How could I miss those days?

The articles in last week’s Time magazine and other attachment parenting bashing articles are missing the point.

Time isn’t the first publication to join in the fun of bandying around all the parenting tenets of AP. The publication has many of its facts wrong, or skewed, but that’s not really new. Most of the time when it come to delving into lifestyle choices many of the basics get missed.

What bugs me about these articles, suggesting that attachment parenting is a waste of time, anti-feminist, and in some cases, suggestive that it’s even harmful, is that they miss the point entirely.

Women are choosing a new path (and some men, but let’s face it, AP is largely a female venture, with the men along for the ride). It’s called progression.

I’m not here to say that attachment parenting is perfect and that everyone should parent this way. I do not think that this is the only way. But it is the only way for me, right now.

What really bothers me about these trains of thought is that somehow parenting should escape any move forward. The idea that if something is good enough for the French, the Chinese, or a past generation, then it should be good enough for American parents of today.

The notion that attachment parenting is anti-feminist is absurd for the very reason that women are choosing to parent this way. If anyone said that becoming a lawyer was anti-feminist because it takes time away from enjoyment of other activities, or time at home, people would be appalled. But somehow, because women fought to go from the home into the workplace in generations past, now, we must choose to stay there?

Feminism is about choice. It’s not about what you choose. It’s the freedom to have the choice to work or stay at home with your children.

This generation has come to realize that  we want to be the ones to raise our kids. What’s wrong with that?

When I got pregnant I fought the notion that I must go back to work. In fact, everywhere around me, it was naturally assumed that I would take maternity leave and then put Annika in daycare. Only those who knew me best realized that would not be my choice. But still, it bothered me that it was the current societal assumption.

I want to raise my daughter. I don’t want to pay someone else to do it.

As Toyin liked to point out to me in the early days, when I whined about not getting enough sleep, or being exhausted from holding an infant all day, I chose to do it this way.

And while it felt harsh at the time, he was right. I chose it. And I’m glad that I had that luxury.

I am grateful that previous generations stood up and said, “We will not tolerate being told how we must live our lives.”

Parenting is hard no matter how you choose to do it. But to say that one way over the other is anti-feminist, is simply ridiculous, except when society deems that there is no other way.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas!

I hope everyone is having a great day.

I got my very first Annika-hand-crafted Mother’s Day gifts this year thanks to some very special and awesome preschool teachers.

On top of these awesome gifts, four years ago I also got the best gift ever, my daughter Annika.

Along with Annika teaching me about motherhood, she has also taught me about learning to think about some of the racial issues in this country and how they affect our society.

Today I’m guest posting over at another blog. Empatheia, written by another mama to biracial kids. She’s a great writer and a teacher, as well as being a mom to three kids. Her blog often discusses the disparity in our schools, as well as racial issues. She’s one of my internet buddies. So read my post and then please browse some of her articles. I promise you will leave feeling enlightened.

Here’s my article: http://jenmardunc.blogspot.com/2012/05/yes-this-baby-is-mine.html

It seems strange to think that I am the mother of a 4-year-old. Except that it doesn’t.

Annika’s birthday was two days ago, but we were too busy celebrating and I didn’t find time to write a post.

With each passing year I become more and more comfortable with the idea that I’m a mom. Since I never planned on having children, and at some point had determined that I never would, motherhood came as a surprise to me. It was not something I ever really envisioned except in minor flashes and never really with any real attachment to the idea.

So, I got used to the idea while it was happening.

I can sum it up best with a (loosely paraphrased) quote from an old and dear friend who, when her oldest son was a toddler, used to say, “Sometimes it freaks me out that I’m the one in charge!”

Whether you planned for children or not, however, I’m guessing it’s a feeling most parents have from time to time.

Even though I never planned for it, I’m enjoying it. And as the moments come along, I do my best to savor them and collect them.

This is a recent favorite memory. Annika tells a ghost story.

Be warned, it is terrifying!

Annika’s birthday is tomorrow. Every year around this time, I have very specific

The summer before I got pregnant in Luckenbach, Texas. Not a care in the world.

memories of the week leading up to her birth.

It was quiet week of reflection, worry, and in hindsight, pretty self-centered. Not overly selfish, but the self centered-ness of a person who is not in charge of another human being. It’s something I miss sometimes and allow myself the yearly indulgence of pondering those moments. It’s a feeling I don’t think I’ll ever get back, because even when she’s not with me, I still feel her. I am never really alone anymore.

But that week I was. Only, I didn’t realize it.

Even though it was early May, the heat was already flattening down the air and being so large, all I wanted to do was sit in air conditioning or lounge in the pool.

My biggest worry during the week was not impending motherhood. Strangely, that still seemed a long way away as my only concern was my upcoming labor.

With mildly high blood pressure my doctor recommended that we induce a week early. I was terrified of pitocin and my pro-natural-birth doctor promised we’d do everything we could to avoid it. (She broke my waters and that was all it took.)

It was the final moments before my life was going to be completely upturned. I had no idea. I had no clue! All I worried about going into labor. I  was right there in the midst of my final moments of pure, unadulterated freedom and I completely missed it.

I was completely free. I was done with work. I could sleep as late as I wanted. Eat when and what I wanted. Do whatever.

So what did I do?

I practiced hypnobirthing and every day listened to my meditation CD while  envisioning the ripening of my cervix. Along with this I was downing as much raspberry leaf as I could muster.

Oddly, my most vivid memory is going to Taco Bueno every single day for lunch and piling jalapenos from the nacho bar onto my food, hoping that if I ate enough peppers, I would induce labor. While I ate, I read a book. God, when was the last time I ever actually sat in a restaurant and just ate without fussing over a child? Admittedly, eating out has gotten much easier, but still.

That week my daily spice was the main thing I looked forward to every day. Otherwise, I was so groggy every morning, from being large and tired and hot, that I could barely roll my huge body out of bed to dress myself and take the dog for a walk.

I went to the doctor to have my membranes stripped.

I walked, even though I hated ever moment of it as my feet had swollen to the size of footballs. I am not kidding folks, it was the second most hideous thing about my body during pregnancy.

That week, as I look back on it. I can taste the freedom that I had and never even knew it.

It might seem selfish, but every year around this time, I think back on that week and I wonder what/if I would have done anything differently if I had known just how all-consuming motherhood would be.

There are many moments in my life that stand out. But that time is not so much of a moment, but a state of mind that I’ve missed somewhat in the last four years. It’s the tiny bit of selfishness that I hoard and hold in my brain, wondering if I will ever truly feel that freedom again and I wonder if next time I will taste it, savor it and delight in it more than I did before.

Last year at the bouncy house.

Oh my god. I never thought I’d be the type of mom who would go overboard with my kid’s birthday.

It turns out. I am just that mom.

Somehow, I can’t manage to fit in the time to mop my kitchen floor or clean the toilets even once a month (oh my god, did I just admit that on the internet??). I don’t keep a running grocery list. I barely bother to manage my finances. And I worked at a bank for seven years.

But when it comes to planning my kid’s birthday party, I am ALL OVER IT!

And it’s stressing me out.

Annika will be 4 on Thursday and her party is the weekend after next, due to some unavoidable conflicts.

I sent out invitations a month ago. I have scheduled a magician, which was her pick. I voted for a clown.

I bought super awesome (imho) party favors on eBay and I am painstakingly counting possible attendees to ensure that I have enough.

We invited way too many people. But I don’t care. It’s going to be awesome.

But shit. It’s giving me an ulcer.

I can not even imagine how stressed I’m going to be when she is old enough to actually give a shit.

Then on top of it, I was thinking of planning an over-the-top family dinner on her actual birthday after a friend mentioned that when you have the child’s party on a different day, you still have to do something on the actual birthday.

I was all, “SHIT!”

Then, thankfully. Reason kicked in before I went whole hog and I realized that we could probably just take her out to dinner at her favorite Chinese restaurant and do cupcakes.

Phew.

This whole birthday party planning gig is for the birds.

Why yes, yes she did change clothes halfway through her party.

Next year, I’m thinking an out of town trip. No party. Just the wind in our hair and road at our backs. I really don’t think I can do this every year.

She's already so tentative. Or maybe it's just me.

I know that by now Trayvon Martin is yesterday’s news to many, but the fact remains, he is still dead and his parents will have to live with that for the rest of their lives.

No matter what happens, George Zimmerman killed their son. If he goes to prison or if he goes free, Trayvon’s parents will still have lost their child.

I can’t stop thinking about them. About him. But mostly about them. Because while he is gone, they must still wonder every day if they could have done something differently in their parenting that would have saved him. Maybe his father wishes he had driven Trayvon to the store that night. Maybe he wishes he would have told his son these things about being a young, black man. Or maybe he did, and he’s thinking that he missed some other teaching moments.

Now, I’m not saying that they did anything wrong. Not in the slightest. But if it were me, I’d probably obsess over these details for years.

Parents tend to believe they can safeguard their children from everything if only we tell them all the stuff they need to know.

I think this. At least, I tell myself regularly that if only I make sure to mention this thing to Annika, yes, then she will be okay. Her life will be good.

But I worry. I worry that I won’t have a clue what to tell her about race or about being a black woman in the United States. And Toyin won’t know all that stuff either, because he’s a man.

Trayvon Martin’s murder was a huge wake up call to me. After reading articles about all the things we need to tell black boys about being a black male in the U.S. I started to wonder, “But what do we tell the girls?”

I used to plan and think of all the ways I could ensure her happiness and contented life. Now, I wonder what things I need to stress to her so that she will just stay alive, and/or without suffering an assault.

Maybe it’s selfish of me. But I don’t have a boy. I have a girl. What do I tell her?

I don’t know. I have vague memories of learning such things about black people, black women, when I was young, but I have forgotten them all. They came from a place of ignorance, immaturity, and just plain stupidity. I came to learn that they were not true. I forgot them. And I am sure that with a new generation of youngsters, there are probably many things I have never even known.

I am that place of mid-life where past memories have become hazy and new information is not always so easily accessible. It’s a dangerous place to be when you are the mother of a child of color.

I need to know these things. Or at least, I need to find out how Annika can learn about them.

Annika will grow up having to learn much of these things on her own, from friends, from relatives, but not from me. Sure, I can ask around. I can assist. But I do not know what it feels like to have certain stereotypes put on me. I think that I’m not even sure what they are, and even if I do know some of them, I don’t know what it feels like to be in those shoes.

It worries me. And for the first time since becoming a parent, I feel completely absorbed with the not knowing.

Before, and especially when she an infant, I told myself there would be time. I could learn it all. But there comes a time when you are faced with the fact that there are just certain things you will not be able to protect your child from. And there are some things you will never even know.

So George Zimmerman has been arrested. And everyone is happy. The racist bastard has been caught and will be judged.

Except, I have to admit, it doesn’t feel like all is right with the world. It did at first. I was elated that he’d finally been charged. And I still think it’s the right answer. But the way it’s playing out in the media gives me pause. Suddenly, the cops did the right thing and arrested a racist pig. We can all go back to normal now and (hopefully) watch justice be served.

I hope that justice gets served. I truly do. I think he should spend some time behind bars just like anyone else who commits a senseless murder. That is unless we learn some shocking new detail that we haven’t heard yet, which I highly doubt.

Even though he’s been arrested though, it doesn’t feel quite right.

He could easily be a Nazi loving racist.

But my bet is that it’s more likely that he’s a garden-variety typical American white person racist.

My point is, he might not be much different than most white (okay, I know he’s half white) people. He might be stupider than many of us. But his racism very possibly doesn’t extend beyond what most of us hide and fight and deal with every day. His biggest mistake was thinking he was smart enough to carry a gun and not shoot anyone who didn’t deserve it.

Because we do live in a racist society. It is ingrained in us until we think about it and tell ourselves differently. It’s not genetic. It is systemic.

And we must face the truth. It is dangerous to be black in our country. Our history reflects it. While we are getting better. We are not fully healed from the racist atrocities that happened only a few generations ago.

And white people, we can not continue to pretend that this ugliness doesn’t exist right beneath the surface.

What is garden-variety white person racism?

It is the thoughts and the assumptions. It’s the purse clutch. It’s the crossing of the street to get away from a group of young black men. It’s walking just slightly faster.

It’s the DWB (driving while black). It is the fact that 40 percent of inmates are black men in the U.S.

It is the fact that mainstream movies and television shows are almost always populated by white folks with a handful of brown skins.

It is the fact that ghettos are always populated by a majority of African Americans.

It is that fact that the bad side of town is always a higher percentage of brown skins.

It’s the fact that poor schools keep getting poorer and stay blacker/browner, while rich schools just keep getting whiter.

But mostly it’s the, them vs. us attitude.

There is no them vs us. We are all in this together.

It doesn’t mean that all white people all racists and hate black people. It means that we need to consider that all of this is our reality. It’s all true. It doesn’t make us bad people. It makes us the survivors of a racist country. But first, we need to admit that it’s all around us. We can’t keep burying our head in the sand.

She's swirled.

When I first heard the term “swirling” I rolled my eyes.

I’ve really gotta stop doing that. Because last week it came in handy when Annika said something that freaked me out and I suddenly realized what a delectable term is in the biracial/multiracial world. It’s one of the few cultural terminologies I’ve ever heard that doesn’t come with any baggage. I like it.

So, Annika and I were driving down the road and she says to me from the back seat, “Mama, I washed my face before we left, doesn’t it look nice?”

“Yes, baby. It does.” I agreed.

“Mama, if I wash my face it will get lighter, right?”

My heart skipped a beat. What the hell? Okay, my brain said, don’t freak out. Maybe she doesn’t mean what it sounds like.

“Um, lighter, like your skin color getting lighter?” I asked.

“Yes, Mama, my skin will get whiter.”

Cringe.

Shit. Don’t freak out. Handle this with dignity and grace! She’s not even 4 yet. She can‘t have developed a neuroses about her skin color yet! Don’t give her one.

As I pause to think what I can say to her without turning this into a big thing, the latest images flash through my mind of her imaginary brother Freddie, who’s white; And her penchant for pretending to be the blonde/blue-eyed characters from shows and storybooks and never being the dark-skinned people.

Am I fucking up? Does she not get enough exposure to people who look like her? What the hell?!

I realize that this seems like I spent a lot of time hemming and hawing, but not really. My mind was racing.

So I said, “Honey, your skin will never get lighter. You will always be brown and beautiful. Your skin color is beautiful and you are beautiful. I think that brown skin is lovely. You have lovely light brown skin. Daddy has beautiful dark brown skin. We are all beautiful with the skin colors we were born with.”

She beams up at me and says (she’s been learning Spanish, btw), “I’m café!”

Then, she had a realization.

“Mama, I’m a mix of you and daddy! You’re white and he’s brown and I’m like a mixture of you both!” she squealed. Seriously, she was so excited.

“Yes,” I said. “You’re swirled. You know like an ice cream cone that has half chocolate and half vanilla? That’s you!”

Swirled. I get it now. Eye roll over.

Image source, Salon.com

I have a story to share about my childhood. I don’t know how it fits in exactly with the current debates and legal changes to the abortion laws, but think and feel that it is an important story to share.

Throughout my adulthood, I’ve thought of this afternoon off and on, never knowing exactly what to make of it. I now know, with certainty, that it was about politics. And even back then I knew it was an important thing to remember. So maybe I will make sense of it one day.

When I was about 10 years old, one afternoon, when church service was over all the men filed out of the auditorium, the women and adolescent girls were asked to stay. Or, as I remember it, were told to stay.

The church I went to from the time I was 7 until I was 14 was a white-steepled small town church. We had stained glass windows, but no air conditioning in the west Texas Church of Christ. This particular church is very likely still going strong. And I suspect has probably not changed much in the past 30-ish years.

Cardboard fans printed with pictures of the Last Supper poked out of the pew-back trays that held extra Bibles and song books.  We sweated with our preacher who preached in front of purple velvet curtains. Behind the curtains lay our salvation, a five-foot (or so) dunk tank, or as they liked to call it, a baptismal.

I was baptized there when I was 11, but at the time of this story, I was saved only from the burning hell fires under the exemption of being-too-young-to-sin. Apparently, I had  not yet reached the age of enlightenment where I was responsible for my sins. As far as I could tell, there was no specified age in our church’s rule books on that. But my mother assured me that I would know when I was ready to be baptized and that would mean I reached the hell-burning age if I didn’t just go ahead and request a dip in the salvation waters.

But back to the afternoon in question, why I was asked to stay for this presentation remained a mystery to me until recently when it occurred to me that a stage was being set. Not just for me, but for all the women-folk in my church, including my mother and sister. I imagine that we were not the only church-women being shown this video, as it was a presentation from an outside source.

Some people, whom I vaguely remember to be men, but I could be remembering wrong, set up a film for us to watch.

The entirety of the video is long gone from my mind, but flashes still haunt me to this day. It did not have the desired effect. Instead of leaving the impression of murderous mothers in my head, it just left a bad taste in my mouth for The Church.

The video was about abortion and how it was wrong. Throughout the video, blood-red, dismembered babies were splashed across the screen.

A cartoon image of a baby inside a uterus wondered sadly why its mother was killing it. And then the salt water bath burned its skin and it was suctioned out, ripping the limbs from the body while the baby screamed.

We left, with the firm belief that abortion was wrong. It hurts babies. Abortion = murder. Simple.

Simple is the right word. But not for this complex argument. Simple is what those people presenting images to small town women and adolescent girls believed us to be.

Whether we were simple or not is irrelevant though. I think it is a destructive approach, vilifying women who fear pregnancy and motherhood enough to make such a difficult decision.

It is never that simple. And to portray it that way dehumanizes all of us, the women who are having abortions, and the people who choose to view them without compassion.

This film and the perpetrators of the film, were (are?) horrible people distributing a political agenda to small-town folks. I know that for sure. I wish I could remember more about it. I wish I knew who they were and how they came to be in our church.

It is a sad story. And one I don’t know what to do with. But I wanted to share it.

As laws continue to be passed in our this country, turning women into murderers and victims at the same time, I can’t help but feel betrayal and anger as we march forward in time, but march backwards away from feminism and equality.

I knew this photo would come in handy some day. She begged me to take it, not comprehending the background. The real motivation was the pillow pet she's sitting on.

I have this belief that if I explain all things to my daughter in an age appropriate manner that will make me a good mom.

I was a very curious child and often, the explanations I got about stuff were lacking, in my young opinion.

So when Annika asks me a question, I always try to answer it honestly.

I’ve really got to start watching what I say around her though. Often, my mindless comments lead to questions that I’d rather not answer just yet.

So last week, as we were driving down S. Lamar I noticed a new bar had opened up and I surmised that it might be a nice place to meet for happy hour drinks with friends. The name of the place is “The Corner Bar,” which I immediately thought was catchy. So I said it aloud. “Ah, The Corner Bar, cute.”

Mistake number one.

“Mama, what’s a corner bar?”

“Well, honey, a bar is a place where grown ups meet together to talk and have a good time. And while they’re there they usually have grown up drinks like beer and wine.”

Mistake number two.

“Doesn’t that sound like fun, honey?”

Mistake number three.

“Yes, mama, can I come with you?”

“Well, no honey, it’s only for grown ups.”

“Mama, I wish I could go to a bar!”

Ah, crap.