The Mom Report Card.

"We gon' be alright." 

- Kendrick Lamar

Some days? Man. I feel like the worst mom ever. 

Wait.

That might come across more dramatic than I intended. I mean, obviously not the actual worst in the history of crappy moms. Like, not as bad as that woman I recall seeing on some photo on-line who was taking some really inappropriate selfie snapshots in her bathroom mirror clad in pretty much nothing. . . .  but neglected to note the reflection of her infant child sitting on the tile floor behind her-- in what appeared to be a very full diaper.

Yeah. So maybe not the worst.

But seriously though? There are some days that I just feel like I'm flying on one wing as a mother. And as if my shortcomings will ultimately lead to the same unfortunate demise of a plane trying to operate with only one wing.

Yeah.

Okay, so honestly? Most days, I don't feel this way. But man. When I do? I like really do. I'll be doing something like hurrying to get the kids somewhere. And then my poor planning mixed with their lack of urgency explodes into me barking orders and eventually just setting the house alarm forcing them out of the house. Sometimes holding socks and shoes in their hands. Okay, a lot of times even.

See? I told you it wasn't pretty.

So then we get in the car and someone says a smart ass comment. Or declares that they forgot something quasi-essential to their future success as a student and it becomes abundantly clear that, given our tardiness already, that they'll just be shit out of luck for the day. And I find myself communicating all of this to my kids minus the word "shit" but with enough surly snark to count just as much as the aforementioned expletive.

Yeah. So that's how it goes on some days. And without fail, when the last kid is dropped off, my shoulders slump and I let out a big, defeated sigh. Followed by saying (many times out loud): "You so suck." Then, like always, I start running down my grades on my Mom progress report determining that I just might be at risk for academic mom probation.

Case in point:

Breakfast: Wait. You didn't eat breakfast? Shit. I thought you popped down a waffle, dude. Ugh.

Lunch: Not organic. At least one item with too much sugar.  Or conversely something so healthy that my kid won't eat it at all.

House: Lived in looking. Not hotel neat. Unless somebody other than mom does the clean up job.

Laundry: In dire need of doing. With simultaneous need for done things to be folded. Or moved from the couch after being half folded. Or just so badly in need of doing that everyone is to the point of beach towels being used for regular Tuesday evening showers. Eek.

Homework: Asked about but not confirmed on school website that day. So hoping it's exactly what the kid said it is. A form needs to be signed that I did sign but we left on the kitchen table after I kicked everyone out with the house alarm.

Dinner: You asked for breakfast for dinner. And I said yes. Twice in one week.

Night time reading: Me listening to Audible and you reading whatever I told you to read. Then you bargaining video game time with reading time. And eventually you listening to my Audible book with me, even if an occasional F-bomb is in it.

And so on.

So I go through all of this until I come up with a Mom grade point average which, on days like this, is not EVEN passing. Like, at all. Nope.

So yeah. A few weeks ago that's how I was feeling. Like the mom on mom-probation for poor performance in several subjects.

Yup.

So when this happens, I do my best to chuck myself under the chin. I say stuff to myself like, "They know they are loved. It will all balance out in the end." Then I close my eyes and imagine them slapping knees and laughing as grown up men about how their mom used to flip on the alarm and force them out of the front door in 60 seconds or less. But in the most loving way, of course.

Ha.

I'm not a perfect mom by a long shot. I'm not. And while I do think that I do a great job of loving my children and letting them know how much I love being their mom, on my beat-myself-up days, I tell myself that the best moms do that and feed their kids gluten-free, grass-fed, cage-free, organic food dinners and set timers for video game time. They plan camps like 5 years in advance for the summer instead of 5 days and they don't throw their kids out of the front door under the duress of a beeping ADT alarm. See, man. Those great mamas do all of this. 

And then they do some hot yoga after all of that.

I was exceptionally sucky the other day. I'd made the mistake of starting "Born a Crime" by Trevor Noah on Audible while walking Willow one morning. Oh my goodness. . . the combination of his witty candor and that mesmerizing South African accent of his drew me all the way in. Like. . . . all the way in, man.

Sigh.

My kids would be asking me stuff and I'd yank out one ear bud, raise an eyebrow and try my best not to look impatient. But since my kids know how I get when I get into a crack-equivalent Audible narration that this is just par for the course. Mom will do 90% of everything with iPhone earbuds in until finally that creepy music pipes in that says, "This has been a production of Audible."

I even set the house alarm while listening to Trevor Noah this morning. "You got 60 seconds, dudes. Chop chop," I said. I wish I could say that wasn't true. See? Those really good moms would never do something like that. The only person who gets a mom upgrade when I'm on an Audible binge is Willow because he almost always can count on a longer walk. Otherwise everyone else? Not so much. Ha.

Anywho.

I am really just rambling mostly about how this motherhood thing isn't for sissies, man. It's no joke. Especially when you intermittently suck as a mom.

Ha.

Now. Before you go worrying about me, know that I generally think well of myself. And though my marks in the mom class are not always passing, I have an extensive history of figuring out how to round out my grade in the end. So I'm hoping big time that this is what happens with these two little dudes living under this roof with the BHE and me.

Which reminds me of something else that happened recently. Like to hear it? Here it go.

So check it: A few months ago, I was in one of my mom-probation slumps. While I wasn't Audible binging or Netflix binging, I was busy with work and generally ready for the kids to be out of school. Most of my head butting was with Isaiah and somehow it almost always went down when it was just us two in the car. He's now twelve and growing smarter and smarter by the year. But not just smart. Smart and a smart-ass at the same time.

Now.

Because this kid has always been an old soul with a cantankerous streak like an old man in a barber shop, he likes to push my buttons. Questions things that are generally worth questioning but does so at the most inopportune times. Furthermore, he calls me out on things that are 100% true which, when I'm running late or already feeling a bit low, I could do without.

Ugggh.

So on this one day, Isaiah began pointing out that I need to work on not being distracted behind the wheel. Then he started talking about how just because I'm not texting doesn't mean I'm not distracted. And since he's like an old man, I come right back at him like he's not even a kid. Or rather, like I'm not even an adult. Yeah. More like that. It's pretty funny, actually.

"Mom. Checking your eyelash make up stuff at a red light is still a distraction."

"It's called mascara."

"Well checking it makes people honk at you. That guy was honking because you needed to go."

"I did go."

"Once he honked."

"Horn honking is rude, man. Where I'm from? You don't go honking your horn for no reason."

"He had a reason. You were looking in that visor mirror checking picking black stuff off your eyelashes. Which looks not so good anyway so I'm not sure why you do it."

"Do me a favor. Let's ride in silence."

"That's not a favor."

"You're killing me."

"I want you not to be looking in the mirror so you won't be killing me."

I scowl in the mirror. He smirks back. And eventually the whole cycle restarts with another surly exchange.  So yeah. This went on for probably the last few weeks of school. And each day we'd bicker about the most unimportant things of all time. Then, I'd ask him a question about something he needed to have done and from there, would end up shifting from petty tween with him to fussing, nagging mom.

Yeah.

After enough days like this, you start feeling like you're dropping the mom ball, man. My sweet baby that wanted to hug and cuddle me was now groaning in my direction and ducking my hugs. I told myself that this was age appropriate although some piece of me had always hoped that tween-age behavior would somehow skip my boys.

So yeah. That was going on and I was feeling tired. Tired of no longer being sweet and awesome mom. I liked being her. Man, I did.

This one day, I pulled into Isaiah's school on two wheels to pick him up at the last minute from after school care. I scurried up the path to the gym and another mom decided she'd chat with me--even though I was clearly in a hurry.

"Did you see the 6th grade art project?"

"Um, no. I need to see it." Another reminder of my poor mom grades. Because clearly she'd seen it.

"You should stop on the way out to see it," she said.

"Uhh. . . yeah, I'll be sure to check it out." I started walking to the door. But she spoke again.

"It's pretty amazing. Especially Isaiah's part. Did he tell you about his part?"

Another 'F' on my record. "I'm trying to remember." Except I wasn't trying to remember. I'd heard him mention the 6th grade art project and how he'd decided what he'd do. I asked if he needed anything and he said no. So that was it.

I did at least know that the project was this giant tapestry made up of tiles drawn by kids in the class. That compliment given of Isaiah's part didn't shock me considering he's a pretty creative dude. But her persistence was a bit off putting. "You should really consider stopping in the main building to see it before you leave today."

That was the last thing she said.

When Isaiah got into the car, I asked him about the project. "What'd you do?" I queried.

And he shrugged a surly twelve year old shrug, yawned and leaned his head against the window.

Grrrr.

I whipped my minivan around and made my way out of the parking lot. That woman imploring me to look at the art display niggled at me. Finally I pulled right next to the door and told Isaiah I wanted to run in to see the project.

"Coming with?" I asked.

"Nah. I'm good," he replied.

And so. I punch in the door code and hustle inside. Immediately I see this big quilt-like thing covering part of the cafeteria wall. It's made up of several squares each drawn by a different pair of hands.

"Oh. Okay, I get it," I said out loud. I said that because the project was a tribute to Influential African American Women in US History. This very liberal parent at my child's very liberal school was encouraging me, a black woman, to revel in this special celebration of sisters lovingly put together by my son's entire grade. Like, urgently.

Well that was nice.

I stood there looking. Lip jutted out and nodding. Ode to black women movers and shakers, huh? Cool. So yeah, I guess it's fair to say it did make my heart feel warm knowing that this activity is what his entire class was working on and thinking about and talking about. And that his school had deemed this the kind of thing worthy of their attention.

Not to mention it wasn't even February, man.

So I'm checking it out. It was an impressively diverse group of women, too. From several eras which was pretty darn awesome. Sojourner Truth. Phillis Wheatley. Michelle Obama. Marian Wright Edelman. Shirley Chisholm. Nikki Giovanni. Simone Biles. Oprah Winfrey. Lena Horne. Barbara Jordan. Debbie Allen. Misty Copeland. Maya Angelou and. . . . wait. . .who?

So there it was. Plain as day. My name. Kimberly Manning. Listed among the Harriet Tubmans and the Ruby Dees. My name. Chosen by my child as his Influential African American Woman in US history.

Wearing a damn superhero cape, no less. Seriously? Seriously.

Yeah, man.

I stood there in silent disbelief for at least two or three minutes. Then I slipped back into my car and started the ignition. Isaiah was now dozing off in the back seat.

"Son?" He opened his eyes and didn't move. His eyebrows went up to let me know he heard me. "Son?"

"Yes, ma'am." His voice was flat, purely obligatory. He knows his mother well enough to recognize that that second "son" meant to open his mouth and answer with words.

"I saw your drawing. For the project. That was amazing." I immediately started to cry.

"Oh my gosh, Mom. Are you seriously crying?"

"Of all the people though. I guess. . .I don't know. . . you picked me?"

He shrugged. "They said for us to pick an Influential African American Woman in US History. So I told my teacher that my mom is a doctor who writes and teaches. And that she's super influential to a lot of people." I just stared through the rear view mirror. Then he added, "Or at least she is to me."

After that, he just let his eyelids fall closed again and didn't say much else. Which was fine with me because I was trying my best not to let him hear me full-on ugly crying while driving the whole way home.

Yeah.

So listen. . . .  there are some days that I feel like a complete mom failure. And definitely in the runner-up finalists for the worst mom ever. But then. . . something happens that makes me feel like I just nailed the final exam and brought my grade all the way back up to a solid A, man.

This? This was one of those times.

Am I a perfect mom? Nope. But if this . . .this is who my kid envisions when he takes out a box of colored pencils to describe his mother and whom he perceives to be an influential black woman? Then I just might pass this Mom class after all.

Maybe even with honors.


Yeah.

***

Image of the Day, January 16: The Dog Gene.

I've always said that some people are born with the "dog gene" and others either acquire it or learn to live in the worlds of those who do. My son Isaiah? He firmly inherited the dog gene.

Yep.

Now. That DNA must have been hidden autosomal recessively coded and unexpressed in his mama--but surely I know of its origin. Isaiah has my brother--that is, his Uncle Will, to thank for that. When we were kids, Will always loved dogs and from as early as I can remember, he expressed his aspiration of becoming a veterinarian. Which is exactly what he did.

I think at some point we had some kind of labrador retriever mix growing up. Mostly I just recall him being not allowed to come into our house. This pretty much shot his chances of really getting integrated into the family or helping the rest of us to acquire Will's dog gene. Or rather expression of it if you want to be all academic about it.

Yup.

On May 6, 2007 we had this big party in our backyard. We'd just moved into this house and had orchestrated this Sunday gathering with all of our friends and family to celebrate 1. Isaiah's second birthday, 2. Zachary's baby dedication, and 3. a quasi-housewarming. And my point of even mentioning this is because that time has always stood out in my head as it relates to Isaiah. He acquired language remarkably early. As we planned that party, I was able to ask him what special things he wanted and that little precocious toddler very clearly expressed exactly what that was:

"I want a Go Diego Go cake. And I want a doggie."

Yep.

He got that Diego cake. The dog? Well. Let's just say we were in denial about his dog gene.

Isaiah would consistently ask for a dog every birthday and Christmas from 2007 forward. And we would try to distract or dissuade him until finally it wasn't working. That's when we evolved to this far away and fantastical age--10--when suddenly the heavens would open up and a canine would fall out of it. Well. That gameplan was fraught with peril since the way time works is that eventually that tenth birthday comes and the chickens come home to roost.

When Isaiah turned 10 last May, I flat out told him that I wasn't ready for a dog. That dogs changed everything and that the responsibility would mostly fall on me. And, of course, he promised and promised that he would walk the dog from here to Six Flags over Georgia if need be but I still stood firm in my position. "I am not sure when I will be ready for this, son. Maybe when you're a teenager? I'm not sure."

His eyes welled up and that was about it. No real, true tears which sort of bothered me. I wasn't sure if it was some sort of Jedi kid trick or if, deep down, he knew that we'd never actually come through after all these years. He also seemed to understand the level of work a dog takes. He shifted his focus to other things and it didn't really come up much after that.

That is, until Harry looked at me one day and said, "We have to get that boy a dog." We were somewhere at someone's home where there was a dog running about. And, in true Isaiah form, he was right there with that dog, playing, petting it, and in hog heaven. He never seems to bore of them and lights up when one is in the room.  When a person has that dog gene with complete penetrance? Man. It's a really hard thing to ignore.

And so. Somewhere around June, we made up our minds to get him a dog. And Harry agreed that he'd give me time to research breeds and to do the nerdy things I do like read books on introducing puppies into homes and how to get your dog not to tear everything up in your house. Which is exactly what I did.

My sister-in-law Fran found him for us. She did the leg work and the research, I think, appreciating how high the stakes were for Isaiah and this dog. A good family dog that sheds minimally and is pretty smart. Not too big or small. Not too yappy or aggressive. And, of course, the veterinarian in her let me know that there was no fool proof breed for such a request but that some come closer to this than others. We settled on either a goldendoodle or a labradoodle.

Which reminds me of something funny. I may or may not have misheard Fran when she told me she'd found our pup and that he was a labradoodle. Somewhere in there I thought the dog was a goldendoodle and even downloaded two books about them on my Kindle. I read both and had Isaiah read one, too. Imagine my surprise when I received a photo text from the lovely woman from whom Willow came--with the puppy's mother: a beautiful chocolate labrador retriever.

Whoops.

Well. The good news is that Isaiah is such a sentimental soul that, instead of glaring at the photo and feeling duped, he immediately saw it as a sign. "This is Willow's mom? She looks a lot like Chancey! That's so awesome, mom!" And that immediately made my eyes sting and think of the sweet, gentle chocolate brown lab who'd belonged to our next door neighbors. Besides my mother's dogs (she, too, has the dog gene) Chance is perhaps the dog our family has known the best. He passed away a few months back after a long, full life of being a fantastic companion to Dave and Beth, our neighbors.

"You have to send Mr. Dave and Mrs. Beth this picture," Isaiah said. Which I promptly did. It didn't surprise me one bit when the dog arrived and his full name included not just the names the kids agreed upon ("Willow" and "Pepper") but also a third name: "Chancey." And as if that weren't enough mush from Isaiah, he even acknowledged that it was "Chancey" not "Chance" because his grandma's most beloved former dog was named "Chauncey" and he wanted to honor him, too.

Sigh. That boy.

I'm still not sure where the name "Willow" came from. But Isaiah saw a photo of that litter, picked the smallest, scrappiest one of the lot, and quickly let us know that this would be his name. When told that some people think of "Willow" as a feminine name, he didn't even flinch. "He will be a boy named Willow," Isaiah replied firmly. Zachary acquiesced and allowed his preferred name "Pepper" to become a middle name. Both boys touched and agreed upon adding the "Chancey" part, though.

Ha.

I feel like the time spent preparing for him was a bit like a gestational period. Those months allowed me to imagine how my life would work with a dog in it and also seek counsel from my fellow mom-friends who'd already experienced this. Especially the ones without dog genes.

It surprised me how much my heart expanded when I first saw Willow. That dog seemed to know that Isaiah had waited ten full years for him and that he was going to be loved in ways that humans would kill to experience. And Zachary, the younger brother, has fallen right in line as well. But somehow, someway that pup knows. He knows who lulled him into our home with his pulsating dog gene.

I am so happy for my boy. It's only been less than a week, but the gestational period served me well. It has been actually a pretty cool experience so far and has really pushed our entire family to work together. The boys have been hands on deck and Harry's firm voice has given them their marching orders to participate in Willow's care.

And they do. And not in that pretend way either. They actually do.

And so. We are now officially a party of five. And, just maybe, I might find out that my dog gene has been lying dormant and waiting these forty five years to come alive through the eyes of a ten year old boy.

Yeah.

***
Happy Saturday. Remember Isaiah and the "Puppy Mafia?" from when Isaiah and Zachary were smaller? And "Baby Chancey?" OMG. I'd forgotten about that until recently. Gave me a good laugh to reread those posts.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . the song I sing to Isaiah that I overheard him singing to Willow yesterday. . . . along with Isaiah's tenth birthday video that reminds me that the very best reason to be inconvenienced is the love for your beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.

Isaiah - Our Beautiful Boy from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

Ten.

Isaiah - Our Beautiful Boy from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.


May 6. It marked ten years to the day since my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy Isaiah was born. Thank you, Mr. John Lennon, for saying the words that I've searched to find all day and all week but could not.

Happy tenth birthday, son. And, as you say, happy "mommyversary" and "daddyversary" to us. Always inclusive of others in every celebration and somehow given bionic eyes that see the very best in the world and humankind. You give wings to all around you and perspective to even the most dire situations. This is you. And you are us.

And we are glad.

Yeah.

***
Happy Born-day to us.

This boy of mine.

I could look at his face all day.

***
Happy Tuesday. Again.

Camp Papa Postcard Classics: The Red-eye.

Dear Grandma,

We flew to California last night and this time Mom and Dad flew with  us. It was way past our bedtime when we left--like super late. Even past the time that the Cartoon Network channel switches over to Adult Swim with all those "mature" cartoons. Mom said it's called "the red-eye" airplane. That's because everybody is sleepy since it's late at night.

Grandma? There was this one man on the plane who had really, really red eyes even though he didn't seem sleepy. I know he wasn't because every time the airplane-helper-people walked past him he asked them to give him something to drink. But not like a Sprite or Fanta. I heard Dad whispering to Mom across the aisle. He told her, "That dude is lit." Zachary was asleep but I wasn't so I asked Mom what "lit" meant. She said to ask you.

Love,

Isaiah, age 9 and 1 month

P.S. Does it mean that he was, like, letting his light shine like they say at children's church? Or something else?

Let them eat (pan)cakes.

If I had a dollar for every time he'd asked me to stop at The Original Pancake House, I'd be rich. Usually he asks on the weekends when we're heading somewhere in a hurry. Which unfortunately means that the answer is usually "no" or at least "not now."

But not today. Because today was his birthday. Or, as he once told me five years ago, my mom-birthday, too (since it marks the day that I first got to be a mom.) After that, we started calling May 6 our "mommyversary" and "daddyversary"-- a term fully approved of by Isaiah. I love how inclusive he always is with celebrations. He was the one who dubbed our wedding anniversary as "the day our family was born" and who, just a few days later, decided that his birthday was a birthday for his parents, too.

Yup.

So after getting Zachary onto his bus this morning and finishing up getting Isaiah ready, I headed out of the driveway with the birthday boy in tow. And he said, "I hope this weekend I really DO get to go to The Original Pancake House."

So you know what happened next? I made a U-turn on Lullwater and said, "You know what? You will get to go to The Original Pancake House for your birthday. Right now." His eyes widened like saucers. "Now? But . . . .I have school." "Yes, you do. And we will have our pancakes and then go straight  there." And with that, I began driving directly to that little restaurant-- which happens to be in the exact OPPOSITE direction of Isaiah's school.

Surely did.

So my boy had his pancakes and ate them, too. On a school day even. And then I took him to school and signed him in late--and even admitted to the person at the front desk exactly what delayed his arrival.

"Pancakes. With chocolate syrup and a side of real pork bacon."

That's exactly what I said. Without apology.

Yup.

And I'd do it again tomorrow if I could. Surely would.

Happy birthday to my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. You deserve the tall stack, whipped cream, chocolate syrup and much, much more.

Love you so.

***
Happy Isaiah Day. #YOLO

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

But if you close your eyes.

"But if you close your eyes does it almost feel like nothing's changed at all?"

~ Bastille's "Pompeii"

I captured this photograph of Isaiah the other day at the end of our commute from school. He asked to stay in the car for a bit because he was listening to his favorite song (which was playing on the radio at the time.) He said he was also "just daydreaming." What I would give to be inside of that mind of his some days. Man.

I fell in love with him one hundred times over all over again in that instant.

Keep your eyes open so that you don't miss these little moments. Fleeting bits of wonder nestled into ordinary things like carpool lanes and carrying in groceries. They're everywhere. But if you close your eyes, you might miss them.

***
Happy Friday.

Isaiah's favorite song, now playing on my mental iPod. . . .

In case he forgets.

Found under some toys on Isaiah's bedside shelf tonight:

I asked about it and he shrugged and told me that it was just a "reminder note" that he'd written to himself during the week of Deanna's birthday.

"Because I knew you might feel sad and that you'd need an extra hug." And you know what? He gave me the most tender hugs that entire week. Big ones. Tight ones. He truly did.

That boy. He's been here before, I tell you. He has.

Sigh.

I think I'm going to write myself a few of those reminder notes for people this week. I think I am.

Yeah.

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .what my son seems to know intuitively that sometimes I forget. One of the most beautiful songs ever recorded. . . .thank you, Mr. Stevie Wonder. And thank you, too, Isaiah.

Awesome.

On the way home with Isaiah after his first day of robotics camp:

Me:  So, bud, tell me. How was robotics camp today?

Isaiah:  (in that serious Isaiah voice with big wide Isaiah eyes) Mom?

Me:  (eying him through rear view mirror and bracing myself) Uhhhh. . . yes, bud?

Isaiah:  Mom, robotics camp today was. . . .(choosing his words in that very Isaiah way)  it was . . . . awesome. It was just . . . . so, so awesome, Mom.

Me:  (exhaling majorly)  Phew! Oh good! For a minute there I thought you were going to say something different because you looked and sounded so serious.

Isaiah:  No, Mom. It was awesome. (I love the way he kept saying "awesome" with this throaty growl.) And I can tell that every day of it is gonna be awesome.

Me:  That's great, buddy. Daddy and Mom really hoped you'd like it.

Isaiah:  I really, really do.  (face gets serious again)

Me:  Zay? You okay?

Isaiah:  I was just thinking, that's all.

Me:  Can ask what you were thinking about?

Isaiah:  (now staring out of the backseat window) Mom. . . . I was just. . . . I was just thinking that. . . . . I just have a really good life, Mom. Where I get to do good things and go cool places and then just come home and be with my family.  I have a happy life. That's all I was thinking about, Mom.

Me:  (Now staring forward and full on crying in the driver's seat--and hoping he doesn't notice)  Oh. . *sniffle* .  . .okay. That's great, bud. That's just. . . . .awesome.


Man. Sometimes? Sometimes we get it right.

Yeah.

***
Happy Friday. And Happy Birthday to my baby sissy, JoLai. I knew she'd like this exchange because she is a part of all of our awesome.

Hearing this in my head on a loop. I caught Isaiah awake and watching this video on an iPad at midnight yesterday. Sometimes he and Zachary will watch it five times in a row or more. And I always let them. :)

Life is a celebration ~ Team Manning. . . . I'm Yours from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

Camp Papa Postcard Classics: Good Citizenship.

Dear Mom,

I'm sorry that I haven't written you for a few days. Mostly it's because we've been busy doing stuff. Today we played some golf with Grandpa but we also went swimming. This is why we just went ahead and wore our swim trunks to the golf course. 

Mom, did you know that you're s'posed to wear special clothes to the golf course? Like they want you to have on a collar-shirt and maybe something that isn't swim trunks. Sort of like a school uniform. Did you know that, Mom?

Grandpa said he DID know. He also said that when you get senior citizen like he is that you just kind of do what you want. Mom? I a little bit think this is why he keeps wearing that fanny pack. A little bit I do.

Love,

Isaiah, Age 8

P.S.  I am doing my best to teach Zachary how to play golf. I keep telling him that he can't move the ball with his hand after he hits it but he sort of doesn't really listen and does what he wants. Do you think maybe he is a little bit senior citizen like Grandpa?

Slumber party.

 

Now. Multiply this by 18 hours and you'll feel like you were there.

***

Happy Tuesday.

8 years and 8 million wishes.

To be young, gifted, and black
We must begin to tell our young
That there's a whole world

a whole world waiting for you

Haven't you heard the quest has just begun?

Don't you know the joy, the joy, the joy of the today
Is the day that we all.....that we all be proud to say
That we are young, gifted and black. . . 

and it's sho' nuff where its at

~ Donny Hathaway

_______________________________

Happy 8th birthday to my beloved manchild, Isaiah. This song makes me think of you and your brother. . . and every single thing I want you to always know. I want you to hold your head high, to believe in your gifts, and to understand the responsibility standing squarely upon your shoulders as a beautiful brown child of your generation.

I know you're young. I know. But still. I want you to achieve everything your heart desires and live to your full potential. . . . .but, see, I want you to do it all while understanding that it wasn't always that way. And I want you to look in the mirror and like who you see.

No, love who you see.

I don't want you to get lost in a fight to assimilate or to blend into whatever is considered "the thing." I want you to be you. I want you to know who you are and to be so cool with you that you give those around you permission to be the same. And I want you to stand up and say something when people don't.

Yes, son. On the day you were born and even eight years later on the day you always have called my "mommyversary", my hopes for you haven't changed. Your safety, of course. Your health, of course. But also that you will be as peaceful as your eyes were in this picture taken when you were only two years old. That you will be happy and confident and thankful no matter where you are. And that you become so grounded that you fit in anywhere you go.

Yes. I want you to bust through ceilings and tear down walls. But it is my prayer that you do those things without divorcing yourself from your culture and all that your ancestors did to get you here.

To get us here.

 

I will spend my whole life building you up and letting you know who you are. Over and over and over again. Because who you are is wonderful. Wonderful and special and cherished.

Happy birthday, my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful beautiful boy. May your bright future and smile always be a lamp at your feet, my son. And may you always know that you are young, gifted and black--and since that's who God made you to be--that that's sho' nuff where it's at.

***

Happy Monday.

Playing this for you, son, just as your grandpa played it for me at this age until I believed it. Mr. Donny Hathaway says it better than we can.

 

Tick tock.

His hands are steady. His feet just far enough apart. Wrists firm and arms stiffened.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

He took his practice swings and I know for certain that this is what he was saying in his head. Reminding himself to swing gently, with the control of a pendulum. Because he is cerebral. Methodical. And, as his coach describes him, "analytical."

Tick tock. Tick tock.

In went the first ball. And then the second. He missed the third and then regrouped. Regrounded himself. Refocused.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Calm eye. Feet in position. Back straight. Shoulders strong.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

In. In. In. Yes.

He looked up at me and smiled. And I smiled back because I was watching. I sure was. And so was his little brother with his own perforated grin and also holding up two thumbs high from across the room.

That warmed my heart. Because every day, I always say to them, "What do brothers do?" And in unison they say, "Stick together!" And sticking together means being for each other. Encouraging each other, supporting each other and just loving one another.

See, the little brother? He's just naturally athletic. He's a fast runner, a good catcher and is quick and agile. At most things, he's uber-competitive and is able to stick and move like he was born to do just that.

But the elder brother is less so. At least less natural at those games that require fast running and speedy hand-eye coordination. And all of it is fine. With us. With them.

Most importantly, with them. 

It really is. Which makes me feel like I've done something right.

He may not run as fast. But this? This is Isaiah's thing. And watching him do this thing that celebrates his unique athleticism, his careful mind and builds his confidence at the same time is just. . . . cool.

But knowing my sons remember that no matter what, they're always on the same team? That's even cooler.

Yeah.

***
Happy Sunday.

Hearts on sleeves.

graffiti in Tel-Aviv, Israel, image from here.

Been walking my mind to an easy time, 

my back turned towards the sun.
Lord knows when the cold wind blows 

it'll turn your head around

 Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line 

to talk about things to come.
Sweet dreams and flying machines 

in pieces on the ground

~ from James Taylor's Fire and Rain

__________________________________________

One of Isaiah's good friends is moving away. And not just away as in across town or to another school but really, truly away. Far away. As in a different country away. Which, no matter how you slice it, seems more away than any other kind. 

I received a kind note from that friend's mother. Inviting Isaiah, along with a handful of others, to a going away gathering. And admittedly, this was the first I'd heard of this transition. Of course, it had been in the works for some time, though. When I called the friend's mom about it, she quietly told me some details about what was an exciting opportunity for their family. . .but that all of it had been hard. So hard that her child wasn't really talking about it much because that just made it all too real. "But please," she said, "I'd love it if Isaiah could join us. He's been a very special friend." And of course I accepted the invitation because her child was one of Isaiah's special ones, too. 

But there was a problem.  I was pretty sure that Isaiah wasn't aware of this. He couldn't have been because this is the kind of thing that would have come up on the way home from school or just before turning off the light before bedtime. 

And so. While Isaiah was eating a bowl of cereal the other day I casually mentioned it to him. Slipped it into mundane conversation about what things were yays or nays for his lunch box. And funny. I said it and then braced myself for what I knew would come next. 

And trust me. I knew what would come next.

This picture is so Isaiah.

Just look at this face.

That Isaiah? Lord have mercy. That boy is his mother's child if there ever was one. His heart is pinned right onto his sleeve and it beats hard with the kind of emotion that no one has to ever fight to discern. So, yes. First I braced myself and then let my feet walk over to him because I knew he'd need a hug. 

True to form, his eyes widened like saucers. He asked a few questions to clarify it all and then, like clockwork, he started fighting with all of his might to blink back the tears quickly filling his eyes. And just like when this happens to his mother, it was futile. 

"I'm so sorry, sweet boy. I know how you feel." And he wept straight into that bowl of Cocoa Puffs, slowly chewing and trying his best to swallow the emotion right along with the breakfast. 

Yesterday, I had a similar moment. I went to spend time with my friend David M. as he packed his last knick-knacks and taped boxes closed before his big move on Monday. I have wanted to write about him, talk about him but every time I do, it all gets too real. I understand how Isaiah's friend must have felt when choosing this as a coping mechanism. 

No. He's not moving out of the country. But he is moving all the way to Philadelphia which removes the spontaneity that has made our friendship so special. So yeah. I've tried my best to push it to the back corner of my mind and pretend that it wasn't so much a "good bye" but more of a "see you later." Even though deep down I know the real impact of these little shifts in life.

Yesterday I could no longer avoid it. There were boxes stacked all around that told me how real it was even if I didn't want to accept it. 

I sat on a bar stool drinking Trader Joe's two buck chuck and cracking jokes about how unhelpful I am as the friend-who-only-watches-but-doesn't-help-you-pack. And he laughed out loud with his normal hearty laughter saying that what he wanted from me was exactly what I was giving him at that very moment. 

So he packed and we talked. Every so often he'd pull out something really old and show it to me. Things like book reports from high school and term papers from college. Why he had these things I do not know. But he did and something about looking at his careful, looping cursive on three-hole punched notebook paper made me feel even closer to him. 

"Lord. Look at this one," he said while handing me a stapled stack of papers. The cover was bursting with juvenile creativity; the kind that wreaks of adolescence. 

"This screams 'before there were computers!" I chuckled at the stenciled title sheet and the Crayola marker-colored image on the front.

David leaned over and squinted at his handy work. "Uhhh, I'm thinking it screams, 'Hey everyone. I'm gay. Helloooo?'" He waved his hands and started laughing. He looked back down at another one of his little masterpieces and shook his head. "Lord. They should have looked at this one and known something was up. Waaaaay too creative to be straight." 

Other friends that I realize I'd come to know through David were also in and out and about the condo. Something about that made me feel even more melancholy. I recognized that I'd known them all through him. Bernard. Cordell. Some others, too. I'd seen each of their faces over the last decade because of our mutual love for David and I wondered how and if I would again now that he was moving away. That got me to blinking tears. Blinking fast and hard and trying to hide behind the surprisingly good shiraz that I was drinking from a plastic Solo cup. 

Bernard, David and Cordie

Cordell (David's former roommate) must have somehow sensed that I needed a smile because suddenly he yelled out to me from the bedroom. "Lawd! Kim! You have to see this!" Before I could even scramble off of my seat, he was already fanning out all of these old pictures of a young David on the counter in front of me.  

"OM-EFF-G, Cordie!" I was already squealing and clapping at the sight of them.

I stared at his chiseled face and examined his steely gaze. "Dayum, David!" I fanned my face and laughed out loud. That was just enough to break up my emotion. I was glad for that. 

Next, David handed me a picture of him from some kind of prom or dance. Him and this beautiful cocoa-complexioned girl wearing the kind of extremely unfortunate asymmetric haircut every it-girl of the time had.

I looked at the picture and curled my lips. "Mmm mmm mmm. Po' thang. How was she to know that she wasn't your type?" 

"Bless her heart!" David added. And that made every one of us laugh hard enough to fill that entire room with a lightness that was very much welcomed. 

I looked across the room at David and he looked back at me and smiled. I thought about the day we met and the twelve years that we'd worked together at Grady. Kindred spirits from the start--unapologetic for who we were and learning together that being that way welcomes the same for others. Him, the same-gender loving brother from New York with the mannerisms and bravado that confused straight people so much that it had become one of our favorite jokes. And me, the black woman from L.A. that openly talks about things like going to the hair salon, ashy skin and hip hop music in front of any and everybody. 

I remembered the heart-to-heart conversations. The day I burst into his office to tell him that I'd met who I thought was my husband. Him dancing and celebrating with us at our wedding. Harry shaking David's boyfriend's hand when David brought him by the house one evening--and Harry not looking the least bit uncomfortable afterward. Me walking off and leaving them all chatting like it was no big deal. Because it wasn't. Me and David giggling and calling Dave "the straight man whisperer" for how far he brought Harry in his acceptance of different lifestyles. 

I reflected on our professional accomplishments. Him getting his first NIH R01 grant and me winning my first teaching award. Both of us feeling a different kind of happy for one another because on some hard to explain level we knew that how far we'd both come was a big deal. We knew that we were standing on the shoulders of giants. Now I know that, on many days, we were each other's giants.

The two buck chuck was about to start making me feel giddy and I could feel it getting late. I knew that I could no longer avoid it--it was time to say good-bye for real. And I reached right over and grabbed a stack of napkins. That gesture was identical to me bracing myself for Isaiah's emotion because, like his, I knew it was coming. 

My friend David got up from the couch because he knows me well enough to have braced himself, too. 

And so. I said good-bye. Then I wept right into his shoulder. I wept and wept telling him how much I'd miss seeing him and having lunches and dinners with him on a whim. I told him I was sad that our wonder twin powers would no longer be able to activate at Grady Hospital because I always believed that something about us being there at the same time was more powerful than us being their separately. 

And then I just took a few moments and cried without saying anything else.

Some of David's friends came and hugged me, too. And I appreciated that because I would miss those guys right along with David. 

After all of that, I patted my raccoon eyes with a napkin and took a deep breath. "Okay. Let me get back cute, y'all." And that made us all laugh all over again which we needed. So it was good.

 

Yes. Isaiah and I are emotional types. We love hard and think a lot. We're missing the "restraint gene" when it comes to crying about people and moments and life's seismic shifts. . . . and that's okay. In fact, I think it's more than okay. I told Isaiah that the world needs people who express a lot of emotion like we do. And it also needs people like his daddy (who allegedly cries only on the inside) because they help balance things out. And he got that. 

Something reminded Isaiah of his friend again this morning. I could tell because his face went long and he was just sitting there looking pensive. Even though I knew what was going on, I went ahead and asked him if he was okay.

"I'm really, really going to miss my friend."  The right side of his mouth kept making this tiny quiver. The kind it always makes when he's trying to fight against his mother's genetics.

I grabbed the top of his head and pulled him into my chest. I hugged him tight felt a wave of emotion from the night before washing over me. Next, I pulled back, looked at his face, and tried to smile. I could feel my mouth quivering, too. 

"I know just how you feel," I whispered.

Isaiah reached out his hand and swept the tear from my cheek. Because he got that, too.

***

Happy Saturday.

Now playing. . . Something about James Taylor's voice singing this song has had my mental iPod stuck on it all day. Isaiah and I listened to this song together tonight and it paradoxically made us happy. Maybe because I told him that it was it was one of my favorite songs of all time. (But also maybe because J.T. is freakin' awesome and the kid knows good music when he hears it.)