FROM THE MOUTHS OF BRILLIANT BROWN BABIES

Look, we live in Georgia, okay? People love them some John McCain here, and go out of their way to let Obama supporters know it. With a LOT of gigantic yard signs. And bumper stickers, too. And they tend to say a lot of ridiculous things about Barack Obama, obviously within earshot of their kids, because these little pint-sized, tart-mouthed Republicans have been climbing on the school bus and strutting into the classrooms, saying all kinds of foul things to black children—mine included. Just yesterday, my 9-year-old tells me, a kid in her class told her he “hopes Obama gets assassinated.”

I wish he was just engaging in some 9-year-old silliness and that his words were not the reflection of the views of his parents. But something tells me the ‘rents are probably sitting around the kitchen table, saying all kinds of foul things in front of their kids and letting the feelings their words ratchet up go unchecked. Don’t we have the responsibility to arm our children with thoughtful, intelligent, age-appropriate information so that they can learn how to parse ideas and express themselves in meaningful ways? I mean, anything less means we’re falling down on our jobs.

Luckily, my fourth grader, Mari, is quick witted—she’s got skills. She simply dismissed her classmate as an idiot and told him he should prepare himself to call Obama “Mr. President” come next week. (*I dab at my eyes, sniff, and smile proudly*) My nephews Miles and Cole recently had their own glorious moment on the school bus:

6th grade Republican girl: Why does your family support Obama, since he takes from the rich and gives to the poor?

My 4th grade nephew, Miles: That’s not true. But if it were, would that be a problem?

Republican girl: You should have a problem with it—you’re rich. How many poor people have a pool in their backyard?

Miles: We’re not rich—we’re middle class. And the rich are in a better position to help the poor.

Republican girl: Well, Obama won’t be a good president for the country.

Miles: It was a Republican president who caused the country to be poor and led us to war in Iraq.

Republican girl (obviously flustered): Yeah? Well Obama’s ears are so big that he could be an elephant and become a Republican.

Miles: Well McCain’s cheeks are so puffy that he doesn’t even need his private jet—he could just fly himself.

Cole, Miles’s 6-year-old brother, who couldn’t resist getting in on the action: “Look up in the sky, it’s a bird, it’s a plane, no—it’s the same McCain!”

Mark my words on this one: Mari, Miles and Cole, and my other daughter, Lila, equally brilliant, are going to be runnin’ thangs one of these days—maybe even the United States of America.

Today is the last day that early voters can pull the lever in Georgia, as it is in many other states that allow early voting. No matter whose corner you’re in, no matter what party you support, no matter which candidate you prefer, please go vote. If not today, then most certainly on Nov. 4th. It’s your right. It’s your duty. It’s for our beautiful babies.

DENENE GIVES EXPERT ADVICE ON THE TODAY SHOW

As most of you well know, I'm the Reality Check columnist for Parenting magazine, and on occasion, I'm asked to serve as an expert on parenting issues for television and radio shows and newspapers and magazines. Today, I served up some expert advice/opinion about childcare on The Today Show. The overriding question was, "When it comes to finding quality, affordable child care, does Mary Poppins exist?"

(The crazy thing is I didn't even realize the segment was running today; I had my face all the way in my coffee mug and my eyes on a terrific piece by one of my favorite New York Times political columnists, Gail Collins, when I heard my voice on the TV. I looked up, and there I was!)

So, for those of you who, like me, missed it, here's the segment, as first shown on The Today Show, and posted on MSNBC's website. Enjoy!

Also: I'm giving expert advice now over at iVillage's "Momtourage." Please do go over and take a look around; I'm answering two reader questions--one about how to be more playful with the hubby, another about dealing with the ex and his new wife. I promise you: My answers are every bit as juicy and saucy as the questions. That's why they're calling me "The Real Talk Mom." If you like what you read--or you don't!--leave a comment on the Momtourage site--they'd love to hear from real moms!

Green Gobble-'Em-Up Goblin Cupcakes

There’s no trick to making these ghoulishly cute Halloween treats. A box of cake mix, a little green food coloring, a few chocolate googly eyes, black decorator icing, and some red tines from a plastic fork and you’ve got a pretty thugly cupcake creature. Vanessa Bush, the extraordinary writer and food enthusiast behind the MyBrownBaby blog favorite Food Lovers Like Me cooked up this spooky good Halloween cupcakes recipe, the perfect pre-trick-or-treat activity for you and your little ones. Let them go wild with the decorating—they’ll get a kick out of helping—and then eat ‘em up!

What You’ll Need:

• 1 box vanilla cake mix
• 1 package 2 1/2" foil baking cups
• 1 can vanilla icing
• 1 small tube green food coloring
• 1 package red licorice rope
• 1 package chocolate candy googly eyes
• 1 package mini M&Ms
• 1 tube black cake decorating icing

How To Make It:

• Prepare vanilla cake batter according to box directions. Add 7 drops or more of green food coloring to batter and mix thoroughly to achieve desired shade.
• Remove white paper separators from foil cups; pour batter into baking cups and bake in 350-degree oven for 17 to 20 minutes, or until you can stick a toothpick into the center and remove it cleanly.
• Remove cupcakes from oven and let cool completely.
• In a small bowl, add 5 or more drops of food coloring to icing and mix until desired shade of green is achieved. Top cupcakes with colored icing.
• To assemble cupcakes: Add googly eyes to top of cupcake. Cut red licorice rope into smaller strips to use as hair and small pieces to use as teeth. Add green M&Ms to make the nose; use decorating icing to make a mouth. Top black icing with red licorice pieces.

If You Need A Substitute:

Use mini-Oreos or white Lifesavers as eyes instead of chocolates; use black licorice rope instead of red to create hair and mouth.



How your kids can get their ghoulish goblin on:

• Let them add the green food coloring to the mix and the icing
• Let them ice the cupcakes
• Let them add on toppers like the licorice teeth and hair



About our MyBrownBaby contributor:

When Vanessa Bush isn't playing chaffeur to her two kids or yin to her husband's yang, she's a freelance writer, a writing instructor, and a mommyblogger at Food Lovers Like Me.

I'll Always Love My Mama

By DENENE MILLNER
I’m not sure what made me think about her today. I was in the grocery store, smelling the over-priced strawberries when my mother suddenly popped into my mind. It happens like that, you know—I’ll be doing something absolutely mundane, and there she’ll be, standing in the bathroom mirror of my childhood home, putting on her lipstick and adjusting her church hat; or standing over me and my Dad, watching us eat that extra sweet potato pie she baked just for us, because she knew we wouldn’t be able to keep our hands off the two she made for Thanksgiving dinner; or singing a silly song to my Mari, which, even loud and off-key, always managed to make my then-baby girl fall fast asleep. Sometimes, the memories make me giggle a little. Sometimes, I can’t quite control the tears, and I’m blinded by overwhelming sadness.

A lot of times, I just miss her so.

Bettye went away from here six years ago—suddenly, surprisingly, heart-achingly. Mari was three, and so she couldn’t quite understand, really, why she wouldn’t be able to lay in her “Gamma’s” arms anymore. Lila was barely two months old, and so all she has is a few pictures of my mom holding her in her arms, nuzzling Lila’s fat cheeks. I was a young mother, trying to figure out how to raise two girl pies and be a good wife and hold down a challenging magazine gig and write books and run a household and live a fulfilled life. None of us was ready for her to go. We needed her.

I needed her.

Still do.

I didn’t always appreciate the mother that Bettye Millner was. She was old school—strict and a little mean and definitely one of those moms who thought children were to be seen, not heard. She reveled in making her kids do chores (I spent so much time scrubbing, vacuuming and doing laundry during weekend high school events that I seriously considered changing my name to Cinderella). She chauffeured my brother, Troy, and I to church every Sunday, faithfully, and with a smile. And most certainly, Bettye believed that any child who stepped out of line had a sound whooping coming right to ‘em (her weapon of choice: a fresh, thin, sturdy switch from the tree in the front yard). She was tart-tongued and quick to tell you about yourself—fiercely protective and ridiculously private (she’s somewhere on the other side clutching her pearls over me writing this blog about her, I’m sure!). And she prayed for us even when we didn’t know it—even when we didn’t deserve it. Especially when we needed it.

I expected her to be a similar kind of grandmother—to apply those strict, old school traits to the way she would love my babies. But she was different with them—all googly and sweet and swooning. She would snatch Mari right out of my arms before she or I could get through the door good, and rush her away to a room full of gifts, and a plate full of food, and a VCR full of kid movies—just waiting for her grandbaby. She’d read to her and sing to her and talk to her and welcome Mari to talk back. She’d dress up her grandbaby and sport her down the church aisle American’s Next Top Model style, showing her off to anyone with eyes. And she’d fall asleep with Mari snuggled next to her in her bed—my father banished to the basement couch to make room for the little girl child she loved so.

And just as she revealed a different side of Bettye as “grandmother,” my mom revealed a different, softer side of herself to me, too. Suddenly, we became fellow moms: Rather than tell me what to do, she encouraged me to do what I thought was right; instead of holding her secrets close, she shared them with the hope that they would help me be a better mom; rather than reprimand me for my childcare decisions, she trusted my judgment. I’ll never forget the day when I came to her distraught because someone very close to us criticized my decision to keep breastfeeding Mari past six months. Honestly, I expected her to agree; after all, what self-respecting, black working mom kept her ninny in a baby’s mouth past a few months when there was work to do and baby formula at the ready?

“Mari is your baby,” she insisted when I came to her, overwhelmed and a little mad at the judgmental mom who questioned my decision. “You’re not ever going to hear me questioning how you’re raising your child. You’re going to make mistakes—all of us did before you, and many will after you. You do what’s right for you.”

What I would do to have her here. To order. To direct. To encourage. And pray for me and mine. There are so many things that I wish she could see—Mari and Lila’s fierce competitive spirit on the soccer field, the rows of A’s on their report cards. I know she would love Lila’s mischievousness, and Mari’s curiousness. She’d hang their artwork up on her refrigerator, and brag about her grandbabies to her friends, and sit them right up there in the front pew, so they could pay attention to the preacher, and the other deaconesses could give them mints and pinches on their cheeks. And my mother would be overwhelmed by my daughters’ beauty—proud of the young ladies they’re becoming. Excited about who they’ll be.

I do wish, too, that she were still here so that my daughters could see first-hand the incredible woman their grandmother was.

We are all missing out on something special now that Bettye Millner is gone.

I’ll tell Mari and Lila about her, though—keep her fresh in their memories.

And I’ll wait for her to come to me again—a lovely, sweet, heartbreaking vision in my mind.

Read A GOOD Book

In case you missed it, the New York Times ran a perfectly ridiculous story on it’s cover yesterday, extolling the virtues of lining our public library shelves with salacious urban “street” fiction. The piece, “From the Streets to the Libraries,” hangs it’s premise—that black folks just love street fiction and want their kids to read it, too—on one mom, who, in addition to being an avid street fiction reader dedicated to getting titles like “Riding Dirty on 95” and “Paper Chasers,” into her local library, actually encourages her entire family—kids included—to read street fiction for an hour every night. “I don’t care what they read,” the mom says. “I only care that they read.”

Ha’ mercy. This mess right here? That’s like saying, “I don’t care what my kids eat, so long as they’re eating. More Doritos and Coke, baby?”

For as long as we black authors have been lamenting our role in the publishing industry, we’ve heard the argument that young street fiction fans eventually trade up to more quality work. But maybe someone should ask a librarian or a bookseller how it really goes down. Kids who kick off their love of reading with sensational, titillating, hyper-sexualized street fiction rarely, if ever, run off in search of James Baldwin or Alice Walker because they fallen in love with great books. They go looking for the literary equivalent of more Doritos and Coke.

Now don’t get it twisted: I’m completely in favor of everyone’s first amendment right to write what they want. But I’m tired, tired, tired of the argument that we black folks and our kids read street fiction because it “speaks” to our experience. Raise your hand if you’re in agreement on this one: A large part of the black community knows nothing of drug dealers preying on children or prostitutes strolling the block. In fact, I’d argue that a lot of our children are about as familiar with street crime as they are with the details of The Bush Doctrine. (Actually, they probably know more about The Bush Doctrine.) And it’s high time we black folks stopped apologizing for that. There are so many more layers to our community—so many different ways to live as African Americans in America. And stories like that in The Times make it hard for people—black people included—to recognize and acknowledge this. I mean, really, we’re on the verge of electing a black man to the White House who represents a very different side of the black experience—but a side that is much more common than the New York Times would have us realize.

In fact, if you want to know what black children are reading, ask Michelle Obama what Malia is devouring this month.

That said, MyBrownBaby is going to do its part to help introduce parents to great books for our kids, featuring kids that look like ours. I figure if we help our beautiful babies fall in love with good literature early, they’ll love it long time. And if you want to find out more about great books written by and about children of color, go see my friends at The Brown Bookshelf, a wonderful website dedicated to introducing the myriad of African American voices writing for young readers.

So, without further ado, MyBrownBaby encourages you either read to your baby, or have your child read:


Precious and the Boo Hag
by Patricia C. McKissack, Onawumi Jean Moss, Kyrsten Brooker (Illustrator); Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing

This is a delightfully clever and (a smidge) scary tale about a courageous little girl too smart to be fooled by Pruella the Boo Hag, a legendary creature from the Gullah tradition. It opens with the main character, a cute, round-faced little girl named Precious, who stays home alone with a stomachache while her family goes to plant corn. Before he leaves, Precious’s brother warns her that the Boo Hag may try to get into the house, which of course gets Precious quite scared. To calm her nerves and make sure she remembers not to let the Boo Hag in the house, Precious makes up a little ditty that she sings incessantly. Sure enough, Pruella shows up and wants in, and even tries to fool Precious by changing into various forms. But each time Pruella transforms, Precious figures out the Boo Hag’s game, and refuses to let her through the door.

This was a favorite in my daughter Lila’s kindergarten class; the kids got a kick out of Precious’s courageousness, and especially how smart the little girl was to recognize and ward off the Boo Hag’s trickery. They also loved the song (I croaked my own melody to the lyrical prose and they still let me continue reading!), and were happily held in suspense the entire story through as they waited to see if the scary Boo Hag would trick sweet little Precious. You and your child will also love the incredible illustrations, a mixture of oil painting and collage work give a charming glimpse into Precious’s world.

To enhance your child’s reading experience:

• Have your child write her own “Boo Hag” story.
• Give him a basket-full of colored paper, buttons, lace, and yarn, and let him make his own version of a Boo Hag.
• Let her check out Gullah Net, a children’s site that explores South Carolina’s Gullah culture. There are stories, a glossary of Gullah terms, and some pretty amazing history about the transformation of African music into today’s more popular musical genres.

MOS DEF FOR PRESIDENT!

I've long had a jones for the rapper Mos Def, whom I met years ago when I was an entertainment reporter for the Daily News. Back then, Mos, along with his partner-in-rhyme Talib Kweli, had invited me to read from my first book, The Sistahs' Rules, at their bookstore, a well-respected establishment the two had purchased from its longtime owners. The rapping duo, who at the time was known as BlackStar, later turned that bookstore into a community center of sorts, where local kids could go and read, write and recite poetry, bond and just be. I thought that was dope, and it said a lot about Mos and Talib's consciousness and heart for African American children.

Of course, Mos has gone on to find fame outside of the Hip Hop arena; he's a well-respected actor who's been nominated for an Emmy and a Golden Globe for his work in the critically-acclaimed HBO film, Something The Lord Made (a fab, kid-friendly movie you should add to the Netflix queue), and starred in other heavyweight flicks like Monster's Ball, The Italian Job, 16 Blocks, and Lackawanna Blues. And of late, he's shown off his comedic timing with his star turns on The Chapelle Show and The Boondocks.

But beyond his talent as a rapper, an actor, and a humorist, Mos Def is quite political and extremely outspoken. A friend of mine hipped me to this Mos Def video from the hip online social consortium GOOD, in which the rapper talks about what he'd do if he were president. It's funny as hell, but Mos Def's presidential promises also reveal that he, a father, is passionate about the issues that all of us parents think and care about: healthcare, education, mentoring, high taxes, jobs, acknowledgment of black history, and living an authentic, good life. Go ahead and push play, have a good laugh, and give a nod to Mos Def for giving a damn. Mos Def for president! (Er, um, after Barack and Michelle, of course!)

Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself

Welcome to the new MyBrownBaby, the blog for parents who love their brown babies, by moms who do the same!

In the short time since its launch last month, MyBrownBaby has grown exponentially, with a wonderful following of moms (and dads!) who’ve enjoyed the content posted here. And I figured it was high time to step up MyBrownBaby’s game by giving the site a funky, fly, fresh new look—you know, to keep up with all of MyBrownBaby’s funky, fly, fresh readers.

The new design was created by the ever-brilliant Jennisa at Once Upon A Blog. I’m convinced that while I was dreaming up the new look for MyBrownBaby, Jennisa stepped into my mind, and snapped a picture of what I was envisioning—a testament to her ability to listen to her clients and deliver big time on her promises. Jennisa? You. Rock.

MyBrownBaby is the brainchild of me, Denene Millner, a veteran author, journalist, and parenting expert who has written 14 books, is the Reality Check columnist and contributing editor at Parenting magazine, a contributing editor at Essence magazine, associate editor at Odyssey Couleur magazine, and a freelance writer who has written for a plethora of publications, including Health, Entertainment Weekly, Money, Heart & Soul, Ebony, the New York Daily News, The Associated Press, and a host of others. I’m also the mom of two beautiful daughters, and a ridiculously handsome stepson, and married to a wonderful (and super hot!) husband and writing partner, Nick Chiles.

Writing is my first love; my family is my passion. And MyBrownBaby taps into the two things I love most: Family, and intelligent, thoughtful prose about parenting issues. MyBrownBaby will look at current events through the lens of black moms—a critical voice that all-too-often is missing from the parenting debate. It'll be irreverent. And funny. And make you think. Maybe even say, "Amen," because it reminds you of what's going behind your closed door, with your family.

I invite you to enjoy the posts written by me on MyBrownBaby. I also invite my writer friends who are moms (or have something to say about moms!) to contribute to MyBrownBaby. If you've got some interesting fodder about parenting, relationships, pregnancy, politics, work, etc., as it relates to being or knowing a parent of color, I want to hear it—and run it on MyBrownBaby. Send me an email with your ideas here.

Together, we’ll raise the bar when it comes to raising our beautiful brown babies, one MyBrownBaby post at a time!

Welcome to MyBrownBaby.

Somebody Loves Me, Baby!

So you know I'm new to the blog world--with only seven blogs under my belt, I'm still all wet behind the ears, breath smelling like Similac. Still, being able to express my thoughts and opinions unfiltered is, for this author/columnist/journalist one of the most freeing experiences I've had in my 20-year career as a writer. Blogging makes me happy. Seeing that my words and thoughts and personal reflections have moved others makes me incredibly happy, too. And today, I'm most giddy when I tell you that my blog buddy, Pink and Green Mama, has graciously given MyBrownBaby a blog award!



After I finished my Oscar Award-worthy speech, in which I thanked Pink and Green Mama, The Lord, my mother, father, babies, agent, next door neighbor, dog, 6th grade teacher, the guy who bags my groceries at the local Kroger, etc., I read the rest of the award post and found out that I get to spread the blog award love to my fav blogs--to acknowledge that I read them faithfully, and to hip the good folks who follow MyBrownBaby to some great bloggers they should read, too. I love these blogs because they are all-at-once irreverent, insightful, funny, lovely to look at, and, most importantly, beautifully written.

To the MyBrownBaby nominees: All that's asked of you is that you pass the award on to your chosen eight blogger buddies, and leave the following message on your post: “These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award.”

Now, without further ado, MyBrownBaby is passing the blog award on to:

Food Lovers Like Me
EbonyMommy
Tea & Honey Bread
Any Mommy Out There
CutieBootyCakes
Jewelry Rock Star
Mama Law
Black and Married With Kids

There's No Place Like Home

By DENENE MILLNER

They come every afternoon with book bags flying and their converse stomping the front lawn and their maniacal little giggles rushing into the still air, oblivious to what has been done while they were gone, and what still is to get done, too. I am usually clutching my “to do” list to my chest, with way too many “to-do’s” still unchecked, a little frantic. It is rush hour at the Chiles household, and my second, third, fourth, and fifth jobs are about to begin—homework tutor, chauffeur, cook, bathtub wrangler, midnight seductress. I want to hide. Or call in reinforcements. Or better, just take the doggone day off.

My husband, God bless him, notices these things, and, on occasion, takes mercy on me. Sometimes, that mercy comes in the form of take-out dinner, or a break from after-dinner kitchen duty, or all-access to the bedroom remote and my trusty pillow. And when he’s feeling especially benevolent, Nick, the editor-in-chief of the travel magazine Odyssey Couleur, tosses a travel junket my way—an all-expenses-paid trip to somewhere where laundry rooms and homework are non-existent, somebody else cooks and drives and cleans, and I can just chill, sans interruption or obligation. In return, I write a story about my trip for his magazine, but this is small payment.

The. Trips. Are. Glorious.

I started writing this MyBrownBaby blog from the shores of the Alabama gulf coast, where Nick has sent me for a four-day respite. I’m posted up in a well-appointed, three-bedroom, two bathroom condo—spotless, with granite countertops in the eat-in kitchen, a grand king-sized bed in a master bedroom with a huge deck overlooking the bay, and a flat-screen TV equipped with CNN, HGTV, and an endless loop of Bravo’s “Project Runway,” and “The Real Housewives of Atlanta.” There is no laundry room (not one that I have to use, anyway). All dirty dishes are being left on the tables at fine restaurants all across town—for someone else to clean. There are no dirty little brown girl booties in my Jacuzzi bathtub. And nobody is smacking me on my shoulder, waking me from a sound slumber to tell me their throat is sore, or they’re so parched that surely they’re going to die of thirst, or the little boy from “Where the Wild Things Are” just might be hiding out in the closet.

There is only peace here.

I’m finding it in the gentle whisper of the wind tickling the ocean just outside my window, a Heavenly early morning alarm, for sure. And on the deck of sail boats, while I teeter dangerously over the edge to feel the water spray against my face and watch the dolphin play tag and beg for the croacker and jewel fish and eel and shrimp the captain’s caught and tossed their way. There is peace, too, in the wildlife refuge I hiked this morning, where Hurricane Ivan had his way, but somehow, the beauty of this land and all its inhabitants remained steady, stunning, and sure. And I found plenty of satisfaction at the bottom of the gigantic bowl of bread pudding and homemade whipped cream I just demolished, without worry or apology.

I wore red shoes and red lipstick, and sexy dresses and curls in my hair—and drank mojitoes and slurped down raw oysters with plenty of horseradish and hot sauce, and flitted about without a care in the world. And then I came back to this big ol’ condo, and turned on the TV, and lay across the bed and, well… did the mom punk out. I’m longing for my family—wishing that Mari and Lila could have held the slimy fish in their hands and giggled when the dolphin dipped in and out of the water, and that Mazi could have walked along the beach and tasted the plethora of shrimp prepared in more ways than even Forrest Gump and his friend Bubba ever could have imagined. And I am longing to fall asleep in Nick’s arms—to lay my head on his chest and let the thump of his heartbeat soothe me like no ocean waves ever can.

I’m longing, simply, for life—my simple family life.

All of a sudden, this three-bedroom condo seems cavernous—too dark and a little scary. As I sit here with every light in this place blazing, CNN blaring the same Obama/McCain/America-As-We-Know-It-Is-Coming-To-An-End stories it’s had on repeat for the past three weeks, I’m reminded of a passage in bell hook’s picture book, “Homemade Love,” a bedtime favorite in our house, about a little “girl pie” whose parents love her hard and strong. At night, they tuck their little “honey bun chocolate dew drop” in, and she snuggles under her covers—in her bed, in her house, safe, satisfied, and surrounded by unconditional love. And when she falls asleep, this is on her mind:

Memories of arms that hold me
Hold me tight
No need to fear the dark place
‘Cause everywhere is home

Really, there’s no place like home, is there? I mean, I’m so very grateful for this “me time”—every last one of us hardworking moms craves it—deserves it. I also know that so many of us aren’t blessed to have these kinds of “get away” opportunities come their way—that work gets in the way and family gets in the way and busy gets in the way and, yes, we get in our own way.

But the peace and solitude I found here in Alabama can’t compare to the peace and solitude I find in my chaotic, messy, love-filled home. There, with arms that hold me tight, I have no need to fear the dark place.

Because at my house, everywhere is home.

PURE GOLD

My in-laws, Helen and Walter Chiles, recently celebrated their 50th anniversary, and the good folks at The Root saw fit to honor their fete by posting a blog I originally penned for MyBrownBaby. But this is much more than a random act of hookupage; the post, The Truth About Black Love, is a celebration of the belief my husband Nick and I have been advancing for our entire writing career together: That black couples do fall in love, get married, raise up our babies in a thoughtful, loving, disciplined way, and go on to build happy lives together—indeed, way more than anyone bothers to give us credit for.

Go ahead and read the post over at The Root, and then show some love to the site by leaving a comment.