so since she woke as I entered the house, I had to run in and give her a quick kiss and a belated Bible story.  I headed back into the living room and collapsed onto our recliner, with the intention of waiting for her to venture off into total slumber before I began filling her Easter basket.  I even went so far as to ask Rashieme where the basket was, as earlier that day Kaliah had tried to fill it with dirt and leaves to create a nest for a robin's egg I found for her-- that's another story that ultimately ended in tragedy, so we'll save that one for another day).  He located the basket for me, and I promptly fell asleep in the chair, drooling and protesting that I was still awake as Rashieme tried to force me off to bed.

So naturally, I totally forgot to play the Easter Bunny.

I forgot until Kaliah was standing over me Easter morning, demanding, "Where's the candy?"

"Umm... the Easter Bunny must be running late," I muttered, kicking myself for having dropped the ball.

"I think you're the Easter Bunny," Kaliah responded.

"No, no.  You don't believe in the Easter Bunny, you don't get candy," I warned her.  "I'm sure he's just running late.  Go take a bath!  Maybe he didn't come because you're too dirty."

"What?  That's--"

"Go take a bath!"

So as she reluctantly headed off to the tub, I went racing outside in my robe and sneakers, hauling in the crap I'd bought and not brought in the night before, jamming Easter grass and jelly beans and chocolate eggs and rabbits haphazardly in the Easter basket, just managing to fling the last of the packaging materials into the garbage as Kaliah emerged from what has GOT to be the world's quickest bath.

"Why do you have Easter grass in your hands?"

"The Easter bunny left a mess!  Look, he came and went while you were in the bath tub.  How about that?"

If she hadn't quite stopped believing, I'm pretty sure that yesterday I effectively ended any remaining confidence she held in the Easter bunny's existence... but hey, what mattered to her the most was the candy.  I was immediately forgiven for any crimes I may or may not have committed as she dug into her goods.  Soon, it was time for the next battle:

The wearing of the Easter Dress.

And such are the holidays, and such is life:  a series of battles, big and small, a journey of mistakes and apologies, mountain peeks and valley lows.  Smiles and laughter, tears of joy and sorrow.  Thanks, dear readers, for checking in.  May you never forget to play the Easter Bunny, and may the peace of the Savior comfort you, no matter what your highs or lows may be in this supremely special existence.

Happy Easter!

Conversations with Kaliah...

So I've been considering going back to school to get my doctorate... a decision that's been weighing heavily on my mind.  Rashieme and I have discussed it extensively, but as nothing's certain yet, there was no real reason to address the subject with Kaliah.

It's not like we've been hiding it from her--there's just really nothing to discuss with her, yet, since we don't know exactly what's going to happen.  Or how it will effect her.  But on Saturday, after I'd spent four plus hours of a beautiful day trudging through the GRE exam, Rashieme and I were once again chatting about the future on the car ride home.  This time, though, Kaliah happened to be paying attention.

"What are you talking about, Mom?" she asked.

"I'm considering going back to college."

"Then who will be my mom?"

Pause.

"I will be your mom, Kaliah."

It took me a moment to understand her concerns, to which I responded that I wasn't going away to college, but rather, that I would be driving back and forth to classes each day, if I even decided to go.

She considered this, then shrugged.

"I would have been happy with Miss WizB," she replied indifferently.

(Miss WizB is Kaliah's godmother.  Apparently, she's a lot cooler than me.  Also, she has a pool).

Just in case I didn't realize how uncool I was, Kaliah reminded me again tonight on the way to her science fair.  I jokingly teased her that she was very lucky to have such cool parents.  To which she responded, "Um, not really.  You're not with it."

"Not with it?" I asked incredulously.

"You're not with it, Mom," she corrected herself.  Apparently, her father is still "with it."

"I'm not with it?" I demanded.

I could start ranting about when "it" changed, and who changed it anyway, but maybe I was never really with it.  After all, I've always preferred reading to movies.  I've seen every single episode of Grey's Anatomy and could get into a heated discussion with anyone who cares about why I'm super excited that Burke is coming back.  I run ridiculous amounts of miles without anything chasing me, for what Rashieme would tell you is for no apparent reason.  There was a small part of me that actually enjoyed taking the GRE--especially the pressure that came with watching the timer in the corner tick down as I faced increasingly difficult reading passages.

I was nerdy before Napoleon Dynamite made it cool.  And the kids in my classroom don't even know who that is anymore, which just goes to further confirm how uncool I've become.

Such is life.  I think I'll keep my uncool mom status and see just how far I can take it while still maintaining some shred of dignity.  There's a part of me that could definitely take the rollers-in-the-hair, bathrobe-around-the-house style to the next level.

And since apparently I'm completely replaceable by the cooler, hipper Miss WizB, what have I got to lose?

 

Kaliah:  "You're so not with it, Mom."

Some Kaliahisms to Get You Over the Hump...

Well, Hump Day is upon us, as are several inches of snow here in Slower Lower Delaware.  Again.

I have no flip or humorous comments to offer concerning the weather.  I have decided, though, that Old Man Winter is much more to blame for this than is Mother Nature.  Men are much more stubborn, and this is The Winter That Never Ends, apparently.

So, what to do when you are snowed in for the four BILLIONTH time with your child or your children?

Treasure them for the joy that they are, of course.

It's either that, or, you know, allow them to slowly but surely drive you insane.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

I am blessed to have an amazing daughter.  Still, sometimes the things that come out of her innocent mouth are quite ridiculous. So on a snowy spring day with not much else to do, I present, for your entertainment:

Kaliahisms.

Actual sayings by our eight-going-on-nine-year-old daughter, Kaliah.

1.  My favorite so far this year:  "It only takes one person to mind the business."  I can't remember the exact context of this quote, but she said it shortly after New Year's and Rashieme and I bring it up frequently.  And true:  if the whole world had Kaliah's attitude, how much more peaceful would planet Earth be?

2.  While cooking breakfast for Rashieme:  "These are going to be the best eggs Dad's ever tasted.  Except for the ones he makes.  They're way better."  Hash tag, Chef Problems.  At least we tried.

3.  After Kaliah finally admitted to forgetting about a cup of apple juice that the cat consequently knocked over:
     Me:  "All you had to do was say, I'm sorry, Mom.  I forgot."
     Rashieme:  "Yeah.  Instead of making a bunch of excuses."  Looks my way. (Guilty as charged, 
     by the way and FYI).  "Wonder who she  gets that from?"
     Kaliah:  "From you, Dad.  You just gave an excuse."
     Rashieme:  "No, I didn't.  Kaliah, do you even know what an excuse is?  Or are you just talking?"
     Me:  "Wonder who she gets that from."

4.  "That dumb cat is so smart!"

5.  Accompanied by the picture below and followed by evil laughter:  "This is the perfect snowball.  It's glorious!"

 

Happy Hump Day, Er'rybody! Don't worry, warmer days are coming!  (Aren't they?  I mean, like, don't they have to be?)

Dog Days of What Felt Like The Never-Ending-Winter

This is my dog, Sue Yung.

She is guilty of many offenses.  The most recent one being that, last night, whilst I was asleep, with the bedroom door wide open and mere steps away from where Rashieme was still awake playing video games in the living room, Sue Yung sternly approached my bed and "Arfed," in the discreet but serious way that meant I had better get up in the middle of the night before she peed in my bedroom.

She is going on to be nine years old in the near future.  She was my first child, in a way, because in the brilliance of the third trimester of my pregnancy, I decided it was the perfect time to add a furry friend to our family.  That didn't work out so well.  Sue Yung ended up staying with my mother for several years, but now, Rashieme and I have been awarded sole custody.

Mainly because she has a bad habit of lazily standing or laying exactly where she shouldn't, which isn't exactly convenient in Mom and Mommom's househould, primarily because Mommom now uses a walker which Sue Yung has been known to attack from time to time.  The snarling and snapping usually occurs when the walker intrudes on her personal standing or snoozing space, which, again, is always in a convenient location, such as in the middle of a narrow hallway, or blocking the only bathroom door, or perhaps directly in front of the stove or refrigerator at meal time.

Sue Yung is a Lhasa Apso Shitzu mix.

Rashieme claims she is "A Dog."

Sue Yung was named by Rashieme after the female character who gets kidnapped in the Rush Hour movies.  I don't know why, but sometimes I do wish Sue Yung would get kidnapped.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

So we are a very diverse family.  Rashieme is African-American, I am white, our daughter is bi-racial, and, apparently, our dog is Chinese.

We also own a smaller dog, Diva, who is, in a word, Terrified.

She is the sweetest, most timid, eager-to-please creature I have ever met.  She is spoiled rotten and well-trained.

But she walks around with a perpetual look of Terror on her face.

Also, as pictured below, she was involved in a torrid romance with Kasey, and it seemed not to matter to either of them that both are girls and Kasey is, in fact, a cat.

 

 

So this post was all about my pets.  Those of you who know me know that I am really not a pet person these days.  I love them, don't get me wrong, but in mothering and housekeeping and working and all the other -ings of my days, they just don't take a top priority in my life.

Luckily, Kaliah is the most compassionate, animal-loving, constantly pet-tending child there could ever be.  She still wants to be a veterinarian or an animal rescuer when she grows up (though I'm hoping, eventually, she'll move more towards, you know, doctor.  Or lawyer.).

Of course, her manners of tending and attention sometimes result in the animals flocking to Rashieme and I to be rescued from her loving care... but her intentions are good, I assure you.

So here's to the household pets that love us, adore us, amuse us, and befriend us.  Who on the frigid days of winter cuddle up to warm us.  Who on the dog days of summer lie inspiringly motionless, sprawled out across the living room floor.

They are sparkles of light in my life, though I'm not a particularly passionate pet owner.  I enjoy those quiet moments of contentment sitting with or coddling my furry friends, infrequent as they may be.  I recognize the difference they make in my household, and am happy that I can provide them with a home in which they are adored by my daughter.

And slightly more than tolerated by me.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

New, Raw and Uncut: A True Tale of Everyday Crazy

This is going to sound like fiction...

Warning:  This story contains an image of my father in a pink bath towel.  Don't worry, it is rated PG-13.  No full nudity occurs.

Rule Number One:  Don’t Wake Mom

(Unless the House is on Fire)

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the time I nearly burned down the house.  I was ten years old.  The incident involved a cinnamon flavored pop-tart, an aging toaster, and my sleep-deprived mother. 

            Mom had trained us never to wake her.  She worked the night shift at a nursing home, see, and came home around seven in the morning.  Rule number one growing up in our house was always Don’t Wake Mom.  Not only did she stumble home red-eyed and exhausted from an evening of taking care of the elderly, but on the rare occasions I found need to wake her, it was a terrifying experience.  She would always stare vacantly at us for a moment or two before something in her eyes would change and she would gasp, grab a hold of our arms, or sometimes even give a little shriek.  Not how you want to start your mama’s day, trust me.

            So as I stared at the thick cloud of black smoke puffing up from the malfunctioning toaster, I actually froze, considering:  Do I wake mom up for this?

            I’m sure that with the entire home in jeopardy, some of you are wondering why I would have even paused.  All I can say in my defense is that I was pretty sure she might kill me.  After all, I had actually set the house on fire.  All I had wanted was a cinnamon pop tart, and I’d realized something was wrong when the minute and a half needed to toast the thing had passed, with no springing sound of the pop tart ejecting.  Clearly, the toaster was eating my pop tart for me.  Was this worth waking mom for?  Yes.  Was I going to get out of this without getting in trouble?  Hard to say.

            I tiptoed to her bedroom, wanting to break the news to her as gently as possible.  I lightly pushed on the bedroom door, taking a deep breath.

            “Mom,” I called in a hushed whisper.  “Mom…”

            Nothing.  I hesitated.  “Mom,” I managed in a slightly louder voice.  “Mom… the toaster is smoking a little bit,” I was downplaying the amount of smoke, hoping that by giving her a less dramatic version of what was happening, I might lessen my punishment.

            Mom stirred under her covers but didn’t open her eyes or respond.  I frowned, hovering in the doorway.  This was not good.

            Quickly, I ran lightly down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the kitchen.  My mouth dropped as I took in the scene in front of me.  The heavy black smoke poured upwards, the pop tart a smoldering black mass of goo bubbling over the toaster.  Orange flames shot up and licked the bottom of our cabinets.

            I raced back down the hallway, flying into Mom’s bedroom and grabbing her by the shoulder.

            “Mom,” I began urgently, “Mom… the toaster’s smoking a lot!”

            She mumbled something unintelligible, attempting to roll back over.

            “Mom!”  I screamed, panic taking over.  “Mom, the toaster is on FIRE!”

            At this, with one fluid motion, she shot out of bed, threw back the covers and went sprinting down the hallway.  As I followed behind, I heard, “OH MY GOD!”

            She raced back by me as I cowered in the living room, entranced by the toaster fire blazing away in the next room. 

            What happened after that has been burned into my memory, a hilarious image that will stay with me all of my life:

            “JOHN!” I heard my mother’s panicked squawk, followed by a muffled, urgent conversation hidden from my ears as it was covered by the bathroom door banging open and the hissing sound of my father’s interrupted shower.

            The next thing I knew, my father came exploding down the hallway, a tiny pink bath towel wrapped around his waist, barely (but thankfully, completely) covering everything one hoped would be covered.  Legs pumping like an NFL player’s, he rounded the corner, skidded across the kitchen to the toaster, and as I watched fascinated, he grasped the toaster and its cord out of the wall with one hand, hurling it into the sink and jerking on the faucet to extinguish the flames, all the while using his other hand to continue to keep his towel wrapped around his waist.

            And just that quick, it was over.

            I learned a lot that day (besides the obvious—that you always wake up an adult if the house is on fire).  I learned that I could depend on my family.  I learned that honesty is always the best policy, that I could tell my mother anything.  She was angry and amused that I was afraid to wake her, given the situation.  She also decided that other than a mild chastising, no other punishment was in order, considering the trauma I had just experienced in nearly burning down the house.  But what I realized from that day forth is that no matter what, my mother would be there for me.

            And thankfully, in every other subsequent mess I ever got myself into, the solution never again included my nearly naked father in a pink bath towel.

I am From...

A good one for #ThrowbackThursday...

My "I Am From" Poem.

Composed on my last birthday.

Originally shared as a note on Facebook, 8/30/13.


Inspired by readings from Ms. Kim Patrick's Young Writers' Open Mic, and dedicated to all the people who have made me into who I am...

I am from golden days spent wiggling toes in sun baked sand, and the taste of salt that lingers after reluctantly saying farewell to the sparkling waves, dragging boogie boards and plastic buckets the half mile trek away from the beckoning Atlantic.
I am from Daddy's big laugh as he thrust me high above his head to do Super Girl, flashes of pine trees whirling by above us.
I am from "If I wanted to build my house in a field, I would have built it in a field!" accompanied by a satisfied nod when Mommom complained to him about those pines.
I am from the comfort of cherry flavored tobacco, snuggled up in my Poppop's generous lap--the warmest, safest place to lay one's head at Mommom's house.
I am from "Welcome to the Family of the People Who Love the Lord" sung by warbling, honest voices in the tiny Baptist church on Rt. 54, and the tears that stung as a teenager as I tried to form those words, not understanding why I cried.
I am from "If you want to be baptized, you have to be nicer to your brother."
I am from elaborate hand-stitched Halloween costumes and my mother's smiles, crispy bacon and hot scrapple on a Saturday morning, cartoons blaring in the background from one of the three lonely channels the satellite provided.
I am from Friday nights under the lights and round-off, toe touch, cheer!  Green and Gold and the swelling victorious instruments blasting out "Da-da-da-da-da, hey!" beneath starry October skies.
I am from the love of my life staring at me in a high school chorus class, tossing my music on the floor or playfully touching my side, my shoulder.... tingles that brought back smiles hours and years later.
I am from dreams of getting off the Eastern Shore, palm trees of North Florida swaying under cloudless blue skies and college life with my best friend, who went 800 miles away with me after forming a playground friendship by the sliding boards in second grade.  I am from going back to where you came from, and so is she.
I am from a bustling, vibrant, welcoming church, filled with thousands of people who love Jesus and each other.  A church that grows and changes and laughs, while staying true to the scriptures.
I am from "Thank You," as my love's beautiful brown eyes fall on me in the hospital bed, our little Rose cradled contently in his arms.
I am from "She won't look like this when we see her again," and his hand on my shoulder as we hold our youngest in the oh-so-soft blanket--the only thing I will ever buy for her.
I am from never look back, or they'll see you as weak, and the thudding of sneakers on pavement as my eyes search for the finish line.
I am from rejection after rejection, sprinkled with glimmers of hope from agents who praise my writing ability, gently admitting my novel is not quite right for them.
I am from all eyes on me at open mics, and laughter and tears and comments that urge me to sit down and begin typing again.
I am from Dr. Puma's barely legible "I expect to see your name in print some day" scrawled across the bottom of my final memoir turned in for Non-fiction class.
I am from believing.

A Man By Any Other Name...

Is still your man.  But if your dad doesn't know his name...

Read on to find out what happens.

 

What’s In a Name?

            My dad was a great man.  He was a skilled carpenter who built his own house from the ground up.  He was an active father, cheering on all of his kids in their various sporting endeavors.  He was known to be the center of attention at the bars he frequented even into his sixties—he had one of those big, booming laughs that filled a room and made you wonder what kind of story he was telling… because he was also the kind of guy who laughed loudly at his own stories.

            For all the things he was great at… one thing he never did too well with was names.

            It didn’t take me too long to learn this.  The earliest example I can remember, and the most frequently recurring one, had to do with our neighbors, the Criswells.  I don’t know if there ever was a time that Dad actually knew their last name.  I believe he moved into our home around the time those Chevy Chase movies featuring the Griswalds started coming out, and I’d venture to say that if Dad happened to see the Griswald family on the big screen before he met the Criswells, it was highly unlikely he ever learned their actual names.  Maybe, if he met them before the Chevy Chase movies, maybe for a short time, he got it right.  I wasn’t around then, so I can’t say.  But what I can testify to, is that at any time growing up when my father mentioned the neighbors, always referring to them as “The Griswalds,” he was immediately chastised by my mother who would throw up her hands, roll her eyes, and scream, “CRISWELLS, John!  Criswells, not Griswalds!  We’ve lived next to them for twenty years!”

            This injustice, at least, was mainly done behind the neighbors’ backs, as I doubt my father ever found occasion to address them by their last name.  With my girlfriends, the humiliation was much more uncomfortable, as my dad routinely addressed them by the wrong names.  Pre-adolescent and teenage girls are embarrassed easily and self-conscious enough when no one in the room is paying the slightest bit of attention to them, so imagine throwing into the picture a boisterous, well-meaning, terribly loud, and completely unintentional and oblivious father into the situation, who, for the life of him, could not get the names of these girls straight!  While my girlfriend’s faces demonstrated that they were praying that they would melt down into the carpet and dissolve in order to escape, my father would continue jabbering on cheerfully, calling them by the wrong names every time the chance presented itself.

            He was especially bad concerning two of my best friends who, understandably, shared some physical traits.  Lindsay and Elizabeth (who went by the unusual nickname WizB) were both fair and petite.  And since Lindsay and WizB sounded similar, in my father’s brain, I’m not sure their names ever stood a chance.  Dad frequently mixed them up, calling Lindsay WizB, yelling for Lindsay when he meant WizB.  Eventually, his mind seemed to settle on one interchangeable term for both of them—he dubbed them both LizB and was done with the whole thing.  Efforts to correct him were futile, and, eventually, we gave up.

            The worst, however, was yet to come.  When I got into a serious relationship with a man named Rashieme, I knew that this name was going to be the biggest challenge yet for Dad to master.  When Rashieme and I found out we were having a baby, I was more determined than ever to make sure that this time, whatever the cost or humiliation, Dad learned Rashieme’s name.

            “Dad,” I said, sitting down with him one day.  “It’s really important to me that you learn Rashieme’s name.”

            “Machine?” Dad asked, scrunching his brow and glancing at me questioningly.  This was not the first time we’d had this conversation. 

            “Rashieme, Dad,” I said patiently.  “We’ve been together for several years.  We’re getting married.  We’re having a baby together.  As the father of your grandchild, I think it would be really great if, you know, you learned his name.”

            Dad paused as though he were in deep thought.  “Well,” he began finally.  “It ain’t like he’s got an easy name, like Tom, or Bill.”

            “Be that as it may,” I continued, “I would like for you to try.  Rashieme.”

            “Rashieme?”

            “Yes.  Rashieme.”

            Dad nodded as though the matter were settled.

            However, a couple weeks later, I got another first-hand lesson that proved to me that try you may, try you might, there are no guarantees when it comes to my Dad.  Upon my request, Dad was moving my childhood desk into our apartment.  He and his girlfriend showed up, rang the bell.  Dad greeted Rashieme with a smile, but, I noticed, made no effort to greet him by name.  I was actually a bit relieved, figuring Dad would wait for me to say his name aloud to refresh his memory before attempting to address my beloved.

            The visit was brief but friendly.  Dad and Rashieme moved the desk in, positioned it per my instructions, and then the four of us stood around chit-chatting for a bit before Dad informed me that he and his girlfriend had lunch plans and were about to head out.  I nodded, giving him a hug and a kiss.  Dad then turned his attention to Rashieme, gave him a grin and a congenial wave, before belting out, to my horror, “See ya later, Darnell!”

            Rashieme froze, smile plastered on his face, managing to wave back at my dad and watch the apartment door slam behind him.  It was only then when he turned to me, smile still on his face, and demanded, “Who the *insert explitive here* is Darnell?”

            After repeatedly assuring Rashieme that I didn’t even know a Darnell and had certainly never mentioned one to my Dad, and embarrassingly confessing that it was probably the only “black” name Dad could remember on the spot, my honey rolled his eyes and accepted my profuse apologies before getting ready for work.

            When I later confronted my father regarding this major disaster, he shrugged, and returned back to the “Not an Easy Name” defense.  You’ll be happy to know that by the time our child was born, Dad had managed to learn Rashieme’s name.

            He even learned his granddaughter’s—another “difficult” name—Kaliah.

            Now that my father is no longer here to mess up the names of my friends, the memories that used to annoy me now only bring a bittersweet smile.

            He took the time to learn Rashieme’s name, something that most of us would take for granted as a simple task.  And for many, maybe it would be.

            But how simple is it, also, to tell the people we love, quirky habits and all, that we love them?

            Just as easy, I’d presume, yet some of us let it go day by day, taking for granted that we’ll get another day to say the words or demonstrate our love.

            Inevitably, if you live long enough, you’ll lose someone that will make it clear for you that tomorrows aren’t promised, and what you have to say today, you might as well say it now.

            And while you’re at it, if you’re a dad… take the time to learn the names of your daughter’s friends.  And especially her boyfriend.  Trust me, she’ll appreciate it.