Yep, this is my kid. She taught herself how to burp.

We look alike, more than many moms and kids.

I’ve come to realize that I no longer see the world in black and white (and red and yellow…. or really, dark brown, light brown, dark beige and light beige).

I no longer see humans with simply one background, one skin color, one mindset, one reality.

Before Annika was born, I liked to think that I was a huge liberal with an open mind and a love for diversity. And I was.

But it took my mind blooming and morphing, becoming the mother of a biracial child to fully grasp the diversity that I once accepted externally, it is now fully internalized.

Earlier this week, I was talking to Toyin about my last couple of posts and I verbalized something that I had not yet even though I’ve known it for a long time. It was, “I see biracial children.”

I see them everywhere too, with or without their parents. When Annika was a baby, I often felt alone. In playgroups and out shopping, in school, in the library, it seemed that most moms and kids were the same. As proud as I was to be Annika’s mom, I often wished I was able to easily mix into the crowd, without a need for explanation or wondering what other people wondered.

But now, I realize that biracial kids are really everywhere. They are seeping out of the cracks of society. I love to see the older kids, especially girls, because it gives me a window into Annika’s future.

People tend to really notice biracial babies, but as they age, they begin to assume racial roles from one side or the other, based on what their skin color might be.

I think that is changing.

For the past few years, I really see biracial adolescents now. I’m sure I noticed them before, but they were just like any other people whom I shared no common bond with and didn’t understand or empathize with their similarities.

I fully admit that many times, I assumed children were adopted when they may have not been so.

Even after Annika was born, crazy as it sounds, there were a few times when I wondered it, and then chastised myself for assuming anything that was so clearly not obvious, having been through that assumption on the other end myself.

Now, I fully accept that parent/child bond without thinking of it much. It does not matter whether a child is adopted, biracial, or multi-mixed from generations of race mixing.

Last week I met a mom with a child who did not reflect her mother’s ethnicity. I easily recognized her as the mother, and as we spoke, I noticed that they really looked alike even though at first glance, one might not have immediately thought that they were related.

Now when I see biracial kids with their moms of another color, I smile. Because now, when I look at those kids, I see biracial kids. I know, without wondering that the parent with them is their mom or dad because I have finally internalized how to look past the skin color. I notice facial features, hair texture, even the way biracial children hold themselves, in many cases, is different than children who come from non-mixed unions. It is uncanny. They are an entirely different race of humans that we are forming. Outside the boundaries of stereotypes. Outside the boundaries of racial profiling. Outside the boundaries of categorization.

Pretty damn cool.

In my last post I wondered how much Black History Month, which happens every February, will affect Annika’s when she’s old enough to understand the racist history of our country.

It got me to thinking, as I have every February for the past few years, about the history of being biracial. Since becoming pregnant with Annika, the notion of being biracial was something I’ve thought long and hard about.

Toyin told me a few times early on that Annika is simply black, at least, in the eyes of society and the rest of the world. I’m not entirely sure that he really believes that deep down, it’s just one of those things that is ingrained into the mind and society of African Americans.The belief is held based on white history as well. The one drop rule is something whites forced onto blacks during the years of Jim Crow and slavery.

Ironically, the one drop rule has been perpetuated by the black community and accepted by many biracial people. In recent history, they would have been, most likely correct more often than not. I believe that is changing because of people who aren’t afraid to speak out about their inner beliefs.

I came across these videos from The Phil Donahue Show from the 1990s. Eight video clips show light-skinned blacks and biracial people talking about various topics like, “passing” for white, being the victim of unwitting blatant racism, and struggling with the creation of their own identities. Passing is huge part of the biracial person’s history, as is struggling with finding acceptance from both the white and black communities. These videos are very telling, very interesting, and the relative recency of them makes me wonder how much will have changed in another 20 years, when Annika is a young adult.

Speaking about the identity struggle based on race mixing is new, in the historic sense. And it started with people like you’ll see in these videos, not afraid to share their experiences, and demanding the right to choose which culture they felt most comfortable with, no matter what their skin color said about them to other people.

This stuff is a big part of the biracial person’s history. It is a struggle that separates them from both black and white, and at the same time, gives them access to both. Historically, the African American/Caucasian biracial person has struggled with identity in ways that blacks and whites cannot identify with fully.

Here are the first four. You can watch all eight clips here.

The biracial child, holding black doll, with her light brown skin, dressed as Snow White. Oh, the ironies.

It’s Black History Month. Every year around this time (and other times) it brings up my own mental rambling about just how Annika will fit in to the world of African Americans, or more accurately, black Americans whose history includes oppression from their own culture.

For all outward intents and purposes she is a black citizen of the United States of America. She will be/is viewed as black, I suppose.

The irony is that Annika’s black roots do not extend back into the hideously oppressive American history that includes Jim Crow laws/segregation and slavery.

Her father is an immigrant. He has told me in the past that he doesn’t necessarily relate to the black culture of this country, not fully. He is Nigerian first and foremost. He is an American citizen, but he and his family do not hold on to a lot of the American racial injustices of the past. They can relate to it on some levels because of certain stereotypes they have encountered along the way, but they do not hold it in the hearts and bodies the way it is held for many black Americans. Their minds extend back into Nigeria when they view their past.

Since my past does extend into this country’s history, but on the white side, I do not know how much Annika will take to heart the Black History of our country.

Will she relate? Will she feel pressured to relate even when/if she does not?

When Annika was an infant and President Barack Obama was running for office, I read his book, “Dreams from My Father.” He writes about the pressure in college to conform to the world of black oppression, even when he had come from a mostly white world and had barely known his own father, who was Kenyan, and had not lived most of his life in this country.

As I read that, holding my tiny baby, I projected into the future, noting my daughter’s similarities with our would-be president, and wondering if she would feel the same pressures.

I know that our world is different even now, than it was then. And will be even more different when Annika is that age. But I also know that the culture still clings together. Many black friends have shared with me that they feel the need to continue to view the world from the perspective of how someone else views them. It is not something they choose, but is done for self-preservation.

This will not be something Annika learns from me. And Toyin will give her an entirely different viewpoint, from another culture and a skin color that looks the same, but does not relate.

I don’t worry or feel concerned. But I do wonder how I will handle this when/if she feels the pressure to collect and hold the anger and oppression of a culture that, in all reality, is not fully hers. I wonder how much she will relate. Or if she will accept that many will see her one way, but she can choose to show them who she truly is.

I just wonder.

As we go in to February every year, I start to ponder this and I wonder how much I should share with her and when it is appropriate.

I just wonder.

Sometimes I think that parenting needs a 12-step program.

I’m a believer in the theory of unconditional parenting as proposed by Alfie Kohn in his book Unconditional Parenting: Moving from Rewards and Punishments to Love and Reason.

However, belief by itself doesn’t always translate into action.

I’m in the midst of re-reading the book because I’ve begun to notice after some time that my language has become more and more conditional since reading this book when Annika was a toddler.

If you’re not familiar with the theory, let me try to give a brief explanation. (Or you can read more here.)

It’s a complex theory, so really it’s best to read the book.

But basically it says that the use of punishments and rewards conditions children, therefore putting a condition on the parental love, leaving them with insecurities.

The judgments, even positive ones, that we use with our children affect how they think we love them.

Unconditional parenting says that a parent’s unconditional love should be evident in our language and actions. Kohn says in the book, “…the relevant question isn’t just whether — or even how much– we love our kids. It also matters how we love them.”

How we love our children matters.

The ideas in his book really spoke to me when I first read it and I began putting into practice removing judgments and empty praise from my language. I took the words, “good job” and tossed them out of my parenting language. I don’t say anything when she does something new like open a heavy door, or help me carry groceries, or clean up her toys without prodding.

There’s meaning in the unspoken.

I began using constructive words to describe her creative efforts, her attempts at sports, and other toddler/preschool learning activities. Things like, “You used contrasting colors in that picture.” Or, “You kicked the ball really straight and hard.”

The idea behind that is to point out what was good or useful instead of offering empty praise.

Adding to that stuff, I made a habit of telling Annika that I love her and give her a hug and/or kiss, immediately after she’s thrown a tantrum, (or when I’ve lost it yelled at her).

Kohn says that using conditional parenting, mainstream advice would tell us to punish “bad” behavior. But using unconditional parenting, the parent realizes that a tantrum is a sign that something is wrong, and that’s the time when our children need our unconditional love the most.

It’s something I continue to struggle with. There are times when I just want to squash the tantrum. Or I lose my temper and my patience.

These ideas that we should allow anger and annoying behavior are not things we’ve been taught. They go against all the typical parenting patterns in our society.

But I think they are worthy habit changes and I am looking for some new ones to add to the mix as she ages.

So, I’m working on it. But it doesn’t come naturally. And I fall back into using mainstream language when I’m not paying attention. I nitpick. I roll my eyes behind her back. I yell sometimes. It’s hard to change even when you know better. And part of that is because of conditioning.

It’s something I have to continue to watch.

I noticed that my language had started to reflect more mainstream mantras a few months ago when I was teaching Annika to play “tennis” (really it was a plastic ball with badminton rackets from the dollar store).

So, she’s only 3, right. It had never even occurred to me that she would actually be able to hit the ball with a racket. But she wanted to try. Hey, I am all for that. If my kid wants to learn something new, we do it.

So, after a few lessons on stance and modeling the serve, she got it! (Sort of.) I was so excited I jumped up and down shouting, “WOW! GOOD JOB! GOOD JOB!” Then I quickly added, “YOU DID IT ALL BY YOURSELF!” And then I added more constructive feedback as we continued to play while I mentally kicked myself.

Although, I don’t think the random “good job” is going to do any long-term damage to her psyche, I wonder just how much other conditioning I’ve done without realizing it.

Everywhere you turn, you hear parents congratulating their kids on things that they don’t need to be congratulated for.

Children get rewards for the most ridiculous things in our society. Peeing in the toilet. Eating vegetables. Helping pick up toys when they are happy to do it. Reading. (Really? As a childhood reader, that one really annoys me.)

In my mind, these are just facts of life. Things that you need to learn. Giving rewards for them seems hollow at best, detrimental at the worst.

But parents are in a rush for their kids to learn or keep up these habits. It’s a systemic problem from an immature society with a selfish need for everything to happen on a timetable instead of allowing things to progress naturally. We are a convenience society and it has extended to our parenting in the form of conditioning.

Nobody seems to think about how we teach, just that they do it. Is that really the kind of society we want to raise? People who are conditioned into doing things for a reward instead of doing it out of joy?

It’s one of those sick and twisted lies that our culture keeps propagating. It’s not even an elephant in the room because everyone sees this elephant and keeps patting it on the back and telling it “good job.”

The past week has been one of those weeks where I blink and it’s next Tuesday.

The nights and days blur together and every night, I marvel that it seems like I was just getting Annika ready for bed a minute ago. Here we go again.

I’m obsessing over preschools and elementary schools. I’m making lots of good new business contacts. I go to bed every night thinking about what I have to do the next day and I drink so much coffee I feel like I’m shooting up. (Not really.)

I wanted to write a new, yet brief post because I have to get my sex post off the top of my blog.

Adding to that, I’ve been doing a lot of pondering about life lately. Since turning 40 in November I’ve gotten this constant tiny little thought in my brain that says, “This is the only life you’ve got. Live it to the fullest. It’s ticking away, minute by minute.”

That’s not to be morbid. But as I’m aging, the reality of life has really begun to sink in.

I”m noticing just how damn precious life is. This year, for the first time in my life, one of my goals is to notice, even for a small moment every day just how lovely the sky is, and stop to breathe when I’m feeling stressed and overwhelmed.

The world isn’t going anywhere I tell myself. 

And while there is always another day. This particular day is the only one of its kind.

Every minute is unique. And when it’s over. It’s just over.

*Family member TMI alert*

Mom, TMI = You may not want to read this.

For the past few years, sex has come and gone in  my brain in a variety of ways that it never had before becoming a mom.

Before giving birth, I had heard of women losing their desire to have sex. I always figured it was because of the sensitive nature of the body part that was healing. But honestly, that part healed up a lot faster and easier than I thought it would.

However, I had no desire, even when I could. Luckily for me, it was a non-issue.

It wasn’t healing that hindered my desire.

I had a new person to cuddle with. And that person needed me for everything, love, food, warmth, reducing fear, mobility.

Added to that, I was newly in love. The idea of giving any part of me to another human being, even the person who helped me make the new love of my life, felt like an adultery. It made me queasy.

When I told Toyin this, along with the tidbit that simply watching sex scenes in the media made me wince, he said there must be something wrong with me.

Since it wasn’t really an issue between us at that point (our sex life pretty much died with my pregnancy, TMI much?) it was more of a rational conversation than it would have been if we were still a couple.

As usual, when discussing these types of issues with him, I thought he was probably wrong. I figured that eventually the old girl would come back around.

And she did. But it took much longer than I thought it would.

Like two years.

When the appeal came back over a year ago, the thought of having a new relationship with a man who had not fathered my child was hilarious to me. I couldn’t fathom how this could possibly work.

I was a single mom still nursing a toddler who seemingly planned to take my breasts with her to college.

No matter who you’re sharing them with, breasts are –in my mind– a one-person body part.

I imagined scenarios where I’d get lovey dovey with a new man only to dribble breast milk on him during a passionate act. Or have him encounter a new bedtime snack that neither one of us enjoyed.

Gross. I can’t imagine any scenario where that would have been acceptable for either one of us. If I met a guy who was okay with it, I’d go running for the door. Best case scenario is that I’d have a new story named the “Breast Milk Incident” filed under, Hilarious Yet Embarrassing Stories that I Only Tell When I’m Drunk.

And in case you’re wondering, oh yes, it not only could have happened; it almost definitely would have.

I was like a cow with my milk. I leaked out of the left side for the first four months. I was probably a wet nurse in a previous life. Given this talent, it’s really quite a shame that I only had one child.

As I pondered this possibility, I also recalled a story I heard once about a stripper who squirted breast milk on a guy because she was (supposedly) aroused and that’s just what happened. (As told to me by someone who was in the company of the man to whom it happened to. Don’t ask me how I end up with these stories in my life.)

These imaginary and supposedly real scenarios stopped me in my tracks every time I thought about finding ways to put myself back on the market.

But Annika is finally (FINALLY!) almost weaned. Need I say more?

I have two Facebook friends who are dead.

Every time I think about it, I stop and pause. It’s just so strange to me that there are dead people who still have an online presence. And then I go about my day.

But I have to wonder, I mean, what will happen to those profiles? Will they eventually die? Does that mean those people died twice?

With so much technology and online presence, it’s almost like we have two lives.

Most genuine people, who are acting honestly online, still have an online persona.

We portray ourselves in certain ways online because of a variety of characteristics, perhaps our writing skills are better than some; perhaps we are really good photographers; perhaps we are super savvy and know all the latest technology; or perhaps we enjoy the lack of intimacy, allowing us to simply be, without the eye contact and body language that gets in the way of our words (that’s me).

So, do we have two lives now? Will Facebook and Twitter (and Google+) take over once we are dead? Maybe it sounds crazy. But even 10 years ago, hell, five years ago, I couldn’t even imagine asking this kind of question.

I remember when I didn’t have an email account. Now, I have four.

I also have a Facebook profile and two fan pages. I have two (or more) Twitter accounts; Google+; Pinterest; Diaspora; perhaps some other crap I’ve signed up for and I can’t remember at the moment.

So where does it end? What happens to these accounts after we’re dead?

Will they eventually lead to a portal in the afterlife? Are my dead Facebook friends checking in to see if anyone has left them a message or still writing on their walls?

This might sound crazy, but for months after both of these people died, people still wrote on their walls, talked to them. Missed them.

I realize that using commonly held beliefs, it’s easy to say that these people were simply mourning their losses and using Facebook as a way to empty their grief. Sure.

But I still have to wonder.

Computers are a bizarre invention. I was recently looking at some code on the back end of my website and mostly it looks like gobbledygook to me. I am not a programmer by any stretch of the imagination. But I can edit a bit here and there.

Looking at this stuff, I was fascinated and truly amazed when I really thought about what I was doing.

“I’m changing a picture with words and symbols,” I thought. “It’s truly brilliant.” We manipulate everything online with words. Words. Letters of the alphabet. Every single thing online, on the web, everything we look at and play with and watch is there because someone used language. It’s fucking trippy.

So, sure, Facebook is probably not the portal to heaven. But it’s something. That’s for sure.

P.S. I am not drunk.

Since I generally make resolutions and then I don’t keep them, I decided that this year I’d use a little reverse psychology on my self.

Here’s my New Year’s resolutions list for 2012:

• Watch more TV
• Eat more junk food
• Drink more
• Gain weight
• Exercise less
• Spend less time playing with Annika
• Read less
• Don’t write a novel
• Blog less
• Make every effort to not learn a foreign language
• Take up smoking again

Happy New Year!

Christmas night, after I spent an entire day indulging myself and my daughter, as I drove home from my parents’ this thought crossed my mind, “I’ve lived a life of uninhibited indulgence.”

I’m not saying that I have lived a life filled with debauchery and excess. I haven’t. Not in the context of American life, anyway. In fact, it’s been the opposite. I’m un-American in many ways, in that I don’t spend a lot of money on clothes, food, or cars.

But in comparison to most of the world, my life has been filled with always having enough. I’ve never lacked for anything, not really.

I’ve always had a home, with food on the table, clothes to warm my back, and transportation to take me wherever I need to go.

When it comes down to it, I’ve always done exactly what I wanted and gotten exactly what I wished for.

The latter part is subjective. There are many things I’ve wished for that I’ve never gotten. But in all honesty, they are things that are either impractical, illogical, or completely unnecessary to my being. Day-to-day, I cannot say that I have lacked for anything.

If I want new clothes, I buy them. If I want food, I get it. As an American, if I want. I get. It’s just that easy. While yes, there are poor people and homeless in this country, overwhelmingly, we are a country filled with more haves, in comparison to the have-nots.

Yesterday as Annika opened her gifts, she went from gift to gift, finding all things she had asked for at one point and a few things she had not.

Then we went to my parents’ where she got more gifts that she had wished for perhaps once.

Yesterday morning, the day after, we were driving in the car and I asked her, “Did you have a good Christmas?”

Her response was, “Well, Mommy, I did get the things I asked for, the dolly, and the wagon, and the jump rope. But I got a lot more things that I didn’t ask for.”

She wasn’t being ungrateful. I don’t think it’s logical to expect a 3-year-old to be that knowingly selfish. She was being honest.

It was too much.

Oh, from the mouths of babes.

And this conversation got me to wondering, “Can one suffer from having too much?”

This question in itself might seem selfish. But the reason I wonder is because I know that while I have always had plenty, I have not always been happy. And I look around me, at this world and our country, and I see many depressed and angry people, wanting something different.

We spend our lives wishing for more, or something else. And this season just has me wondering, maybe, it’s that we just have too much and that we got a lot of things that we never asked for.