On the Parenting Post: The Baby Who Never Was

The cramping started in the car—sharp pains that felt like the spasms I get when my period is imminent. By the time I got back to our apartment and settled in from an afternoon of pedicures and massages at a spa party with my girlfriends, my groin felt like it was being shanked by 20 angry men. And the blood would not… stop… coming.

Hushed calls to Nick… Rushed ride to the hospital… Needles and pokes and questions from men in white coats… uncertainty. Tears. Fear. Maybe I had a cyst on my ovaries that burst. Maybe I had fibroids. Maybe it was a period more painful than usual, they said. An ER room full of physicians, but nobody knew what the problem was—just that I was in pain and bleeding and then suddenly not, and whatever “it” was, it was for my doctor to sort out, but it probably wasn’t anything too major.

Turns out it was major.

“You had a miscarriage,” my OB-GYN said easily—too easily. Like she was telling me “Oh, by the way, you have sleep in your eye,” or “There’s lint on your shirt,” or “Here’s tissue—you have a booger.” These things happen, she explained in measured, clipped, technical terms. You get pregnant and the embryo isn’t sufficient and your body, knowing it’s not sustainable, expels it.

I could barely process her words; the four most hurtful ones—you, had, a, and miscarriage—crackled like thunder over all the others, and the tears—oh, the tears—rushed from my eyes like the endless torrent of water down Niagara Falls.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. Insisted, really.

But I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine at all...

Check out the rest of this post on The MyBrownBaby page at Parenting.com's The Parenting Post. For more great stories about child development and motherhood, check out Parenting.com.

{BRINGING UP BOOGIE} FOR COLORED GIRLS WHO ARE PREGNANT, ALONE, AND UNABLE TO SEE THE RAINBOW…

By BASSEY IKPI

The doctor says I’ve lost weight in the last two weeks. The doctor says that the growth is even bigger now than it was two weeks ago and huge compared to two weeks before that. The doctor says he’s having trouble hearing the baby move. He says, “Don’t panic. I’m just having trouble. The mass is like a soundproof booth.” I say, “Okay.” He asks me about the eating and the sleeping and the vitamins and all I can say is, I’m trying. And that’s the truth. I am trying, but the trying is clouded by all this real life stuff.

My friends are the support and the village and it’s so real and so true, but the first few days alone in the new apartment make me feel like I am a village of one. There is no TV, no radio, no internet, no other person making noises and music in the next room. There is just me and the quiet that scares me and the man on my fire escape at four in the morning Sunday and no one to help me close my windows at two in the morning on Saturday and the phone conversation on Monday that threatened to kill me.

There is an alone that sits on my chest at night. And I know, I could pick up the phone and call someone  to come and help but there is the thing in me that says, “It’s not supposed to be like this.” So the fear gives way to anger and resentment and then gives way to fear and sadness. And the sadness holds steady and the food comes more slowly and the reasons become fainter and it’s all too familiar. Because months of pretending that my depression doesn’t happen anymore only makes the water behind the dam that much more powerful and with one misplaced phrase, the crack forces it forward.

The thing about depression is that it eats you. It devours you from the inside out and by the time it’s worked its way into a part of your brain that recognizes that it’s a hoax, it’s too late. Your body has already been tricked into believing that if you get out of this bed, the churning in your stomach will crush you. So better to just lay here and cry than attempt to leave and have the weight of it all fall on you. It makes no logical sense. And if you’ve never been there or allowed yourself the magnitude of it all, then it's easy to say, “It’s all in your head.” But those who know, know that yes, it is all in your head, but that’s like saying, dancing is all in your feet. Yes but also no.

I’m thinking about this baby. I’m thinking about how I’d imagined that if I ever got pregnant, alone and depressed, some sort of uber maternal instinct would kick in and say, “Bitch, this ain’t about you. Eat something.” And I have been—just enough for the baby. But just enough for the baby is no longer just enough. It is growing and I am shrinking.

I’m okay. Just okay. I’m scared, of course, but I’m breathing and moving and dancing through it. But as with most things in this space, it takes just one movement on the wrong side of the scale and there is something that breaks and leaks a melancholy silicone against your bones and you don’t even know it until the second you inhale too steadily and exhale and the slick and poison of it shocks you into holding your breath. I try to avoid those conversations. The ones that rival sticks and stones and break my heart but sometimes I provoke them. Sometimes I need to feel something so badly that I pick a pain I think I can handle and let that be the oozing. But often, it backfires. I’m hypersensitive. So even the hurt I control has the potential to aim too low.

I need to cocoon. I need to wrap myself in something and see if I can remember where the center of it all is. Especially now. I can’t afford to lose this baby or myself. I need to be ruthless.  Forget the feelings and the expectations and the future I want to preserve. There will be no future if my now isn’t protected so I’ll protect it and if it means I keep my walls up and paint flowers on only the side I can see, then I’ll do that. Fuck if he can see them. Tell him to paint his own damn wall until he’s ready to see me on my side.

My brain has figured out it’s a hoax. I’m just trying desperately to remind the rest of me. Encourage myself that a carton of yogurt and half a bowl of cereal isn’t enough for anyone, let alone someone growing a something. Encourage the sleep, despite the men who linger on fire escapes and the windows that will not close.

Despite the men who don’t understand that sometimes the words come wrapped in fear and fire because that’s the only way they will make it over both the walls. Despite the doctor that never wants to frighten but can’t fix his face fast enough to say, “Let’s get you a specialist.”

So I'm sitting and waiting now. I need to. This kid needs me almost as much as I need him (I'm convinced it's a boy). So I can't afford to sit in this, but I'm so exhausted. I want only to sit in it and pretend half a carton of yogurt is enough and three hours of restless sleep is enough and conversations filled with anger and hurt and resentment and violent silences are healthy. So I make no more apologies for the choices. I make no apologies for the lack of strength that black women are supposed to continuously conjure up out of thin air.

There is no air here.

Only me.

Only this something in my belly that kicks and flips and tries to live.

I'm still learning how to swim.

* * * * *

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. This essay originally was published 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.

{Bringing Up Boogie} Tantrums & Tears For Fears: Waiting For the Boogie Man

Bassey with Boogie in the belly. [Photo by Kimberly Gaines]

By BASSEY IKPI

I didn’t want to have children. I told people that it was because my life was too cosmopolitan, too six-inch heels and $200 jeans, too travel ready to tote a child about. I said I didn’t want to parent because parenting wasn’t for me. I had all kinds of reasons and excuses, but the truth was I didn’t want a child who would end up like me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love myself, but that took awhile. I didn’t want any child of mine to inherit these oddities and ticks that I grew up with. My memories of my early childhood are blurry. I have stories that I tell to amuse my friends and incidents that make anecdotes in conversation or writing, but there were a lot of scary parts. I was hyper. I couldn’t sit still. I was always doing something and moving and unable to stop myself from being too loud or too “wiggly.” I talked too much. I talked too fast. But there were other times that would come out of nowhere, where I was so sad, I couldn’t breathe. Normal things that would upset any grade schooler would devastate me. I would walk to school thinking about “What if my dad died?” and by the time I got to school, I’d be crying hysterically. When the Challenger shuttle carrying the first teacher in space exploded, I was inconsolable. Everyone in the class, including the teacher, cried, but I was wracked with such grief I stayed awake for days staring into the night, wondering if there was something I could have done to save them. 

Anything. 

For some reason, the world’s problems fell on my thin shoulders. I had to win races and spelling bees and parts in plays because if I didn’t, then something terrible would happen. I never knew what. 

I started getting stress headaches when I was around 9. Parts of my head would have these sudden flashes off pain. Sometimes on the left side near my ear, sometimes on the left near my forehead—the pain would move around. I didn’t realize then that it was stress. I thought it was brain cancer. My mother thought that I was on drugs. Nobody knew that I was suffering in other ways. It took two decades before I was finally diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder.

My son, Boogie, will be 4 in November. And every day of his life scares me. I watch him like a guard dog for any signs. I’ve taught him to tell me when something hurts and how it hurts. I’ve made sure he can come to me with anything. I’ve done all that I can to protect him. He’d been having problems in school for the past few weeks, but nothing like this. He was fidgety and couldn’t sit still and disrupting the classroom. He never went through the terrible twos, so I just figured he was getting on that late. She said that the typical acting out behavior she had dealt with before was heightened. She said he’d tripped a little girl. She said he spit in another child’s face. She said he threw a pencil at another child. She said, "I don’t know who this kid is." I could hear him in the background screaming and crying. It was a tantrum. I didn’t know who he was either. He throws those every once in awhile, but they stop within five minutes. She said he’d been like that for 30 minutes at least. And refuses to settle down or stop disrupting the class. I started crying immediately, I asked if I could speak to him and did my best to keep my voice even. 

I asked him if he was hurting in any way. He said, “no.” I asked him body part by body part. He answered no. Then I asked, “Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you acting up in school?” and he said, “I don’t know, mommy.” And I burst into tears.

I know he’s only a kid. I know that kids act out sometimes. I know that your sweet innocent little boy can be a terror in other places, but not my boy. I was so happy that I could take Boogie anywhere and he would sit still and amuse himself while grownups talked or I performed. I tell stories of Boogie Antics, as a friend calls them. He’s a good kid. And I’m scared to death that I broke him. I speak openly about my issues with mental illness. I’m not ashamed of what I have or what I’ve been through, but I don’t want it for my baby. I want him to be normal. I want him to live his life free of all the pain and heartache that I went through. All the confusion and chaos that was in my head. I don’t want that for him.

As a mother, there a lot of things that we have to be careful about. Especially, while raising brown boys to be good, alive black men. But on top of that, I need to make sure I raise a sane brown boy into an emotionally healthy black man. I don’t know how to stop it. I know he’s young, but on top of all the other fears that mothers have, this is one that scares me the most because if it happens, I gave it to him. And I will never be able to forgive myself for that. I know it’s early and I’m probably emotional and jumping to conclusions, but I didn’t realize how much this scared me until that phone call. He’s probably fine—just tired or upset about something or disappointed that they didn’t make it to the field trip due to the rain. I pray that’s all it is.

I pray with everything I own that’s all it is.

I would never be able to forgive myself if it’s anything more.

* * * * *

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. This essay originally was published 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. 

{Bringing Up Boogie} Angels In the Delivery Room: In Memory of My Friend, Nurse Valada

Vintage Boogie

When I was pregnant with Boogie, I had a difficult time getting used to the idea of pregnancy and negotiating the new changes I was going through. So the irony of being invited (along with Ove) to perform at the school for pregnant teens in Brooklyn was not lost on me. While waiting to present, I saw a pamphlet on the bulletin board—purple and pink, with a picture of a young, pregnant woman, gazing softly out of a window. She looked peaceful and angelic. I felt anything but. The pamphlet read, “Is this your first pregnancy?” I hurriedly popped one in my bag, and took a close look at it when I got back to my friend Lynne’s apartment. Though I’d just signed the lease on an apartment in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, I’d been sleeping on her couch for months. I was too scared, too pregnant, too lonely to spend much time at my own place. Plus, I didn’t have any furniture or money (outside of rent).

Anyway, when I finally looked at the flyer, I realized that it was just what I needed: An offer for a nurse to visit me once a week during the pregnancy and then once a month until the baby was 2 years old. The nurse would help me with some of the things that I found difficult and encourage me to take care of my health and my emotions in order to deliver a healthy baby. I hadn’t been eating well and the worry was already threatening this high-risk pregnancy. I called and spoke to a Maria. I held my breath waiting for her to tell me that there was some catch—that they really needed 15-year-olds, pregnant and alone. I was wondering if they wondered why an almost 30-year-old woman would need the same kind of help they offered those half my age in this particular situation. They assured me that it was for first time mothers-to-be, regardless of age, education, or social standing. A few days later, I got a call from a woman named Valada. She had a soft gentle voice with the hint of the south that most Chicago residents seem to own. She laughed easily as I hid my nerves through jokes and smartass replies to her questions. At the end of that first conversation, she told me that she was looking forward to meeting me the following week and working with me during the pregnancy.

When I met Valada, I was struck by how slight she was. This golden woman with a short, cropped afro, dyed to match. She sat with me and talked me through a questionnaire. I found myself tiptoeing through an honesty I found surprising. When she asked me about a history of depression, I held my breath and hesitated.

She took my hand and said, “It’s all right… I’ve been there too,” and we spent the rest of the time talking and crying about our shared history as black women who constantly have to fight a world that threatens us, with the strength we can't always summons. 

She was only supposed to spend an hour with me. She was there for four. When she left, she promised me friendship and a shoulder through the next few months and years.

During the course of the next nine months, I saw Valada nearly every week and spoke to her every other day. When I told her about how uncomfortable I was at the clinic, she made a few calls and found a private practice in Brooklyn Heights that would take me and then eventually perform my surgery after the baby was born. She came with me to that first appointment, the day after my son’s father and I had the worst (at that point) of our fights about… what, I don’t remember. I just know that I was bruised and broken and bargaining with my body to just hold on for the sake of this child—a baby I wasn’t sure I even liked at that point. Valada remembered I loved waffles, and promised me breakfast if I just took the first step out of the door.

In the doctor’s office, she asked the questions I couldn’t. Told the doctor what I forgot. And because I liked to make her laugh, she kept my spirits up by throwing softball pitches for my punchlines. That afternoon, we spent more time in a diner than I’m sure she got clocked for, navigating maple syrup and stories about the Jamaican men we regrettably loved at one time or another.

Valada was my friend. So when my son decided he needed to come early, she came to the hospital during her vacation to ask the questions I was afraid to ask. She held my hand and calmed down my mother who had taken the first hysterical thing smoking into Brooklyn to “support.”

And when E was born and she met him for the first time, she held him like the children she never had an opportunity to bear. Turned to me and said, “Look what you did. Everything was for this. Don’t you wish you could do it again?” and I said, “Yes.” And for the first time, meant it.

Valada was my friend. So when she wasn’t feeling well and took time off from work, I worried but remembered the sickness we shared. She said, “Girl, it’s just this damn depression. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I just don’t feel right. It’ll pass.” Months went by and we were phone buddies. I’d call her to see how she was feeling and she’d call me to say, “Girl… what did that boy do now? I swear these men…” And we would gossip and laugh. And she sounded like she was feeling better.

And then the days I didn’t hear from her turned to weeks. Her cell phone went straight to voicemail. Her office phone was answered by someone else. Then her boss called me and told me that she had taken a sick leave. She wanted to get to the bottom of this thing that was hurting her. I sent her my best. Wondered if our friendship had ended now that her job had. But always wished her the best. Called the office to check but no one had heard from her. The months passed and the baby and I relocated to Maryland for the summer. One afternoon, Edna called to check on “Valada’s favorite patient.” And I laughed and told her I was good. Mentioned that I’d had a dream about Valada last week. I should have called her then, I said. And Edna said, “I’m so sorry, Bassey…” and her voice broke before she got to my name. And I said, “Don’t tell me. What happened?” and I was crying before I could get to the “Don’t.”

My friend, Valada Skeet, passed away from intestinal cancer. She was beautiful and compassionate. And bold and funny and generous and lovely and strong and helped so many people through some of the toughest times. I wish we could have helped her through hers. 

She was too young and too necessary for this mysterious and ugly thing that was diagnosed and killed her in the span of three weeks. I’ve cried for a number of reasons but the biggest was that she’ll never know what she did for the lives she touched. I always meant to tell her beyond her thinking I was the most polite child on the planet. I didn’t have the words to express how life -changing and -saving my meeting her at that time was.

I hope she knows now.

Valada, you are so loved. You will be missed. I’m grateful that you’ve found your peace.

Rest easy, Sis. Thank you for life.

Love,

Bassey and Boogie

A Black Southern New Year's Feast Fit For (someone other than a pregnant) Queen

I almost killed my Lila on the New Year’s Day before she was born.

At least it felt like I did.

Let me explain. See, each and every New Year’s Day, my mother would host a New Year’s Day dinner at her and my dad’s place in Long Island; she’d invite over the folks—my aunties and uncles, cousins and close friends, neighbors and strays—and serve up the quintessentially storied southern black folk meal that was meant to bring good luck and prosperity to our homes: Black-eyed peas and all manner of pig parts, including feet, ears, and tails for good fortune, mustard and collard greens to conjure up dollar bills, and cornbread, because, well, who eats black-eyed peas, pigs feet and collards without cornbread? Top that plate off with some hot sauce and you were starting off the New Year on the good foot, for sure.

At least that’s what I was telling my four-months-pregnant self when I dove into a huge plate of my mom’s New Year’s Day goodness. It was divine. Great food, better company—my childhood home filled with love and light.

And then, the darkness came.

The evening when I got back home, I was so doggone sick I thought for sure every last bit of liquid and innards in my body were going to rush out of each one of my orifices. I was alternately praying to the porcelain god and sitting on it, too—crawling from my bed to the bathroom what seemed like every minute. What was worse was that my little baby, then enough of a bump to warrant maternity pants, wasn’t her usual self. She wasn’t kicking. She wasn’t shifting. She wasn’t poking her little butt out. Nothing.

And I was scared crapless.



It took two ob-gyn visits, several doctor’s phone calls, a five solid days of porcelain god worship, a pinky-swear promise from my mom that, really, nobody else got food poisoning, and normal baby movement for me to get right. Turns out it’s not a good idea, like, ever, to eat black-eyed peas, greens, pig’s feet, cornbread and extra hot sauce when you’re four months pregnant.

Right.

I mean, I didn’t really need to be sick for almost a week to know this; I’d already had one healthy baby and took great pride in keeping my head buried in pregnancy books that extolled the virtues of healthy eating. I took my vitamins regularly, I didn’t eat a whole lot of junk food, and I caved to only a few of my cravings (I said yes to popsicles, and freezing cold ice water, and no—as tempting as it was, to starch, clay, and, get this, Tide detergent. I know, weird right? Turns out those cravings were signs of a ridiculously bad iron deficiency.) But none of those pregnancy books specifically suggested I skip my mom’s New Year’s Day dinner.

So let me just go on ahead and put it on out there: If you’re pregnant, it’s probably best to stick to a sound eating plan, like the one laid out HERE on the super-informative March of Dimes website.


The March of Dimes also has a fine set of guidelines for healthy weight gain for moms-to-be so that your body can perform all the wonderful miracles of motherhood—from giving birth to a healthy baby to producing a nutritious mix of breast milk for your baby to getting your body back in tip top shape after the baby is born.

Um, and tempting as it may be to eat it, stay away from the contraband food this Friday if you’re with child. I’m just saying.


This blog post was donated by MyBrownBaby to the March of Dimes as part of its March of Dimes Moms initiative.

{MyBrownBaby Redux} Baby Talk At Its Finest: Oh The Things They'll Say!

Editor's Note: I met today's contributor on Facebook, in an invitation-only chat room commemorating Barack Obama's Democratic nomination acceptance speech. The room was full of powerful, intelligent, witty, accomplished women—our conversation was so organic and emotional and honest and funny. That was the night I got hooked on FB, and the night I decided I needed to be Bassey Ikpi's friend. A poet and gifted writer, Bassey is magnificent in every sense; her jaw-droppingly honest, spirited, introspective writing makes me want to just shut down my MacBook. And on top of that, she's hysterical. Witness.


By BASSEY IKPI

I was the girl who was never going to get married—never going to have children. I mean, I'm not even all that convinced you're supposed to eat EVERY SINGLE day. And I’d rather spend my rent money on a really cute pair of shoes. And I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to do with a baby. So when I saw the blue line on the pregnancy test and decided to become a mother, I had some explaining to do—to myself and a whole lot of other people in my life who thought they’d never see the day. The following are the very real, very true reactions to my statement, "I'm pregnant."


1.
Sister: If it's a boy, it's going to be gay.
Me: Really? Why do you say that?
Sister: Well... you're a girl and you've always been kinda gay.
Me: Oh.

2.
Friday.
Me: Mommy, I have to tell you something...

Sunday.
Mom: Nyono, it's your mother. You called me on Friday and you told me something. I'm going to need you to repeat it. I don't think I heard you properly.
Me: *repeats it properly*
Mom: Oh Lord... that's what I thought you said. I've been hiding from your father for two days. I need you to tell him today.

3.
Me: Daddy, I'm pregnant.
Dad: Oh. What does that mean?
Me: Huh?
Dad: What happens next?
Me: Huh? What are you asking me?
Dad: What are you telling me?
Me: Huh?
Dad: Do you want to talk to your mother?

4.
Friend 1: What the hell? I thought you didn't want kids.
Me: Well... I didn't. Now I do.
Friend: Why?
Me: uh... tax write off.
Friend: Really?!
Me: Uh... no...
Friend: Oh. 'Cause I'd get one too then.

5.
Friend 2: You do realize that you can't play the "Go hide in the closet and Bassey will find you eventually" game with your own child, right? Right?

6.
Every friend I have in various forms: OH YIPPEE! We're having a baby! You realize that once this child is born it is no longer yours?
Me: What kind of cult shit is that...
EF: Silence. We have to decide on names... .

7.
Friend (when I first found out): So I can start shopping for it now?
Me: Well, it's not anything now. I don't think you can really shop for a collection of cells.
Friend: YOU can't. You apparently don't know me very well.

8.
Me: First person to use the word "preggers" or ask to touch my belly or tell me I have a "bun in the oven" is getting cussed out.
D: *instant message being deleted*

9.
Friend 2: I don't care what you name it as long as the middle name is Stacey Ann Chin.
Me: The entire middle name will be Stacey Ann Chin?
Friend 2: Yes.
Me: Even if it's a boy?
Friend: Especially if it's a boy.

10.
Tim: What up, 'Nancy!
Me: What?
Tim: Get it? Preg NANCY
Me: Niiiiice!

11.
Former friend: You're crazy if you think keeping it is a good idea. I just don't believe you'd be that stupid.

12.
Everyone: I'm going to be an Auntie!
Everyone else: I'm going to be an Uncle!
Lara: I'm going to be a baby daddy!

13.
P: I will refrain from singing and dancing to a chorus of "I Told You So."

14.
Lab Tech: And this is the embryo in the amniotic sac...
Me: Oh... look at it all... embryonic...
Lab Tech: Ma'am, not that.
Me: Oh.
Lab Tech: That would be the thumb print you just left.
Me: Oh.

15.
Mum: So you're not sick at all?
Me: Nope. Just really tired. I feel fine.
Mum: Not sick at all.
Me: Nope.
Mum: Not even a little bit?
Me: No....
Mum: Well that doesn’t seem fair.
Me: What? Why?
Mum: Well, I was sick as a dog when I was carrying you... I just knew my grandbaby would return the favor.
Me: *Blink* Can I speak to dad?

16.
Friend 3: You know what's a lovely name?
Me: What?
Friend 3: Joi... it's such a good name.
Me: Thanks, Joi.

17.
Friend 4: I can't wait to see you pregnant!
Me: Awwwwww
Friend 4: I'm going to laugh so hard...
Me: Hmph.

Love my family.

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. And though she doesn’t think motherhood is very fun, she loves every second of it. Including the moments when she wishes it was 1993 and the only thing she had to worry about was how she was going to get home from Pom practice. Check her out at basseyworld.com.

Here's To Hoping It Won't Matter To My Babies (and Their Friends) If They're Black or White

by JENNIFER JOHNSON

I wasn’t ever the prettiest girl in school. In fact—I was never even close. But that didn’t stop me from being one of the most outgoing girls in my class. I was a cheerleader, in the band, class president. I signed up for and tried out for nearly every club imaginable. But the fact of the matter was that the deep south, where racism is still fresh and obvious and seering, was not the ideal place for dating.

I remember in high school reading a newspaper article about a school in a town—too close to ours—that was having their first integrated prom. My school wasn’t this far behind the times, but it certainly was a lot like that other town's school in other ways. People were much more comfortable choosing sides.

Not me, though. My best friend was white; friends from my neighborhood were black. And it wasn’t very common to have close friends of both races (I say both because where I grew up in Georgia there was just black and white—not much of anything else). By the time I started high school, we had moved to a predominantly white neighborhood, which then turned my neighborhood and school demographics into “mostly white.” Overall, it is safe to say most of my friends growing up were white.

When I turned 16 (the magic number in my house to begin dating) I imagined the phones ringing off the hook on the weekend, boys waiting in line to ask me out. But they never called and the dates never came. Instead, I had a lot of “guy friends.” You know, the ones who would hang out with you, and talk to you on the phone, but they’d mostly be plotting ways get hooked up with your friends.

This was the case with one of my best guy friends for quite some time. We were very close. He wanted a girlfriend, I wanted to be his girlfriend. But one day after school, he told me why that wasn’t possible. “Because you’re black,” he told me point blank.

Some of my girlfriends blamed not dating outside of their race on their religion. “It says in the Bible that you should stick to your own race,” they’d argue. But my parents always told me differently. "If that is the case, who are biracial people to marry?" they'd ask. "Only biracial people?"

I didn’t let those experiences drag me down. In fact, they built me up—made me a better, stronger woman. And when I moved away for college, I had the opportunity to date all sorts of men—men who weren't scared of something different. The man I married—“The One”—happens to be white. And while we don’t share the same skin tone, we do share the same religious beliefs and many of the same cultural experiences. We are in this life together because we are in love and want to be together; what others think about it is really inconsequential to us.

Still, we often find ourselves questioning where we’ll live and raise our children because while I was strong as a single woman, and we have been strong as a couple, we worry—worry that things could be more difficult for our children. I worry especially that my daughters will face the same challenges I faced growing up, but won't deal with it in the same was as I did, by pushing through it. I was able to brush it off my shoulder, but there are plenty other women who hold grudges, get upset, and turn it into much bigger things. I also worry my sons will have a hard time finding women to date because their parents don't want their daughters dating "black boys."

I worry, too, that if my children look biracial, adults will be too complimentary to my children. I don’t want my kids to suffer the “light-skinned complex," in which they think they're cuter than most because of the color of their skin and texture of their hair, or they learn to hate it because others are giving them a hard time about it.

I hope as my children grow up they meet other children who are taught to have friends of all races, and date people of all nationalities. Religion, career, personality—those are all things you can choose. You're born your race.

I don't want my children to grow up wishing they looked "more like daddy" or like their white friends, and I don't want them wishing they looked more like me, either. I want them to be proud of who they are, and proud to be whatever color they may turn out to be. Most of all, I hope others around us are accepting and open-minded enough to see my kids and others for more than just the color of their skin. After all, hasn’t our country advanced far enough to where race and color shouldn’t matter? In some places, I think yes.

Growing up in the South gave me thick skin, and confidence in who I am as a person—as an individual. For me, “choosing sides” wasn’t easy. I can only imagine how much more difficult it will be for a biracial child who has one white parent and one black parent.

I can only pray that by then, my babies won’t have to make a choice.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Future mama Jennifer Johnson chronicles her journey toward motherhood on her blog, Baby Makin(g) Machine.

Here's To The Good Times: Missing the Baby Onboard

By YAKINI

I was 36.4 weeks along in my pregnancy when it began to sink in that it was nearly over. My doctor wouldn’t let me go more than a week past my due date without inducing me, and so there were anywhere from 3 ½ to 4 ½ weeks remaining.

With the realization that the time had nearly come, I spent a considerable amount of time mulling over the idea that the tiny little being who had been such an intimate part of me for nearly 10 months would soon leave my body. Oh, how quickly the time had passed! I couldn’t help but to feel a little sad when I looked back at the many sweet, special moments I’d experienced during my pregnancy.

This is what I miss, even to this day:

•Feeling his movements throughout the day and night—reassuring me that he was healthy and strong. He was a wildly active boy, and sometimes I would just pull up my shirt, sit back in my chair, and watch him kick and do somersaults.

•Strangers on the street smiling warmly at me as I pass, or striking up conversation

•The people who would get so excited when they felt the baby kick. To see the joy that I am feeling on other people's faces was so moving. Overall, sharing my experience with others was amazing.

•The camaraderie with other pregnant ladies. I loved being able to strike up a conversation about pregnancy or first-time motherhood with perfect strangers, and talking endlessly about everything baby-related

•Oh goodness, having no periods! Heaven.

•Co-workers bringing me delicious food and gifts for the baby. Whether they were new items or hand-me downs, it felt wonderful receiving gifts that were so obviously heartfelt.

•Knowing that I was part of a miracle. Imagine the amazing fete it takes to have a tiny person growing inside of your body. I'll miss the mystery surrounding it all.

•The linea nigra that runs down the center of my belly. I remember being in awe of this same line on my mom when she carried my two younger sisters. This line symbolizes so much to me.

•I'll miss the closeness between my husband Derek and me during this time—the waiting and wondering and fantasizing as we enjoyed couple's time together in the evenings. Having so much alone time with him, planning our life together, and anticipating our new family was priceless.

•Handwashing, folding, and so tenderly putting away baby's socks and onesies and matching outfits and caps, and reading and arranging on my baby’s shelf books filled with dedications from the people who love us.

•Having people quickly bend down to pick things up for me when I dropped something. In general, everyone is so protective and caring, even to the point of hovering. But I didn't mind!

•The anticipation of meeting the baby! This had to be, by far, the most exciting time of my life.

•Eating as much as I could, without worrying about calories, feeling fat, unhealthy, or guilty.

•The bond I share with my baby, and talking quietly to him when we're alone together.

•My pregnant body. I've felt incredibly beautiful and serene throughout this entire pregnancy. The glow is real!



•My co-workers! Oh, how fantastic they'd been to me! They were so excited and involved in the pregnancy; even more special is the fact that they shared the entire pregnancy with me from beginning to end.

•The look of pleasure and wonderment on Derek's face when he interacted with our friends' little children who are bright and loquacious. I couldn’t wait to see him look at our son like that.

•Maternity clothes! So super cute!

•The feeling of carrying the child of the man I love, and who loves me back. There's nothing like it.

•The waddle. Yes, I'll even miss the pregnancy waddle (and the teasing from my co-workers because of said waddle)!

•Eagerly awaiting and reading my weekly BabyCenter.com newsletter, delivered to my inbox on Sundays, and tracking my baby's weekly growth and progress. Joining BabyCenter.com is a MUST for any expectant mom.

•The excitement of going to our third ultrasound appointments—and getting a sneak peak at our baby!

•Knowing that my life would change forever, and the feeling of transitioning into the job title of a lifetime: mother.

Of course, I realized that the greatest gift of all would come at the very end of this long journey, when I got something even better and more precious that anything I could have experienced while pregnant. His name is Chase. And I am in love.


About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Yakini is a clinical psychologist and freelance lifestyle writer who is the editor-in-chief of the online lifestyle magazine, Girly Home Webzine. She lives in New York City with her husband and their four-month-old son. Check out Yakini's blog, Welcome Baby Chase, and connect with her on Twitter @♥ Chase's Mommy ♥.

If you would like to contribute to MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.

A LOVE LETTER TO MY UNBORN CHILD

By JENNIFER JOHNSON

My dear, sweet first baby,

This is the only letter I’ve written to someone who isn’t even alive yet. I wonder what it’s like for you where you are now. I wonder if you’re getting impatient with me and anxious at the same time to come down to this world. I imagine you may be a little nervous too; it’s a scary place sometimes. But don’t worry—I’ll take good care of you.

I dream about you a lot. Sometimes I picture you as a handsome little baby boy and sometimes I see you as my darling daughter. Maybe it’s you and your siblings I’m dreaming about. You’re all beautiful—beautiful little sprits I’m already in love with. Sometimes the dreams feel so real, I wake up wondering where you are. Those dreams scare me a little, and make me think you’re ready to come down right now. It makes me feel like we’ll be together soon—much sooner than I thought.

I can’t wait to meet you, baby, but let’s not be too hasty—first things first. When your dad and I start trying to get you to come down, don’t get cold feet ok? We’re hoping and praying you’ll be ready when we are and make your debut right away. I have friends who say the first time was was a charm—or even better, they conceived while they were still preventing. I guess their children weren't taking "no" for an answer. I'm glad you've obeyed me so far—we're getting off to a good start. But I have plenty other friends who tell me it took them awhile—years, even. That seems like such a long time. I’m glad you’ve obeyed me so far and stayed put; we’re getting off to a good start. But when the script flips and I ask for you to come down, please do, okay?

I hope you and my system get along. I don’t get sick a lot, so if while you’re growing inside me I don’t feel too good, don’t worry; I’ll still be just as happy to have you. It may not always seem that way. But I will. Promise. Especially when I can feel you in my stomach. I have friends who are pregnant now, and one mommy-to-be tells me she can feel her baby in her stomach already, at just a few months. She says it feels like tickles. I’ve heard other people say it feels like butterflies. I can’t wait to feel that beautiful feeling.

I hope you understand how big of a life change this will be for me. I thought I’d be much older when I was ready to have you, but lately I’ve been thinking about you all of the time. I think you and I are both ready for you to be here. I’m not saying things are going to be perfect right away… actually they’ll never be perfect. If I’ve learned anything in my 23 years of life, it’s that things don’t always go the way you plan. But I’m a firm believer in the fact that everything happens for a reason. No matter the challenges we face as a family, I promise to love you more than anything.

I’ve heard it said time and again that once a mother holds her baby in her arms, the amount of love that swells in her heart is overwhelming. It’s something I’ve been told I can’t imagine until I experience it. For me, it’s not that hard to believe, actually. Though we haven’t met, I love you already. I know my love for you can only grow, and I’m excited for that. I’m excited to meet you—my first child.

Love,

Your Mommy


About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Future mama Jennifer Johnson chronicles her journey toward motherhood on her blog, Baby Makin(g) Machine.


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Falling On My Knees: How Becoming A Mom Made Me Prayerful

By ZUAQUIS ROSS

With all of the advice given to me before becoming a new mommy, no one ever told me about the amount of worrying one does during and after pregnancy. Parents worry themselves with questions like, will my baby be healthy and will I be a good parent? My best friend's daughter has the flu; should I keep away? I’ve gained so much weigh—will I ever get my old body back? I haven't felt my baby move for a while—is everything ok? Will my baby make it through?

It didn’t get any better after I gave birth; I’ve found myself constantly stressing about my daughter’s weight and whether she’s getting enough to eat. I constantly question myself—“How does she compare with other children on the percentile charts? Has she had enough wet diapers today? Is she crying too much? Oh my, her hands just touched the germy restaurant table… she’ll definitely be sick tomorrow!

New mommies are constantly in stress mode.

After suffering a miscarriage with our first child, my husband and I were very nervous about our second pregnancy—we worried about everything. And then we’d remind ourselves that it’s bad to stress out during pregnancy, and do our best to calm ourselves. To help, we turned to prayer, realizing how important it is to talk to the Lord about our baby while she was developing in the womb. We can eat all of the healthy foods we can, abstain from drinking alcohol, exercise, and do all the things necessary for a healthy baby, but we also need to rely on God and his ultimate protection.

Philippians 4:6-7 reads:

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

We prayed a lot for our unborn child and found that only through prayer did God give us peace and strength about being pregnant, giving birth and raising our daughter.



On January 16, 2008, God answered our prayers and I delivered our daughter Abigail into the world, weighing 6 pounds and 5 ounces. My husband was able to be in the delivery room during my cesarean. And together, we thanked God for Abigail's safe birth. We both now understand what the expression, "Children are a gift from the Lord" means. Our little one is, for sure, the perfect gift: Healthy and cute as a button. With just one look into our eyes, she filled our hearts with pure, unadulterated joy. She is a blessing. We pray that she will grow up healthy and learn to pray to God during the good and bad times (especially those teenage years). And we pray that one day she will have a peace that transcends all understanding.

For those that are now expecting, my best advice to you is to enjoy being pregnant, but also pray for your unborn baby and allow God to have an active role in helping you raise your child. And for all of the veteran mommies out there, let us not forget that we are not alone in raising our children. We have a heavenly Father waiting to help us. All we need to do is reach for His hand.

When you do turn to Him to help you navigate your job as a parent, remember this verse:

“I can do everything through him who gives me strength.” —Phil. 4:13

Zuaquis Ross, a former event planner and marketing and Web site manager for Atlanta magazine, is the author of the parenting prayer journal, “We Are Expecting! A Keepsake Poetry and Prayer Book For the Expectant Parent!” The stay-at-home mom makes a home in Atlanta, GA, with her daughter and husband; they enjoy serving on mission trips, spending time with family, and traveling. See more about her book at www.We Are Expecting.com.

If you would like to contribute to MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.


HAPPY EASTER!

THE MILLION DOLLAR BABY

By CHAREMON GRANT

I remember how unbearably hot it was the day before my son, Mark Alexander Grant, was born. I was uncomfortably pregnant, that's for sure. I had every intention of skipping my diabetes test and going home to cool off, but as I headed for the house, a small voice inside my head said, “No, you really need to keep your appointment.”

That voice saved my life and my son's, too.

Three checks of my blood pressure at the doctor's office revealed that my blood pressure was at stroke level. My husband had to come and whisk me off to the hospital, where I immediately was admitted, and given magnesium sulfate, a catheter, and steroid shots to help Mark’s lungs. Talk about a short stay at the hospital and several days of bed rest at home quickly morphed into bed rest at the hospital. And then my doctor made what surely could have been a tragic discovery: my placenta was tearing. My child had to be delivered right then--not a moment later. Had we not delivered Mark on June 21, 2004 at 26 ½ weeks, he would not have survived.

Still, the first days of his life were touch-and-go. At 1 lb and 13 ounces, Mark could not breathe on his own. He was put on a ventilator, which seemed like a simple fix, but it turned out to be a double-edged sword: It kept Mark alive, but damaged his lungs; he would need another dose of steroids to correct it, but the medicine, we were told, could lead to developmental delays.

And that was just the issue with his lungs. It seemed that every day, my baby faced insurmountable challenges: he was being checked for bleeding in the brain, had to be treated with antibiotics for necrotizing entercolitis, a disease that can kill preemies or cause serious intestinal issues, and faced echoli exposure twice, something that surely could have killed my baby given his fragile state. One of his tiny lungs even collapsed, a condition so severe that the doctors used paralysis medicine to stop my child's voluntary breathing and let the ventilator or oscillator do it for him, placing him less at risk.

We were victorious in these challenges but little did our family know that others were to come.

It's not easy for me to reflect on what could have been done differently. But going forward, I have to put a finger on it, with the hope that other moms-to-be use my story to understand the importance of taking care of all of you as you usher life into this world. What could I have worked harder on? Well, I was engaged in a high stress job as deputy general counsel for the Department of Community Health. Although I worked in the healthcare field, I failed to recognize the risks I faced and never thought to seek flexibility in schedule to accommodate myself. My request would have been honored if I had asked. I didn’t and Mark paid the price.

And though the medical staff counseled me about Mark's condition during his three-month hospital stay, I really wanted and needed a support group—people who had experienced what my family was going through. The what ifs. The struggles. The triumphs that helped us through. All of it.



Turns out that The March of Dimes had all of this covered, and then some. One of the focus areas of the March of Dimes is ensuring that mothers have the workplace support they need to minimize pre-term births. It can make a significant difference. And The March of Dimes NICU Family Support Program and Service Centers provides the support I needed—a collaborative support group to walk that difficult journey with you and to help you understand what to expect. There are even medical partners on hand to help moms like me identify and address early on the conditions our children might face as they overcome the odds and embrace life.

We must continue to support the work that is transpiring here. The growing crisis of preterm birth cannot be ignored; we have to enhance our understanding of preventative measures and continue to seek advancements in technology if we're going to see more babies have a winning outcome like Mark’s.

My Mark is a $1 million dollar baby—figuratively and literally. Preterm birth is a costly health care problem, and although cost is neither our primary concern nor reason for advocacy, we cannot ignore the impact to our health care system. Still, I'm convinced that if more mothers and mothers-to-be work together to support organizations like The March of Dimes in attacking each of the myriad of issues surrounding pre-term birth, many more children like Mark will live the lives they deserve.

For more information on family history, genetic testing, and pre-pregnancy, pregnancy, and newborn care, please check out the March of Dimes website. This blog post was donated by MyBrownBaby to the March of Dimes as part of its March of Dimes Moms initiative, and also as part of the Georgia Chapter's "Blog For Babies" day.

Want to help raise critical funding for March of Dimes programs that help babies like Mark? Click HERE to start your own March of Dimes fundraising team!