{On the Parenting Post} My Kid: Queen of Band-Aids & Boo Boos

I’m not sure why we always fall for the okey-doke. I mean, the kid is all drama all the time—bumps into a chair and acts like she broke a kneecap, purposely Jim Carey falls on the floor and screams like she fell down a Chilean mine shaft. She gets a splinter and demands a sling. And runs through Sponge Bob band-aids like she owns stock in Johnson & Johnson. No blood required. By now, we should know not to take Lila’s frequent and frantic “Kid down—someone call 911!” antics so seriously. But somehow, we got suckered into a three-hour visit to the ER last weekend. We should have known better than to get suckered by the Band-Aid queen. Alas, we did. And three ER room hours, two doctor's examinations and on X-ray later, we feel like Bobo the Boo Boo Fool. 

Click here to read all about our ridiculous and ridiculously expensive trip to the ER room with the Queen of Boo Boos on the MyBrownBaby page on Parenting.com's the Parenting Post. And if you're so moved, leave a comment about your kids and their crazy boo boo antics!

{MyBrownBaby Redux} Yeah I Ate the Snickerdoodles. And?

[Editor's Note: I was tooling around the MyBrownBaby treasure chest when I came across this post, written by the hubs two years ago. It STILL makes me giggle. And um, yeah—ain't much changed. Love you, boo! Muah!]

By NICK CHILES

Like many children of the 1970’s, I had my visions of fatherhood formed not only by my own Dad but by the fatherly icons that marched across my television screen every week. Characters like James Evans on Good Times, Mike Brady on The Brady Bunch, Tom Bradford on Eight Is Enough, even that knucklehead George Jefferson on The Jeffersons. They were strong, (sometimes) decisive, and they were undoubtedly the Alpha Males of their households. As Alpha Male, part of the deal was that no one messed with their stuff—their favorite chair, their newspaper, their prized collection of fill-in-the-blank. Sometimes there would even be a show constructed around the hilarity that ensued when one of the kids messed up their stuff. When dinnertime came, in the words of Chris Rock, they always got the “big piece of chicken.”

I just knew that when I eventually became a dad, my household would surely be an exact replica of these TV standards (though I’m sure I hoped the house looked a lot more like the Bradfords’ on Eight is Enough and a lot less like the Evanses’ on Good Times).

Cut to December 2008 and the actual, real-life version of the Chiles household. We are somewhere in the early evening of Wednesday, December 3, in the kitchen, about four feet southwest of the kitchen table. I am making my way away from the refrigerator when I find myself staring at the snarling, irate visage of my lovely wife, (the talented creator of this website, known to me as MyBrownWifey) who is clutching a bag of Pepperidge Farm’s Snickerdoodle cookies, the delicious cinnamon-spiced favorites of my 9-year-old daughter.

“Who ate Mari’s cookies?!”

With the cookie crumbs still visible on my t-shirt, I fight off my first impulse in this situation, which is to shriek like a little girl and run from the room in terror. I even manage to fight off my second impulse, which is to blame my teenage son. (When confronted with the mystery of suddenly missing food, you can’t go wrong blaming the 16-year-old.) But then I get a flash of James Evans, standing proud and strong in that old tired-looking kitchen on Good Times. Surely James wouldn’t run from the kitchen, shrieking like a little girl (or like his son, Michael).

I square my shoulders and look MyBrownWifey in the eye. I summon the ghost of George Washington and, in my deepest baritone, I say, “I ate the cookie.” I see her eyes narrowing, so I feel compelled to add, with more mumble than baritone, “But I only had one.”

As I make my way up to my bedroom a little later on, trying to understand why the scene in the kitchen has left me a bit queasy, as if my testicles have shrunk a few inches, I see that my side of the large king-sized bed in our spacious master bedroom is being occupied by the lean, wiry little body of my 6-year-old daughter. In the sitcoms of the 70’s, one of the TV children in such a situation would have scurried from the bed in a flash, horrified to be caught so conspicuously enjoying the comfort of Daddy’s favorite spot. In the real-life Chiles household of 2008, my darling little Lila casts a skeptical eye up at me, making not even a minimal effort to get the hell up from my spot. Her facial expression says it all: “What?”

When I tell her, with that same baritone, that the “What” is that she needs to move her narrow behind from my spot, she rolls her eyes and proceeds to scoot over maybe six inches, as if that should be enough to satisfy me. MyBrownWifey manages to pull her gaze away from her laptop (Hey, the care and feeding of this blog is more than a full-time job!) long enough to suggest sweetly to her youngest that perhaps she might want to move over a bit more so Daddy can lie down.

Right here is where I give you the point of this whole exercise. With each passing day, it has become much clearer to me that I ain’t James Evans. Not even Tom Bradford. I don’t know when was the precise date that it occurred, but the household has changed quite a bit for the modern dad. One day we woke up and discovered that not only were our households no longer our dominions, but we were lucky if we could get hired as manservants or court jesters up in these joints. The rulers of my world are the tiny people who march into our bedroom in the mornings and tell us they are ready for breakfast. Mom is the queen who bestows them with greatness, the warrior who defends them to her last breath and the handmaid who takes care of their every need. I am that dude who busts into the room just when the show is getting good to tell them they have to go to bed.

What am I going to do about this? What can I do about this?

Nothing.

I know they all love me and adore me and all that, and this is what counts, I guess.

As long as I stay away from their cookies.

About Our MBB Contributor:

Nick Chiles, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, is the author of seven books, including the New York Times bestselling tome The Blueprint: A Plan for Living Above Life's Storms co-written with gospel legend Kirk Franklin. 

Nick also writes for several publications including Essence, where he pens stories about fatherhood and manhood.

He loves Snickerdoodles, and has been known to eat them while watching football—when he can commandeer the TV from his brown babies.

{Wordful Wednesday} We've Been Snowbound For Three Days :: Send. Help. Now.

We're snowbound. Again. Being held hostage by all the ice and a bunch of people who can't drive on said ice and a city that has absolutely no plan for removing it beyond "waiting," as my hilarious sister-in-law/BFF Angelou put it, "for the sun to come out." In the meantime, my kids are eating us out of house and home, bouncing off the walls, k-i-l-l-i-n-g me with the "I'm bored" and the "Can I."

God bless their teachers—one and all.

I do not know how they do it.

I promise you, I've kicked them out the house more than a coupla times. Nope—I don't care how cold it is. Get out. Do something. Rollerskate on the ice. Build a snowman. Take your camera out and get some pictures of nature in a deep freeze. Breathe heavy on the windows and draw your name in the steam. I don't care. Just. Get. Out. And take the dog with you. 

This is them being cute in the snow. Just before Nick and I locked them out the house.

Maybe we'll let them back in.

Eventually. 

{Bringing Up Boogie} Single Mom Dating Is Confusing And Kinda Sucks Ass

I’ve been single since before Boogie was born. I was not with his father while I was pregnant or any time after that. I’ve dated since he was born. I’ve met people I liked but I’ve never introduced him to any of them. It didn’t seem necessary. None of them lasted that long and I didn’t want to complicate things that weren’t that complicated to me. I’ve even hung out—dated is a strong, strong word—with a few single fathers; we’d talk about our kids, but I didn’t want to meet theirs and they didn’t need to meet mine. Plus, I wasn’t sure what was appropriate anyway. Like, do you intro your kid after two dates? After two months? After sex? And if I already knew going in that whatever it was I was doing with this guy wasn’t a “long term thing,” then what was the point of an introduction anyway? Had I met someone that felt like relationship material, I would have been screwed because, really, I didn’t know how to respond or react to that. I figured I’d burn that bridge when I got to it. I haven’t been to it yet. 

Not even close.

But there was this man I met about four or so months ago. I actually liked him a lot. He was a single father and his son was his entire life and everyone else who was in his life knew his son, too. That was weird for me because I didn’t think it made much sense to meet his son if we weren’t actually in anything. It makes sense for Boogie to know my friends. I mean, everyone that’s in my life has met or will meet him if the opportunity arises. I guess it says a lot about my mind (and why I remain single) that I separate my friends from “men I like.” This particular man didn’t have such divisions.

We set up a play date that consisted of our two boys playing in the living room while we sat and talked and drank wine. I wrote about it last Halloween in my Bringing Up Boogie post, "Pumpkin Patches, Pumas & Play Dates: When Parenting Solo Takes On New Meaning." It was all too “family-oriented” for my taste. That situation has since run its course. Very recently actually. And I’ve been thinking about what happens now. Boogie absolutely adored him and his son and still speaks of them both—always asking when we’re going to see them and if he can call the son and invite him to go to the library with us. 

See, this was exactly what I was trying to avoid. That attachment. I change the subject or say, “Oh, he’s with his mommy now and they don’t live around here.” Or make up something else.

The man in question is an amazing father and he was very good with Boogie. There was no weirdness. I was weird because as a mother, I wouldn’t want some random woman being all Carol Brady with my child, so I had more of a hands-off approach the first time I met his son. Plus I’m kind of scared of other people’s children. The next couple of times (there weren’t that many) I tried a bit harder to not be so scared of the idea of interacting with them. It’s a fine line and I was anxious about crossing any. But I did watch as Boogie grew wide-eyed with this idea of a “not uncle and not grandpa” with whom he got to wrestle around and play Nerf guns (God help me) and hide-n-seek.

The last time the boys were together I noticed that Boogie was getting very comfortable with them and that worried me because there was no sign that this “thing” was really going anywhere.

I don’t want to put all my business in the street but even that last time was a weird space and part of me regrets ever bringing Boogie into the picture because now what? And I mean that for myself, too: “Now what?” I kinda got attached my damn self. I realized that the “hanging out” I was doing prior to this was because I was too scared to really get involved with anything or anyone. I was making subconscious decisions about men/boys that I knew weren’t a long-term match just because I wanted to avoid that inevitable confusion. I’m the kind of person who sees the end before I see the path. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

This time, I saw the end and it didn’t look that bad. Actually, I liked it. I let myself get comfortable with it. For good reasons.  I’m not sure how much I’ve spoken about my post pregnancy body here, but while I was pregnant with Boogie, I also had ten pound growth/tumor/mass/whatever in my uterus. It was a very high-risk pregnancy and there were times when—well, let’s just say it wasn’t fun. I had the mass removed when Boogie was two months old, so between the time he was born and the time I had the surgery, I still had a ten pound mass in my uterus. I looked six months pregnant AFTER I was pregnant. It was dicey and embarrassing when I was out with an obviously newborn baby and still looked like I was carrying another one, and I became very uncomfortable with my body. And after I had the surgery to remove the mass, not only did I have this ugly scar down the middle of my belly, I also had this flabby and stretched mark lump of skin. I’m a small person—about a size 2/4 in dresses. But no matter what I do, that skin isn’t going anywhere. Because of that, I avoided intimate situations. Not to say I didn’t have them—a girl’s got needs. But I avoided getting too close. I kept at least a T-shirt on at all times. I never ever got naked. I avoided mirrors and hated looking at myself without a shirt on. It made getting close to men very difficult because there would always be that barrier—something disconnected.

I bring this up because this last situation, he wasn’t having it. The others just accepted it and didn’t talk or touch or whatever, but this one made me feel beautiful for the first time in years. I didn’t feel disfigured or ‘broken.’ He was very comfortable with the scar and often placed his hand on my belly as we slept. I didn’t realize how much that meant to me as far as my personal need to feel loved that way. I thought I could go the rest of my life avoiding that and then here comes this person who challenged me and challenged it. I mean, we had actual conversation about this scarred elephant that I’ve avoided for four years.

So here I have this man that’s met my son and met my scars and didn’t run from either. And then there’s me who loves to run and hide. And as soon as I started getting a little comfortable, things ended. There’s always a reason. 

This one is too complicated and too personal to really get into, but the same way that Boogie felt “something” with this new friendship, so did I. You would think that it would make things easier moving forward—you know, now that I’ve been here and now that I know what it looks like, I should be ready for the next one. But it doesn’t get easier. And I’m not ready to go there again. If anything, it makes me wish I hadn’t even been there. I’m not one of those, “It’s better to have loved and lost” people. Fuck that. Don’t show it to me if I can’t have it.

I guess Boogie and I have even more in common than I thought.

* * * *

About our MBB Contributor:Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic. She’s half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius... the left over bit is a caramel creme center. She’s also the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi. Get more Bassey at basseyworld.com

If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.

Jaden Smith Can Date My Tween—But Even Then, He'd Get Some Of This

You remember the drama behind my discovering my daughter’s tween friends like and are actively trying to date boys, right? Uh huh. Well, seeing as it’s a new year and all, I figured I’d just go on ahead and start 2011 off right by laying down the Denene Millner law on dating up in this piece. No need for words. I’m just getting ready. I figure the following tools should be sufficient:

A rocking chair for the front porch

An NRA card

A rifle

A shovel

And a prime piece of quiet land way out in the woods

Seven t-shirts with this list printed in neon letters (you know—so Mari can wear one every day of the week)

For the record, Mari is NOT allowed to date. Unless it’s Jaden Smith. Maybe Justin Bieber. Maybe. And if either one of them showed up to our door talking about taking Miss Mari out on a date? Yup, they got this coming—courtesy of the hubs, Nick, and our brother-in-law, James. You know, so er’body’s clear and whatnot.

(For those of you viewing this at work, you might want to turn the sound down now—this scene, featuring Will Smith and Martin Lawrence acting the straight fool in Bad Boys II, is full of cusses. Much needed cusses.)

On the Parenting Post: 11-Year-Old Gangstas—And Their Parents—Suck

The other day while volunteering at my Lila’s school, I had a most disturbing conversation with a friend of mine, a mom of an 11-year-old. Her older daughter, a sixth-grader, was under all kinds of stress because she was being bullied at school, for… wait on it… not wearing make-up, having only one hole in each ear and none in her lip, and not being allowed to go to PG-13 movies. With boys. Alone.

Um, lip piercings?

Maybeline?

Dates?

At age 11?

Where they do that at?

Apparently at a middle school a couple neighborhoods away. I can’t even begin to explain how disturbing this is to me, considering my Mari is the same age as the aggrieved little girl, a former classmate. And the girl’s poor mother—she was just at wit’s end with the teacher (who did nothing), the school counselor (who seemed to focus more on the bullied rather than the bullies), and the bad butt kids who were harassing her daughter (a few boys who made a point of reminding her that she was a “baby” compared to her “cooler” female classmates, presumably the ones with lip piercings and parents willing to drive them to solo movie dates). But the biggest culprits of all the madness, we both agreed, are the parents of a sixth-grade student body that seems hell-bent on letting their kids age way before it’s time. I mean, if there are parents willing to let their little girls do all of this at age 11, what on Earth will those kids be doing at 16?

If it sounds like I'm judging parents, um, that's because I am. See what I have to say about all of this madness over on the MyBrownBaby page at Parenting.com.

{Bringing Up Boogie} Holy Batman and the Big Boy Bed: My Baby Is Growing Up

Bassey and Baby Boogie

Boogie turned four on November 30th. We had a superhero party for him because he’s obsessed with Batman and Superman. Or he was. The day of the party, he told me that he actually wanted a Toy Story birthday. Excuse me, what? You couldn’t have said something earlier? Like before I paid an anorexic black man to put on a Batman costume stuffed with T-shirts to make him appear muscular? (Let’s discuss this, Batman. First of all, you were my size. The end. I mean, really, how are you Batman, but I could probably take you in an arm wrestling match?)

Anyway, Boogie and his friends had fun. There was a moment when he turned really shy and didn’t want to dance. I’ve noticed lately that as outgoing and fun as he is, he doesn’t like attention forced on him. He’d rather get/earn your attention. If everyone is focused on him and he hasn’t done anything to deserve it, he gets really shy until everyone leaves him alone. Then and only then does the Boogie Monster come out, laughing and dancing and cracking jokes. Weird.

Along with turning four, Boogie also got his first big boy bed. A rocket-shaped Buzz Lightyear bed. This thing is kinda awesome. I mean, I kinda want one. 

It’s a birthday gift from my sister, and he was so excited that he refused to sleep in it the first night. Wait, let’s tell the truth: Boogie started climbing out of his crib at around 13 months. The first time it happened, I was watching TV (I mean writing) when all of a sudden this tiny hand touched my shoulder and I screamed like Chucky had come to life. It scared the crap out of me. I didn’t know how he’d done it. I was pretty sure he levitated out of the bed and my child was some sort of witch. He did it twice more in as many days before I camped out outside the bedroom door and watched my kid Prison Break himself out. He stood up in the crib, looked around to make sure nobody was watching, then he threw his leg over the rail, and shimmied down. When he turned around and saw me standing there, I swear on his life, he tried to climb back up. It was then that I knew this kid was weird. I mean special.

Anyway, he’s been in my bed or with my parents ever since. I wanted to get him a toddler bed immediately but my parents, who have been stricken with a virus that erased their memories of ever having had children before, felt he was too young. Too young? 

I’m pretty sure I was in my own room by the time I was a week-and-a-half old. And they made me get a job when I was three. That’s not true. My point is that I don’t understand how grandparents conveniently forget all the madness and torture they put their children through once they have grandchildren. 

For instance, I remember sitting in front of the same plate of food for a week until I gave in and ate the brussel sprouts. Meanwhile, Boogie can wrinkle his nose and say, “I don’t like that,” and my parents (or their alien counterpoints) look at me like he just confessed that I beat him and say, “Find out what he wants to eat and make it!” I’m sorry, what? Ridiculous.

Anyway, Boogie spent his first night in his Big Boy bed last night and as thrilled as I was to not have a foot on my neck or creepy little fingers brushing against my ear and scaring the crap out of me, I still felt a little—something. 

I mean, I understand that children grow up. Last night, I had dinner with a 14-year-old that I used to baby sit when she was four. All I could think was, “One day, Boogie’s going to be 14.” And watching him slide into his Toy Story sheets (with all the lights in the room on and the door open), I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. He’d already gotten dressed without me and when I pick out clothes for him, he deems them “not cool” and puts them back. He likes dressing like his uncles. Head- to-toe fresh. I was okay with the clothes. I was okay when he decided that he didn’t need me to go to the bathroom with him. Or when, last week, he was on his tiptoes to reach the bathroom light and this week, he just reaches up and flicks it like nothing. He no longer needs his stool to reach the bathroom sink. He pees standing up. I’m fine with all of that, but for some reason, the bed thing had me all fucked up. 

It took him a minute to fall asleep but when he did, I stood in the doorway, staring at my baby boy. I remember when he was rolling around and kicking inside of me and now he’s this full personality, fully actualized human being. I remember when I was his best friend; now he claims Maliq and Ian and Buzz Lightyear as best friends. He’s still a huggy and kissy little boy, but I dread the day when I ask for a kiss and he refuses to give me one. Standing in the door way, watching his chest rise and fall under the comforter, I knew that he wasn’t going to be “my little boy” for much longer.

But he’s always going to be my baby.

I hope the world treats him well. I hope he treats the world well. I hope he remains filled with laughter and jokes and kindness. I hope he changes the world, instead of letting the world change him. I know that’s a lot to go through just by watching him sleep; like, I’ve watched him thousands of times before. But he’s growing up and as much as I was happily looking forward to it, I’m going to miss the tiny newborn that fit in my forearm. One day, I’ll tell you his birth story. How extraordinary it is. How grateful that I am that he made it, despite all signs to the contrary. But today, I’m going to sit in this bed by myself and listen out for his, “Mooooomy! You want to play Scooby Doo? You can be Daphne.”

* * * * * * *

About our MyBrownBaby Contributor: Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic who is the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi. She's half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius... the leftover bit is a caramel creme center. A strong advocate of mental health awareness, Bassey is currently working on a memoir about living with mental illness and producing Basseyworld Live, a stage show that infuses poetry and interactive panel discussions about everything from politics to pop culture. Find more Bassey on her site, Bassey's World.

If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.

On the Parenting Post: I'm A Crap Mom

That's Me, Denene—Crap Mom Extraordinaire 

We are not rich by any stretch, but the babies have all that they need and all that they want, too, and while they usually are not bratty about asking for stuff, Nick and I are keenly aware that they don’t really know most days how good they have it. Honestly, we struggle to find the balance between giving them what they need and what they want and making sure that they understand they are extremely fortunate because there are so many more children who do not get wants or needs satisfied—and that mustn’t ever be forgotten. We especially hammer home to them constantly and consistently that it’s OUR duty to reach out and offer help to people who need it in any way that we can.

So when I got a whiff of entitlement and ungratefulness floating from my girls’ general direction while we were shopping for kid Christmas present donations at Target last week, I laid into my daughters like you wouldn't believe. I mean, it got u-g-l-y.

But it was my Mari who convinced me to look at the incident from their perspective—and when I did, I realized that it was I who was being the brat. And that I wasn't considering my daughters' generous hearts.

To read about our disastrous charity shopping trip, the nasty Target blow-up and my admission to being imperfect,  read "I'm A Crap Mom" in its entirety at the MyBrownBaby page on Parenting.com's The Parenting Post. 

Kid Networking At Its Finest: How We Teach Our Girls To Speak Up

By DENENE MILLNER

So there we were, my girls and I, strolling through the department store, drooling over cute purses and fancy shoes, when a sweet little old lady, for sure the most unintimidating person on the planet, smiled, said “Hello,” and then got to talking to my daughter, Mari. The kid had on a t-shirt featuring the logo of a local cooking school for children, which made Mari a walking billboard for the camp she’d attended just a few weeks before, and so it was only natural for someone who had questions about it to, well, ask questions about it. So ask, the old lady did.

Mari replied to all of the old lady’s questions with “umms” and “uhhs” and one word answers. She had a case of mumble mouths, as our family calls it. I mean, I get that my kid is a tad reserved and can’t always summon up the perfect words for every conversation thrown her way; she’s still a kid, and talking to grown-ups can be a little intimidating. But I do think it’s high time that this extremely smart, well-spoken, thoughtful 11-year-old start to exercise her networking muscles. She needs to figure out how to start and hold a conversation, answer questions thoughtfully and use her communication skills to get comfortable in not-so-comfortable situations.

Knowing how to talk to others, after all—whether on the playground, at a birthday party, on a job interview or at the office soiree—is a part of etiquette 101—as important, in my book, as using the right fork at a fancy dinner table or saying “thank you” to the person serving you. It shows not only that you have manners and a firm grasp of the King’s English, but that you’re confident and in control of your own thoughts and opinions and quite capable of expressing yourself—things that serve the most successful among us well as we navigate everything from the workplace to our closest relationships.

That’s why right then, right there, as soon as Sweet Little Old Lady got out of earshot, I ran Mari through the paces...

To see how I teach my girls to speak up and be heard, in this post written exclusively for Unilever's Don't Fret the Sweat campaign, CLICK HERE. For tips, confidence-building tools and stories about how moms are helping their tweens navigate those sweat-inducing “moments,” check out www.DontFrettheSweat.com.

{On the Parenting Post} Demi Lovato Is Just A Girl... Now How Do I Explain This To My Kid?

So there I was, watching the Today Show and trying to get in a couple more winks when Lila came into the room—just in time to hear all this awful news about Disney pop sensation Demi Lovato. Apparently, the star of one of my daughters’ favorite shows, “Sonny With a Chance,” got herself all worked up into a tizzy over the harsh spotlight of celebrity and her ex-girlfriend status with the cute Jonas Brother and decided to hurt herself and her body to deal with the emotions of it all. No one in the starlet’s camp has come right out and confirmed this, but stories abound that Demi was cutting herself and submitting to an undisclosed eating disorder.

*deep sigh*

This was a conversation I wasn’t ready to have with the 8-year-old. The 11-year-old, maybe, seeing as she’s older and more mature and definitely able to, with some age-appropriate conversation, comprehend such things. But definitely not the little one, who still sleeps with her beloved blankie, loves Elmo and Dora (on the low—never in front of friends) and is still prone to climbing into and curling up in a warm mommy lap when she’s sleepy/grumpy/acting her shoe size, rather than her age.

She was very quiet while listening to the report—a huge hint that she was confused and sad, seeing as the kid can bounce off walls faster than the Tasmanian Devil. And then, the questions: 

"Mommy?" Lila asked, "What's rehab?"

READ THE REST OF THIS POST AND OTHER GREAT STORIES ABOUT CHILDHOOD DEVELOPMENT AND MOTHERHOOD  ON THE MYBROWNBABY PARENTING POST PAGE AT PARENTING.COM. 

Ribbons in the Sky: Indulging My Kids' Passions (Without Turning Them Into Total Brats)

Lila and Mari, the beautiful dreamers

When I was little, I wanted to play the piano like Stevie Wonder and speak French and travel to far away places like California and Hawaii and Harlem. Alas, these things happened only in my mind. My parents, after all, were factory workers—bound to blue collar paychecks, limited vacation days, and a work schedule that stretched from sun up to can’t see. Lack of time, money and sleep meant I could be a world-traveling, French speaking, piano playing wonder child only in my dreams.

Of course, I hold no ill will toward my parents for this. But I promised myself that things would be different for my girls—that they’d grow up having known the excitement of exploring a new land, learning about new cultures, and, above all else, having their wishes indulged.

It’s not that I spoil them, mind you. There’s a big difference between caving to every little whim and coaxing and encouraging their love of something new...


To read about how I indulge my kids' passions to help build their confidence and teach them the value of trying something new, and to get great tips on confidence-building tools and stories about how moms are helping their tweens navigate those sweat-inducing "moments," check out www.DontFrettheSweat.com.

{Bringing Up Boogie} Pumpkin Patches, Pumas & Play Dates: When Parenting Solo Takes On New Meaning

Photo courtesy of Jr Conlin

This weekend, Boogie had his first play date with a new single father friend of mine. Now, I’m generally against play dates. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with them, per se, and children need other children. And Lord knows Boogie needs more people; that child could wear out a plastic comb. I just don’t get playdates. I already have a child. Why would I want to watch yours too? Is that rude? Sorry. (Still true though.) But this was a special case.  

The first play date was on Saturday; we met at the other child’s house (we shall call him NotBoogie) and the boys played with trucks and generally made the kind of noise that two little boys would make. The kind of noise that had his father and me on the couch drinking wine. Lots and lots of wine. We ventured down a few blocks to the park at one point and watched the children climb things and swing on other things and jump off the highest part of that dangerous looking thing. 

It was a pretty cool evening, and at that point, I thought play dates aren’t so bad. If it means watching children run around while I drink wine, hell, at my house we call that Tuesday—morning.

The next day, I received a text from NotBoogie’s father telling me that he was trying to decide what to do with his son that day. He rattled off a few suggestions and I thought he was asking for my opinion so I rattled off a few of mine and then did what I do every Sunday morning—plan to stay in my pajamas until it’s time to go to bed again. So I was a little shocked to get the next text saying, “We can meet up at a central point between you and me, then I’ll pick you guys up and drive the rest of the way.” I’m sorry, what was that? Didn’t we do this yesterday? Well, this was… different. This time we were going to the pumpkin patch.

Now, let’s be clear, I love my son and we spend tons of time together. I call him my little stalker because the boy won’t let me change my mind without asking if he can come too. But our outings are to Target and the mall and the movies and brunch and the car wash (don’t hate—he loves that thing). As a matter of fact, my plan was to take him to the grocery store and point out the pumpkin display and then take him home.  Voila! Patches of pumpkin!


At home, Boogie entertains himself by launching himself off various furniture items and pretending to be a Batman Ninja Turtle something or another. But I'm always there when he's doing this. I'm sitting on the couch writing or watching TV (I mean reading. Lots of reading!) and every now and then, he'll squeeze onto my lap and we'll cuddle and then he'll remember he left his Buzz Lightyear upstairs and he's gone. Or I'll get on the floor and race cars with him. This is how we bond. But I remembered how much fun he had with NotBoogie the day before and decided, "Okay, we can do the Pumpkin Patch." I texted NB's father and we agreed to meet at 11:30 or noon or something.

Photo by The Art Institute of Portland

The drive there was long and windy and I guess I should have been impressed with nature and horses and shit like that. But I grew up in Oklahoma; once you’ve seen one cow… well, yeah. When we arrived at the farm, my first thought was, “What the fuck?! This is like an actual farm? I thought they were just being cute.”  My second thought was, “Oh. Yeah. I’m dressed way wrong for this.” And then my third: “Why are there so many children here?” Anyway, by the time we made it to the farm, the boys had to go to the bathroom. Oh, I mean we had to stand in line for port-a-potties, or, as I like to call them, Giant E Coli Cans. Nasty. 

And then we left to find pumpkin patchy things to do. We started with the maze. The boys and NotBoogie’s father were running around scaring each other and yelling while I was seriously trying to figure out this maze and how to lead us out. Come to find out that the exit was the entrance and booooo lame maze! The boys loved it though and asked to go again. I found the nearest wooden chair and had a seat. Then there was a haunted house, which, honestly, wasn’t any scarier than the port-a-potties. The boys went through that twice. I forgot to mention that NotBoogie is five, so he’s Boogie’s hero at this point. Anything that NotBoogie did, Boogie wanted to do too. So when NB’s dad hoisted him onto his shoulders as we walked, Boogie turned to me and said, “Let me sit on your neck.”

I’m sorry what? I don’t know if you all know what I look like, but let’s just say that I’m travel size. There was no way I was going to hoist this 40lb block of child onto my shoulders—neither of us would have survived this. Boogie’s look of disappointment as he watched the NB’s dad swing him around and throw him into bushes (or whatever) really broke my heart.

You see, it’s always been Boogie and me. He’s got his uncles, my sister, my father, my mother, my friends. But this was the first time it registered to Boogs that there was someone missing. 

Someone I couldn’t really explain. We looked at each other for a second. I got down to his level and I said, “Sweetheart, I’m sorry I can’t do all the things that NB’s daddy does but I’ll do my best, ok?” Boogie nodded quietly and then gave me a hug. “I love you, mommy, even if I can’t sit on your neck.”

Cue tears.

It was a good thing NB called for Boogie and he ran off; it gave me a minute to sit with this a little and wipe my face before catching up with the boys. NB’s father was concerned about my mood change, but I tried my best to get back in the moment. To NB’s father’s testament, the rest of the day, he tried his best to give the boys equal time. Of course, NotBoogie is an only child as well, so there was a little conflict, but not enough to ruin the good time. Then there was broccoli picking and apple picking and child, by the time it was all over, I felt like a slave. I was just ready for Harriet Tubman to lead us to freedom. My favorite pair of Pumas was dusty and dirty, my white Beatles vintage tee had seen better days. I was done with the farm. O-v-e-r it!  I could see NB’s father winding down a bit too and he couldn’t get the “are you ready to leave?” question out before I said, “Let’s go!”

The playdates were eye-opening in a lot of ways. They taught me about what I need to do for myself and what I need to do for Boogie and knowing the difference. They showed me, too, some of the qualities to look for in a good father. And they made me acknowledge to myself that I still will always do what’s best for Boogie, but that sometimes, I need to readjust what that “best” is. I now know, too, that I have to make more of an effort to actually get out and do things with Boogie and put him around more children his age, not mine.

Oh, also, I learned that you don’t wear suede to a farm.

You’re welcome.

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About our MyBrownBaby Contributor: "Bringing Up Boogie" is a weekly feature penned exclusively for MyBrownBaby by Bassey Ikpi, a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic who is the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi. She's half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius... the leftover bit is a caramel creme center. A strong advocate of mental health awareness, Bassey is currently working on a memoir about living with mental illness and producing Basseyworld Live, a stage show that infuses poetry and interactive panel discussions about everything from politics to pop culture. Get more Bassey at Bassey's World.

If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com. 

{Bringing Up Boogie} I Gave Birth To My Son, But He Gave Me Life

Bassey and Boogie—It's Love.

By BASSEY IKPI

A few years ago when he was two,  Boogie was so very sick.  He would be lethargic and unlike himself every day, and every night, his fever would spike to 103. And I was terrified, not only because I didn't know what was wrong with my son, but because I was a have not. I had no money. No insurance.  If anything happened to him, I had no idea how I was going to afford to make him better. Exhausted and wracked with worry and guilt, I started thinking about how maybe Boogie would be better off with a family that could provide for him. I was extremely depressed for a number of reasons and feeling incompetent, feeling like I wasn't capable of caring for my son, was the last straw. And then one night, after we both fell asleep, I had a dream that Boogie came to me and explained why he was here. It wasn't, he said, about money; we needed each other. I woke up and wrote this poem...

Boogie Speaks To His Mother


you wanted to name me miracle
searched language and love song
for a word that felt easy and
beauty and sweet custard enough
to carry me midnight
and star filled
into this uncertain life

you believed in me
before my eyelids were formed
you been wide saucer gaze for decades
when will you believe in yourself

i remember you belly uncertain
when we grew together
remember your playful push
my kick back
moving towards the music of
your words
remember you poetry
and conversation
you sang Buckley
and Lauryn as hymn

you don't sing anymore
laugh reluctantly
like the music of your joy
will shatter if it meets oxygen

i can't help but take this personally

i hear you talk about this time before me
how you wish you had another moment to
relive
make better choices
prepare a world that would hold me
despite you
but who would I be if you were ready?

not this laughter and starship boy
not this moonstone and rebel
cobbled trickster
not this dreamer
not this child who believes in miracles

you still think you chose me
think that I battled thick
stubborn mass of tangled cell
and blood
to be wished away now

Mama,
why do you think it matters?
you carry midnight like
the sun be on worker's strike
be easy

you claim 2005 as your "best year"
remember psych ward?
remember blue pills swallowed in tandem
the way your heart broke motor oil
on Brooklyn concrete
remember those unpaid bills
Remember Peter
how your brain stopped
and demanded you waste away
without him?
that was your time before me

Was not fairy tale
and Hollywood picture show
was lost girl directionless
was worry of a different kind
you can revise the history all you want
I remember you motionless
remember you dark of Brooklyn bedroom
willing your heart away

today, you worry that your life
is worthless
I take this personally
I have your face
how dare you tell me it's not beautiful
I force feed you my laughter

Still you worry that you are not strong enough
to mother me properly
the scar that split you open
tells another story
tumor twice the size of my birth body
tells another story
have you forgotten
the nights we spent fused
and doubled over
pain a
lightening stroke against my spine
we were symphony then
crescendo of will
and grit

you wanted to call me miracle
what name will you answer to
if you don't see the god I see in you

you claim this glass shelled nothing
this weak willed pitiful thing
i know you stronger
know you fighting against demons and
doctors to claim me

 you gave me a universe of family
to call mine...

what do you think i will remember
when the decades unfold?
who owns the roof
or who gave me home?
the life you left
or the one you allowed for me?
i am not glass shelled
breakable

i am yours
muscled, thick cable of heart and spirit
i am yours

claim i stun your mornings with beauty
i would have no morning if not for you
tell me you know what you did
tell me you know

you pushed for me
and i am here
waging war against your doubt
the same spirit that kicked
your voice around
this crowded womb
pushing for you
fighting like you fought
I am you
at your best

you think you chose me?
today, I give you life.




* * * * *

About our MyBrownBaby Contributor: "Bringing Up Boogie" is a weekly feature penned exclusively for MyBrownBaby by Bassey Ikpi, a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic who is the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi. She's half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius... the leftover bit is a caramel creme center. A strong advocate of mental health awareness, Bassey is currently working on a memoir about living with mental illness and producing Basseyworld Live, a stage show that infuses poetry and interactive panel discussions about everything from politics to pop culture. Get more Bassey at Bassey's World.

If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.