{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.

A Tribute to Two Classics: Sonny Rollins and My Dad

Sonny Rollins

By NICK CHILES

Recently I had the precious opportunity to pay tribute to two old black men, both fabulous in their own special ways. I’m talking about the legendary saxophonist, Sonny Rollins, and my dad, Walter Chiles. On the spur of the moment and at my wife’s urging, I decided to treat my 77-year-old dad to a trip to New York City to catch Sonny’s concert at the Beacon Theater, where he was joined by a host of famous jazzmen to celebrate his 80^th birthday. Dad and I were both geeked about this rare opportunity to catch a legend, perhaps one of the last times this famously solitary figure might be playing on an American stage. I was also giddy about the chance to take a rare road trip with my dad. It’s weird how we find ourselves at this place—I go off to college, start a family, fill up my life and days with grown-man responsibilities, and then look up and realize three decades have passed and we’ve never really taken a trip together. Now I’m middle-aged, Dad is old, and we’re both thrilled about something that, on its surface, seems so mundane: a road trip. 

As the plane approached the New York City skyline for its landing at LaGuardia, I was so grateful for this time together that I almost wanted to pinch myself.

We enjoyed a nice meal at a comfortable Mediterranean restaurant, the kind of solid reliable joint you find on practically every other block in Manhattan. Then we made our way over to the Beacon. We were a bit disappointed that, among the several thousand people cramming into this Upper West Side landmark, we could probably count the number of African Americans on our four hands. It’s a sad statement about how the stature of jazz has plummeted in the black community. Indeed, the fact that I was able to secure very good seats (through Ticketmaster, no less!) to this monumental event just 10 days before the concert spoke volumes about the lowly place jazz now occupies in the American consciousness.

But the house was full and Sonny did not disappoint. A bit hunched over, moving across the stage a little more slowly—the New York Times said “he called to mind an Old Testament prophet”—Sonny played for two hours without stopping. He still had his chops, sliding easily through some of the more challenging and pleasurable pieces in his long, impressive songbook. One by one, he brought out some of the most talented jazz musicians in the business to join him on stage, players like the sweet-toned trumpeter Roy Hargrove, the funky bassist Christian McBride, the nimble guitarist Jim Hall, 79, and the legendary Ornette Coleman, 80. A rotating dream team, one would leave and another would come on.

Sonny is the last of our iconic jazz greats, a monumental figure in the history of this sensational American music form.

He was right there during the creation and burnishing of bebop, the audacious style that gave jazz its swagger, and he’s still going strong, producing fabulous music across an unbelievable eight decades, starting in the 1940s. The rest of the bebop pantheon has passed on—Bird, Coltrane, Monk, Miles, Dizzy, Roach—leaving Sonny all alone, a solitary man with the magical tenor sax. (One of Sonny’s most famous recordings was a session he did with Coltrane called Tenor Madness.) I felt privileged to be a witness at the Beacon, a part of American history just by my membership in the audience. It’s perhaps what it would have been like to sit there at one of Mozart’s last piano recitals, or one of Louie Armstrong’s final trumpet solos. I’m not predicting that Sonny is going anywhere anytime soon, but he plays so seldom in the jazz-indifferent U.S. these days that there’s no telling when he might be back. Audiences in Europe and Japan have a much better chance of seeing him. 

During the concert, when Sonny brought out the great drummer, Roy Haynes, who is amazingly 85 but looks 50, my dad leaned over and said, “He played with my trio in the Sixties.” 

My dad, Walter Chiles, keyboardist

And that’s another reason why this trip was so special to me. While Walter Chiles never achieved the fame and stature of Sonny Rollins or Roy Haynes, he had quite a fabulous music career himself. He’s now content to be the minister of music at his Atlanta church, writing original pieces for the gospel choirs that he smoothly takes through their paces on Sundays. But if you sit him down and get him going, Dad will spin amazing tales that will have your bottom jaw bouncing on the floor. 

Dad’s first bit of notoriety came with the trio known as Chiles & Pettiford. They were keyboards (Chiles), bass (Pettiford) and drums. They played and they sang, their unusual interweaving two-part harmonies drawing rave reviews, particularly after they recorded an album on the Blue Note label called “Live at Jilly’s,” Jilly’s being the nightclub owned by Jilly Rizzo, Frank Sinatra’s bodyguard. It came out the year I was born, 45 years ago. At Jilly’s, Dad played with artists like Sarah Vaughan, Charlie Mingus, Roy Haynes and even Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon (Johnny fancied himself a drummer, while Ed thought he could sing the blues). These artists would sit in with the Chiles & Pettiford trio on a whim—entertaining a crowd that sometimes included heavyweights like Miles Davis and Sinatra. Once, when Sinatra was preparing for a big concert date, he asked my dad to help him practice. Every day for a week, Dad would take the elevator up to Sinatra’s vast penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park and they would practice for hours at a time, with few breaks. Frank was all business.

Me and my dad, the coolest cat on the planet

The Sonny Rollins concert was fitting for me and my dad, kind of closing a circle. One of my most vivid memories from my late teenage years was when Dad and I traveled over to Manhattan from our New Jersey home in 1985 to catch Sonny’s free solo concert in the sculpture garden of the Museum of Modern Art. The line was so long that we couldn’t get in, but we joined about 40 other people who listened to Sonny from the sidewalk outside the garden, our faces pressed against the iron fence to catch glimpses of him as he roamed the grounds, sending wonderfully sweet notes out into the hot New York summer night. (His album from that night can still be purchased.) This is when my love of jazz was permanently stamped on my DNA, a gift from Dad. 

So here we were, exactly 25 years later, back in the city to see Sonny. I caught a glimpse of Dad’s face as Sonny played. He was transfixed and happy. So was I.

{Digging In the MBB Crates} For My (Pro Union) Mom and Dad On Labor Day

For working hard

And toiling long hours

In hot factories

On sore feet

With tired hands

But peaceful hearts

For not enough pay

And a whole lot of sacrificing

So that Troy and I could have what we needed

And even a little of what we wanted

I thank you

And love you madly.

Happy Labor Day.

(Rest easy, Mommy)

Daddy's Hands

His hands tell the story—those thick fingers and wrinkles and scars, and especially the calluses speak to me. Remind. Of just how remarkable my Daddy is—just how huge is his heart.

Daddy’s always used those hands for the helping and the healing all the same; they are, and always have been, an intricate part of meeting the needs.  If the boiler was broken or the faucet was acting up, it was those hands that coaxed the heat and water back to life. If the car oil needed changing, it was his hands that would stroke all the lugs and bolts and hold the pan that caught the crude. Little kids—whether familiar or strangers to our driveway—could always count on those hands to fix a flat or an errant set of brakes. Always, he’d do these things with that laugh. Deep. Strong. Loud as thunder.

I live(d) for that laugh, and always count(ed) on those hands. I’d hold them—so much bigger than mine, they were. I never wanted mine to grow; they folded so perfectly into his palms while we strolled through the mall, knocking back strawberry ice cream cones and handing over checks to pay off the Macy’s and Sears bills, and picking up tools and man stuff for the shed in the backyard. I lived for Fridays, Daddy’s day off. Best believe, riding shotgun in his Eldorado was where it was at.

It was our time.

And I watched his hands—waited for them to give me the lessons. They weren’t always obvious, but they never disappointed, this much I know. From them I learned honor and trust and patience—responsibility and truth and appreciation. Hard work. Selflessness. Struggle.

Love.

I looked for and found these things in my man’s hands—each and every one. Not saying that I was looking to marry my father, no ma’am. Or even that Nick’s hands are wrinkled and calloused and scarred. They are the opposite, in fact—long and lean and refined and soft to the touch. Still, they hold the same passion as Daddy’s; they help and fix and preach in different ways, but help and fix and preach all the same. And they teach my girls the lessons—that there is honor in being helpful and smart and honorable and willing to dig in.

I picked well.

I guess I have Daddy to thank for that, too.

These days, my hands don’t tuck into his like they did when I was little, but I still hold Daddy’s hands all the same. Every wrinkle, every callus still tells a story. The strength of his 75 years.

And I welcome them—embrace them.

Melt into them.

Forever Daddy’s little girl. 

This post was written exclusively for The Parenting Post in honor of my father, James Millner, Jr.—my hero and my heart. It was inspired by Chrisette Michele's breathtakingly beautiful song, "Your Joy" (embeded below), which, even at three years after its release on Chrisette's debut album, still makes me teary. Happy Father's Day, Daddy! And Happy Father's Day to Nick, Papa Chikuyu, James, and all the other fathers doing right by their kids and loving them strong. We appreciate you.

Find posts like this and more at the MyBrownBaby page on PARENTING.COM

Daddy's Dream Come True—And Mine, Too

His mother died when he was just 10 years old and with her went my dad’s dream of a solid education. See, my grandfather needed his older boys to help tend the family wood and farm business—a need he felt was much more urgent than sitting in a classroom all day, figuring and writing words and reading. They could count money, drive the pick-up truck, make deliveries and collect the cash; as far as my grandfather was concerned, that’s all James Jr., 10, Berkley, 12, and Bobby, 14, needed to know.

I suppose this is why my acquiring a sound education was always so very urgent for my father. It was never an option to bring home less than an A—never a proposition for me to slack with my studies or forego college to pursue some kind of trade. Indeed, my Dad super-glued onto my psyche his insistence that I get a quality, continued education, and that I figure out what I wanted to do with m life as soon as I identified my passions. For him, it wasn’t “if” I was going to go college or have  a successful career; it was “when.”

So when I, an architect hopeful with dreams of designing solar-powered mansions, came to the house with my second “C” on a Physics test, Daddy sat me down and insisted I figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, because little girls who couldn’t get a firm grasp of science and math didn’t grow up to be architects. Mediocre wasn’t going to cut it; I had to figure out what I liked in order to pick a career that would make me great.

I was in the ninth grade.

And right there at the kitchen table, I chose to become a journalist (partly because my favorite newscaster was on TV at that very moment, interviewing my favorite R&B group, but mostly because Daddy insisted).

I suppose now that I’m a mom, I can see how maniacal it was for Daddy to insist I decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life at the tender age of 13. But I understand it. And I’m grateful. Because his insistence that I keep my eyes on the prize—the reward being a solid education, a high-paying career and a fulfilled life—made me focus in a way that I never would have if I didn’t have him constantly whispering in my ear, “You can do this, baby. You have to. No other choice but to be great.”

I did it, too.  From the very moment Daddy said “go,” I ran—hard. As a high school student, I got myself a show at our school radio station, learned how to work camera and editing equipment in a media class and earned a full-tuition scholarship to a university with a great communications program. By age 20, I was a full-time reporter for an international news service; by age 23, I was a political reporter for the sixth-largest newspaper in the country, and; by age 28, I was an award-winning, nationally known entertainment reporter and first-time author. I’ve since worked as an editor at two national magazines, a columnist at a national parenting magazine, written 18 books, including a bestseller that’s sold more than 2 million copies and been translated into 30 languages, interviewed and written cover stories about dozens of celebrities, and appeared as a parenting and relationship expert on countless TV shows and news programs.  I think I’ve done pretty okay with my father’s challenge to find a career and be good at it.

And for his encouragement, love, and commitment to being the best journalist I could be, I honor my father by insisting every last one of my bylines feature my maiden name—my daddy’s name. He may not have gotten the education he dreamed of, but through me, he got what he wanted—and then some: A child who is living out loud every last one of her dreams.

And even a few of his own, too.

Editor's Note: This post originally ran on Dove.com as part of its Real Women | Real Beauty campaign. Please show a sistah some love by making the post a "favorite" on the site. Simply CLICK HERE, scroll to the bottom of the page, and push the "favorite" button. To read more of my Dove.com columns and great posts by other fine writers dedicated to exploring issues affecting women, girls, and self-esteem, CLICK HERE.

{Digging In the MBB Crates} Faith In Our Fathers

Editor's Note: I noticed yesterday that I'm just a few posts away from having written or edited 400 stories for MyBrownBaby, and that got me reminiscing about some of my favorite posts. I decided to share one of them today. Enjoy!


By DENENE MILLNER

On the mornings when my husband, Nick, walks the girls to the bus stop, my commute involves me leaning over the side of my bed and picking up my laptop and the remote. I’m lucky like that (for both the husband that shares bus duty, and my ability to make money from home). And while I’m busy writing, I usually have the TV on, with the volume turned down low—loud enough for me to tune out irrelevant drivel and hear stuff that I want and need to hear. Recently, I caught site of this video on the The Today Show, and immediately pumped up the volume. A black guy? Wagging his finger and twisting his hips and cheering? About boys?!

Turns out that the video, produced by the Ad Council with the National Responsible Fatherhood Clearinghouse, is a PSA that encourages fathers to be better dads and get more involved in their children’s lives. The inspiration for the piece came, according to the Ad Council, after a survey revealed that more than 79% of Americans feel “the most significant family or social problem facing America is the physical absence of the father from the home.”

I can dig that that. Lord knows enough of us have survived without/missed/wished for a stable father figure in our homes—and suffered because our daddies didn’t live up to their promise. But seeing that I’m a glass-is-half-full kinda girl, I took this PSA not as a plea to fathers to step up to the plate, but a heart-warming “thank you” for the ones doing right by their kids—fathers like my Dad, who, without the benefit of a caring, nurturing father to show him how to love a child, turned out to be the most loving, nurturing father this girl could ever have.

And like my husband Nick, who, consistently reminds me I picked well when he makes my girls giggle, and helps them sort out tough math problems, and teaches them Taekwondo moves “so that they can fight off any boy who steps to them wrong,” and throws blue "footie" pajamas in the cart at Target so his girls will be “cuddly” warm in their beds.

And the fathers who bring their paychecks home…

And kick in toward the mortgage/rent, or pay it outright…

And rub the swollen feet and sore backs of the pregnant women they love…

And change diapers and warm bottles and bounce babies on their arms, even when they haven’t a clue, really, what they’re doing, or we stand over their shoulders, ordering them to do it our way…

And play horsey and helicopter over and over and over again, their exhausted bodies energized only by the glee in their giggly children’s “please, Daddy—one more time?” pleas...

And dole out discipline in healthy doses—with great love and the profound knowledge that setting their kids straight will go a long way in helping them become better human beings.

And make their families feel protected, even when deep inside, they’re scared crapless…

And kiss their wives passionately because they think after all these years, she’s still hot…

And do it in front of their kids, so that they can know that they’ve seen true love…

And love the Lord…

And their children with abandon…

We see you.

In the words of the esteemed poet Tupac Shakur, “You are appreciated.”

And loved.

My Dad, My Jheri Curl, and The Hair Wars

For weeks, my mother was in the hospital with a serious back injury, and so it was on my Dad to fix dinner, do laundry, and check homework between all of his “Dad-type” responsibilities. Daddy did all of the mom stuff reasonably well, considering. He leaned a little bit too hard on his go-to dish of smothered liver and mashed potatoes — but my brother and I, we weren’t hungry. And he ruined a few loads of laundry by adding a red shirt or two in the whites — but my brother and I, we weren’t naked, so that was a good thing, too.

Still, when it came to styling his 12-year-old daughter’s hair, my Daddy was useless. See, my mother and I had a standing Saturday night appointment with a tub of hair grease and a hot comb, both of which she used to make my naturally kinky, curly hair straight, and weekdays, it was her duty to make sure I didn’t look like Wild Thang climbing onto the school bus. Daddy? He didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout natural black girl hair, except that it should look anything but kinky and curly. And so only a few days into his Mr. Mom routine, his reasonably cute tween was beginning to look embarrassingly unkempt.

For my sake and his sanity, he did what any self-respecting Dad with little money and even less hairstyling skills would do: He slapped a jheri curl in my hair. One of those generic, style-at-home hair texturizer kits with the “easy-to-follow” directions that promised to transform my kinky hair into loose, wet, low-maintenance, glamorous curls.

Right.

Indeed, I like to refer to this dark and scary time in my life as the beginning of Hair Wars, when I spent many a morning dreading going to school with what looked like a fuzzy, greasy afro, and many more evenings begging my Dad to just let me cut my hair and start anew. But Daddy wasn’t having it. A southern gentleman to the core, he believed that hair is sacred — especially if it brushes the shoulders and blows in the wind. He would never let any child of his cut her “crown and glory”’— even if it had turned into a stringy, drippy, afro mess...

To read more about my jheri curl hair wars with my dad, CLICK HERE to read the rest of my post, exclusively at Dove.com.

And the Oscar For Most Embarrassing Mom, Like, Ever, Goes To ME!

My mother wasn't a touchy-feely kinda mom—at all. I mean, she gave a kiss or two here and there if you were saying goodnight or heading off to a sleepover or something, but all that hugging and smooching and laying in the lap and stuff? Yeah, not so much. She loved me, no doubt. But she wasn't loving.

And really, that was okay, because I had my Dad for the handholding and the skipping and the giggling and stuff. The man just loves kids, but he absolutely adored me—reminded me every time he folded me into his strapping embrace—his heartbeat keeping time with mine—or held my hand while we strolled through the mall, licking on strawberry and butter pecan ice cream cones, my tiny feet keeping double time to match his stride.

He lived to make me laugh. And feel loved.

And I did.

And I do.

And I promised myself that when I became a mother, I'd extend the warm and fuzzy to my babies because kissing on them and hugging on them and loving them up was, thanks to my daddy, as natural and beautiful as summer rain.

So with that pretty vision of rainbows and stars and hearts and whatnot dancing in your head, try to help me understand how in the hell I ended up here:

Scene 1
(The parking lot of our local Kroger)

Me: (reaching out for the hand of my 10-year-old, Mari)

Mari: (looking down at said hand, as if it's a steaming pile of poo)

Me: What, you don't want to hold my hand?

Mari: Um… I don't care if I hold your hand or not. (She stiffly holds out her digits for her mom's pleasure.) But if I see someone I know, I'm gonna have to let it go.

Me: (A silent, "Well damn.")


Scene 2
(The pasta aisle in our local Kroger)

Me: Aw shucks, that's my jam! (Insert image of me snapping my fingers and bopping to Stevie Wonder's "As.")

Mari: (Whipping her head around like she's a spy straight out of a scene of Mission Impossible...) Mommy! Stop!

Me: What? What's wrong?

Mari: You're dancing (she tugs at my arm).

Me: (Looking down at my arm like she just sliced it with a knife) What? Dang, I can't dance now, either? It's. Stevie. It's, like, on the law books that you have to dance when Stevie's on.

Mari: Mommy, please stop. Please? (Her eyes darting, trying hard to hold on to that giggle. A trickle of it escapes.)

Me: (Insert image of me pushing the cart aside and cabbage patching and wopping it out, center aisle.)

Yeah, I did it. Yeah, she was embarrassed as all get out. And yeah, I think when she gets older and has her own children and gets to reflecting on the kind of mother she wants to be -- the cold one who rations out hugs and kisses or the warm one who busts moves in the pasta aisle -- she might remember those moments when I took her hand in mine and I broke a sweat trying to make her laugh. When her mother tried to paint the picture of her childhood with rainbows and stars and hearts.

And she just might hold her own daughter's hand a little tighter in the parking lot, even in front of judgmental fifth graders, or dance for her -- no matter who's watching.

Because this is how it should be.

Note: This piece originally was written for my column at Parenting.com's The Parenting Post. To see the rest of my columns there and to enjoy great mom-to-mom advice on raising children, CLICK HERE.

Go Daddy! It's Your Birthday!

The headlines tell the story…

In 1935 Jesse Owens equaled or broke six world records in one hour. The Social Security Act became law. Alcoholics Anonymous was founded, just as the first canned beer made its way to store shelves. Parker Brothers released the board game sensation, Monopoly. George Gershwin’s hit play Porgy and Bess opened on Broadway. A loaf of bread cost eight cents. And the price tag on a new car was six hundred and twenty-five dollars.

But something else very special took place in 1935: my dad, James Millner, Jr., was born to this world. And this weekend, we’ll be celebrating his 75th birthday!

That’s 75 beautiful years—years spent being a son and brother who was loved, a husband who was dedicated, a father who lovingly raised his children, a friend who could be counted on. A man who was—and is—strong.

I don’t write about my father a lot here on MyBrownBaby; he fiercely guards his privacy and is so much more satisfied being humble and living a simple life, and so I respect that not putting all his business out in the street.

But today, I’d like to share one simple, true thing about my daddy: He is my hero. And I love him more than any one person could ever know.

I’ll adore you, Daddy, until the dolphins fly and the parrots swim the sea.

Always.

Happy 75th Birthday, sweet man. Keep on living, loving, and enjoying life to the fullest.

Stilettos and 10-Year-olds: A Dad Says, "Aw, Hell To the Nah!"

By NICK CHILES

This past Valentine’s Day I had the pleasure of escorting two lovely ladies out on a date—and neither was my wife. Relax: They were my daughters, and I accompanied them to their elementary school’s annual Daddy-Daughter Valentine’s Day Dance. This was the second year the school put on the event and my girls and I were even more excited this year as the dance approached; I even picked out new dresses for them—hip, girly ensembles for the two. Once we got to the party, the girls and I quickly hit the dance floor, twisting and jumping to a string of Miley Cyrus-Justin Bieber-Jonas Brothers hits, with a few Michael Jackson songs thrown in so us dads wouldn’t feel too out of touch.

After we had been there for a little while, I started noticing something that I found all too disturbing—some of these little elementary school girls, none older than 11, were wearing high heels. I mean, HIGH heels. Not some cute little wedge from Stride Rite. Ten-year-old Mari, in her sensible flats, noticed it, too. (Just like she notices all the other fifth graders with cellphones—which she won’t be getting for at least another three years!). One little fifth grader was sporting stilettos that had to be five inches tall! She would be the one who was nailed to the same spot on the dance floor the whole night because she had no idea how to actually move in the shoes. And the one whose dad went down on his knees a little later to try to massage the pain out of her feet. That one, with shoes that wouldn’t look out of place on the pole down at the local booty bar. Now, I’m not trying to pass judgment on another parent’s decision-making…but what alarming state of psychosis would possess a parent to send a 10- or 11-year-old daughter out of the house in five-inch stilettos?

As I looked around the gym/dance floor, it occurred to me that what I was looking at was my competition over the next 10 years. The enemy. As my wife and I attempt to mold our girls into self-assured, confident, cool young ladies who respect their bodies and insist that everyone else do the same, these other girls represent the tide we’ll be swimming against—a peer group wholly intent on growing up way too fast, eager to dip into grown-up things way before they're grown. We all can identify the many wicked influences that push them into this precocious womanhood—the media, clothing manufacturers, music stars, Lil' Wayne, even clueless parents. I could easily see the social groups forming before my eyes—Mari and her homies were the smart girls, but over there were the fast girls, wearing inappropriate shoes, lipstick on their faces, already gathered together in mean little whispering cliques, pointing, snickering. Having successfully shepherded my son through high school, I'm quite familiar with the “negative influences” in boy world—the too-cool-for-school dudes who spent more time smoking weed and trolling for girls than doing the things that would get them somewhere. But right here in front of me were the “negative influences” of girl world that I would soon be battling.

I was unnerved.

Mari and Lila, oblivious to the dangers that lurked just beyond their doorstep, held my hands, gazed up into my face, laughed, smiled, giggled innocently. I had an urge to sweep them into my arms and run back home with them. Lock them in their rooms, slip their meals under the door. But ultimately that too might do more harm than good, going the other extreme and trying to stash them away from the world. (We all saw Carrie, right?) No, the world and those scary little girls will soon blow through our lives like gale-force winds. All I can do is equip my little girls with special powers that I hope will enable them to march through those winds, relatively unscathed. Daddy love, Daddy affection, Daddy pride, Daddy admiration. Those are the powers I can pass along.

So bring on adolescence. The Chiles family stands poised and ready for it.

(In the immortal words of the late Bernie Mac: Oh Lawd!)

Wordful Wednesday: We Are Daddy's Girls

This is my heart.
My rock.
My shoulder to lean on.
My "you can do it" cheerleader.
My "it's gonna be all right, baby" comforter.
The best papa on the whole, wide, planet.
The one who found me
and said, "She's mine."
My hero.
My daddy.

Isn't he lovely?

CHECK OUT MORE WORDFUL WEDNESDAY ENTRIES AT...

Styling a Black Girl's Hair Is No Job For Daddies!

By MOCHA DAD

My daughter, Nee, has absolutely no confidence in my ability to do her hair. Whenever I attempt to style it, she becomes more obnoxious than Rush Limbaugh.

Recently, my wife, KayEm, had to run an errand and I thought I would surprise her by combing and styling Nee’s hair (even though, Nee prefers KayEm to do her hair, it’s not a pleasant experience for either party. If you’ve ever bathed a cat, you can understand how these styling sessions go). I gathered all of the tools and materials and set-up a styling station at the kitchen table.

“Nee,” I said. “Come and sit down so Daddy can do your hair.” A looked of horror covered her face.

“No!” she yelled. “You’re NOT doing my hair.”

“C’mon,” I said. “Daddy, can do it. I’ll make you look beautiful.”

“NO!” she yelled again. “I want Mommy to do my hair.”

“But Mommy won’t be back for three weeks,” I said.

“I’ll wait,” she said as she crossed her arms and dug her heels into the ceramic tile.

When Nee was younger and couldn’t voice objections, I did her hair periodically. Although I had absolutely no experience, I think I managed to make her look presentable. I always stuck with my two default hairstyles: Afro with a head band or one single pony tail. Whenever I tried to get fancy, it was a disaster. Nee wound up with crooked parts down the middle of her head and two lopsided ponytails. Who knows what would have happened if I had attempted three.

Because of my hairstyling shortcomings, KayEm relieved me of this duty.

“I’ll handle Nee’s hair from now on,” she told me. “You just take care of the boys.”

“What’s wrong with the way I do her hair?” I asked. She smiled and gently patted me on the back.

“You just take care of the boys,” she repeated. “Because I don’t want my daughter going out looking crazy.”

“She’s my daughter, too,” I protested. “I would never let me little princess look crazy in public.”

“You’re right. She is your daughter too so we’ll let her decide,” said KayEm as she beckoned Nee over to us. “Who do you want to do your hair? Mommy or Daddy?”

“Mommy!” she said.

I was hurt. My little princess had rejected me in favor of cute hairstyles.

Nee is in third grade now and I know that things such as hairstyles and fashion are much more important to her now. In her world, it’s uncool to wear daddy-inspired hairstyles. I know my baby is growing, but I miss the days when a single ponytail was good enough.

Stay Strong,

Mocha Dad


About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Mocha Dad, a.k.a. Fred G., is the founder of MochaDad.com, a blog he started to chronicle his life as a husband and father of three, and to counter the negative stereotypes surrounding black fatherhood. His goal is to give a firsthand account of a black father who is intimately involved in his children’s lives and motivate other fathers to be more actively engaged and involved with their children. This piece originally ran on MochaDad.com, where you can find many more of Fred's delightful stories on fatherhood, as well as his new e-book, Mocha Wisdom, Volume 1.

A LETTER FOR MY FATHER: A Daughter Reaches Out to the Dad Who Never Was

By KAREN MARIE MASON

Dear Daddy,

Mama told me your were dead.

Except that was way before you actually died.

But when I started acting up around age 16 or so—you know, the age when girls start “feeling their oats,” as Mama used to say—you suddenly came alive again, and next thing I knew, I was talking to you on the phone and not much later, I was on a plane to see you. I’m not mad at Mama any more for doing that. Mamas have all kinds of reasons for lying about the men in their lives. I don’t know, maybe she did it to protect me. I mean you walked out on her. Maybe she felt you would do the same to me. (At least that’s her side.) But I’m old enough to know there are two sides to every story. And then there’s the truth. Too often, people lie—first to themselves and then to their children and then to everybody else. I just know that I would never do that.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to expect the first time I met you. No one gave me the blueprint. Mama didn’t know what to do with me. I think I was messing up her relationship with her men. Don’t get me wrong: Mama didn’t have a lot of men. But I had a problem with the ones that she did have. So there I was at your doorstep. Unsure. Frightened. Awkward. I could tell that you felt the same way too.

You seemed confused—unsure whether to treat me like a little child or a young adult. You let me do what I wanted, even smoke. At 16, I thought that was so cool. I don’t think that’s so cool any more. I guess that was your way of making up for being absent my whole life. We both tried hard to forge a relationship out of nothing. No history. Only DNA. It was tough.

I went back home not sure if I was all the better after making your acquaintance. But I was glad to at least be able to say I “know” my daddy. We wrote, talked some more. But it was difficult. I tried. We would skip a couple years and then connect again and then skip a couple. This was not the way I thought it was supposed to be. But it was the way that it was. The tears are pouring down my face as I write, daddy. I guess I watched too much TV. I expected more.

And so I tried harder. Called more often. Made promises to visit soon. Then you went and got cancer on me. The kind that left a hole and a different voice in your throat—a stranger’s voice talking to me. I was so mad at you—couldn’t understand why you had to go and do that.

I think you knew that you would eventually die. Soon. At least that is how you acted. You acted like you didn’t care anymore. Like you didn’t care about me. That’s how I felt. We grew apart instead of closer together. I thought death or the threat of death was supposed to bring people closer. I was wrong about that, too.
But there was something I wanted to tell you while you were here with us, Daddy, and it is this: Every girl needs her daddy. By her side. I know things were difficult between you and mama. But so what? You should have made it work. You should have been there for me. You should have been at my first recital, at my graduations, at my suspensions, and at the birth of my daughter. That’s what little girls want—to look up and see her daddy smiling. We don’t ask for much. You should have tried harder.

Maybe if you were around, I wouldn’t have been molested. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed out late at night and partied a little too much. Maybe if you were here I would have made better decisions about relationships. Maybe if you were here, I would have been a straight-A student instead of holding a B average, because I would have wanted to make you proud. Maybe if you were here, you would have sat your grandbaby on your lap and schooled her about life’s lessons.

Your grandbaby and I still made it, Daddy. You’d be proud. Your daughter kept her legs closed and only opened them up when love was present. That love gave birth to your first grandbaby, Kenya Jordana James. I went on to graduate college, got a big job in the music industry and then left to be a mother and entrepreneur. I know you’re smiling right now. I know you would love that part,‘cause you always went against the grain. Hell, now that I think about it, that’s where I got it from.

I understand, now, that that life sometimes takes us on twists and turns that we didn’t plan for—that time flies and there are things that we’ve all wanted to do that never got done. I’m not mad anymore.

I am still here.

And I’m working on making myself better. Still working on releasing the thoughts that could cripple me, kill me or even give me cancer. Still here making a better place for your granddaughter, whose father was killed when she was 3 years old. Know that while Kenya no longer has her biological father physically with her, she has been fathered by many who have given her what you were not able to give me. I made sure of that.

As for me daddy, I have decided that I’m not gonna give myself cancer or let these damn fibroids get the best of me. And I’m gonna let go of the pain and the past. The bitterness, too. And I’m gonna let you run free in the ancestral world so that you can be a daddy to me again.

As my angel.

Love,

Your daughter, Karen

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Karen Marie Mason, a mom of one, manages recording artists, hosts a radio show, promotes shows, is active in her community, and is finishing up her first book about motherhood. You can find her at HONOR MUSIC GROUP.

Papa's Little Girls: Long-distance Loving On Granddad for National Grandparents Day

I told my mom first. I mean, I’d been with Nick for four years and married for two of them, so it wasn’t any secret that we’d “been” with one another, but I just couldn’t fix my mouth to tell my Dad I was pregnant. That’s the burden of Daddy’s Girls; no matter how old you are, no matter what you’ve done, you want to maintain that innocence.

For his sake. For yours.

So I let my mom break the news that Daddy was going to add the word “Grand” to his title. To say he was thrilled would be the understatement of life. I can barely describe the joy my father found in watching my stomach morph and shift. He got a kick out of seeing my unborn baby’s foot tickle and stretch across my belly; he’d let out deep, bellyaching laughs when the baby stuck her little butt out, and especially when she’d poke him in the cheek when he’d hold his face next to my stomach. It was he who totally ganked my ultrasound picture of Mari—he framed it and put it on the shelf in the living room so he could see it everyday. He also confiscated the tape and recorder I used to record my baby’s heartbeat—would just sit and listen to the incredibly fast “thump, thurble” for the longest stretches.

Papa Jimmy loved his Mari long before she made her debut. Lila, too. He’d hold the two of them in the palms of his thick hands and smell their necks and tickle them with his mustache—whisper his sweet “I Love Yous” in their tiny little ears.

And now, he spoils them rotten—much like he did to me when I was a kid. But he doesn’t spoil them with stuff, though. Quite the contrary, Daddy gives my girls the best thing any man could ever give a girl—his time. That precious gift comes on long morning walks to nowhere, the three of them exploring and feeding ducks at the local park. The gifts come, too, on bumpy drives in his pick-up truck to the gas station to play the lottery, and in his much nicer ride when he’s visiting us here in Georgia and taking the girls somewhere special, like our local Carvel. They sit and eat soft serve vanilla and just laugh like they haven’t a care in the world. Oh, how I love to see them laugh!

One of these days, we’re going to be successful in our hard sell to get Papa Jimmy to move to Georgia. We need him closer. The five-hour drive is much too much. We want to walk down the hallway to see him. Yeah. For now, though, an in-person visit every few months and every-other-day phone calls have to do.

We also found a really cool tool on Grandparents.com that allows the girls to email personal voicemail messages to Papa, so that even when they’re in school, Papa can hear their voices and get tickled by his granddaughters’ antics. Last night, they recorded a special greeting for him to celebrate National Grandparents Day this coming Sunday. It was super-easy to do; all we had to do was call in to a special number (on the website), giggle, laugh, and say “I Love You” a million times into the phone, and then put his email addy into the website. Then—voila!—the giggle girls are in his email.

Want to hear Mari and Lila’s special message to their papa? Click HERE.

And if you want to let the kids send a special message to their grandparents to celebrate National Grandparents day, or hip your parents to a great resource for grandparents looking for ways to bond and connect with their grandchildren, skip on over to Grandparents.com.

Happy Grandparents Day!

For My (Pro Union) Mom and Dad On Labor Day

For working hard

And toiling long hours

In hot factories

On sore feet

With tired hands

But peaceful hearts

For not enough pay

And a whole lot of sacrificing

So that Troy and I could have what we needed

And even a little of what we wanted

I thank you

And love you madly.

Happy Labor Day.

(Rest easy, Mommy)

{MyBrownBaby Redux} Faith In Our Fathers

Editor's Note: I just can't get enough of this commercial—and the beautiful images it portrays. Witness... and enjoy.

By DENENE MILLNER

On the mornings when my husband, Nick, walks the girls to the bus stop, my commute involves me leaning over the side of my bed and picking up my laptop and the remote. I’m lucky like that (for both the husband that shares bus duty, and my ability to make money from home). And while I’m busy writing, I usually have the TV on, with the volume turned down low—loud enough for me to tune out irrelevant drivel and hear stuff that I want and need to hear. Recently, I caught site of this video on the The Today Show, and immediately pumped up the volume. A black guy? Wagging his finger and twisting his hips and cheering? About boys?!

Turns out that the video, produced by the Ad Council with the National Responsible Fatherhood Clearinghouse, is a PSA that encourages fathers to be better dads and get more involved in their children’s lives. The inspiration for the piece came, according to the Ad Council, after a survey revealed that more than 79% of Americans feel “the most significant family or social problem facing America is the physical absence of the father from the home.”

I can dig that that. Lord knows enough of us have survived without/missed/wished for a stable father figure in our homes—and suffered because our daddies didn’t live up to their promise. But seeing that I’m a glass-is-half-full kinda girl, I took this PSA not as a plea to fathers to step up to the plate, but a heart-warming “thank you” for the ones doing right by their kids—fathers like my Dad, who, without the benefit of a caring, nurturing father to show him how to love a child, turned out to be the most loving, nurturing father this girl could ever have.

And like my husband Nick, who, consistently reminds me I picked well when he makes my girls giggle, and helps them sort out tough math problems, and teaches them Taekwondo moves “so that they can fight off any boy who steps to them wrong,” and throws blue "footie" pajamas in the cart at Target so his girls will be “cuddly” warm in their beds.

And the fathers who bring their paychecks home…

And kick in toward the mortgage/rent, or pay it outright…

And rub the swollen feet and sore backs of the pregnant women they love…

And change diapers and warm bottles and bounce babies on their arms, even when they haven’t a clue, really, what they’re doing, or we stand over their shoulders, ordering them to do it our way…

And play horsey and helicopter over and over and over again, their exhausted bodies energized only by the glee in their giggly children’s “please, Daddy—one more time?” pleas...

And dole out discipline in healthy doses—with great love and the profound knowledge that setting their kids straight will go a long way in helping them become better human beings.

And make their families feel protected, even when deep inside, they’re scared crapless…

And kiss their wives passionately because they think after all these years, she’s still hot…

And do it in front of their kids, so that they can know that they’ve seen true love…

And love the Lord…

And their children with abandon…

We see you.

In the words of the esteemed poet Tupac Shakur, “You are appreciated.”

And loved.

{MyBrownBaby Redux} She's The Boss: A Dad Gets Punked By His 4-Year-Old

Editor's Note: Be clear: Lila's been runnin' this piece—with an iron claw and a fist-full of gobstoppers. She. Ain't. No. Joke. Witness...

By NICK CHILES

As black men, we spend a significant part of our early days making testosterone-infused snap judgments about how we think we’d fare in physical encounters with other brothers. I think I could take him…Look at that little guy over there—I know I could take him…Whoa, that’s a big dude. But I could still take him—long as I had a baseball bat.

If you had walked up to me about 20 years ago and told me that two decades hence, the person in the world I’d be most frightened of would stand about three feet tall and tip the scales at 34 lbs., I would have checked your forehead for signs of fever. But there I was, more than four decades on this planet, and I could state without hesitation that the person who frightened me most went by the name of Lila Chiles and she fit exactly those height and weight measurements. Yes, as you might have guessed by now, my terrifying antagonist was my four-year-old daughter.

Before you prepare your laundry list of harsh judgments, let me establish a few things up front:

1. I love the girl more than I ever thought imaginable. My wife does too.
2. The girl is six now, and not nearly as bad. But she’s still a little scary.
3. If, as you read this, you find your tongue curling around the word “punk,” you won’t get any argument from me.
4. Yes, I am, indeed, quite a bit bigger than she.
5. No, she has never threatened me with any firearms. I don’t believe she’s threatened my wife either. If she had, I assume my wife would have told me.

When we’re out in public, standing in the checkout line at the grocery store or the Wal-Mart, watching some crazy white child tear the store apart while his mother helplessly wrings her hands, black parents like to talk a lot of smack about how thoroughly we have our kids in check. You should notice that the ones usually doing the talking had the wisdom to leave their kids at home while they shopped. Those of us whose kids are somewhere nearby are almost always silent at these moments, pretending we're busy loading our groceries onto the conveyor belt—secretly praying that our offspring, our “seeds,” as my rap friends like to call them, will not choose this particular moment to act a fool, perhaps inspired by the impressive havoc created by her white colleague over yonder. I know how much many of us brag about the damage we inflict on our kids if they deign to breathe at the wrong time, the serious beatings we dish out. But it has never escaped my notice that (1) the ones who brag the loudest usually have the worst-behaving kids, and (2) the oft-beaten kids are still messing up on the regular.

This is all to say that my wife and I had tried just about every disciplinary tool we could think of to tame the wild and free spirit that is my precious little Lila, but she remained thoroughly unbroken. Shoot, she wasn’t even bent. I had to admit to a certain amount of grudging admiration for her strength of will and an abiding curiosity about what this child will grow up to be. But first we all had to get through her childhood. Lila is six now, and not nearly as out there, but two years ago, when she entered the room, the family—me, my wife, our then-seven-year-old daughter and my then-14-year-old son—all would take a collective breath, each of us praying that her gaze settled on someone else. Her focus moved slowly around the space and, too often, it stopped at me.

“Daddy, can you throw me on the bed?” she’d ask, her eyes dancing at the hours of rough-house fun she believed she was about to have with good ol’ Dad.

Gently, I’d try to turn her in another direction. “Well, no, Lila, it’s already well past 9 and you and your sister should already be in bed. Perhaps you’d like for me to read from your favorite book?”

One of Lila’s most noteworthy characteristics was her ability to go from zero to 60 in about two or three seconds flat, like an exquisitely engineered Ferrari. In other words, with no build-up, no warning, no slow burn, the girl could—and still can—go from smiling to a full-bore scream in about the time it takes for the words “well” and “no” to pass my lips. The bedtime routine some nights could last as long as two hours as the little one attempted every trick she could think of to avoid closing her eyes. My tummy hurts. I’m scared. I have to pee. I’m thirsty. I heard something. I have to pee again (of course).

All night long.

And if the wife and I had any designs on intimacy? Like a plait-wearing, brown-skinned bloodhound, she seems able to sniff any amorous intentions in the air. Add another hour.

For many decades now, the scientific community has been engaged in a ferocious debate about the process by which we become the people that we are. They call it nature vs. nurture. Are boys born with a predilection to rough-and-tumble physical behavior or do they come to us as virtual blank slates and we make them more violent and physical by the way we parent boys? Are our personalities pre-formed in the womb, or do the parents coddle one child and ignore the next, creating a clinger and a rebel?

Well, Heaven has to be missing an angel because my nine-year-old is the sweetest thing God has ever produced—always willing to help out Mommy and Daddy, writing poems in her spare time to tell us how much she loves us, bringing home drawings from school that depict her having fun with her family, always with a bright sun shining above our heads. Did we do something special to make her that way? I really don’t think so. Or, more appropriately, did we do anything differently with her little sister? I am certain we did not.

So I don’t want to hear another word about nurture, not while I still have vivid memories of cowering in the corner, hoping my beautiful, demonic little 4-year-old daughter would think of something else to do besides come looking for me.

For the record, let me say this once more: I love her more than I ever thought imaginable.

Wait! I think I hear her coming. God help me.

On Father's Day, Remember That Enough Is Always Enough, My Brotha

By DERRICK BARNES

There's one major concern and reoccurring worry that I have as a father, and that's that I'm going to forget to teach my three sons something very important before they grow up and leave the nest. One day I'll look up and my boys will be young men and they'll be faced with a scenario, a situation, or an opportunity, and they'll lack whatever attribute needed that they should have received at home (from me) and it will affect them deeply.

The reality is it's going to happen.

I can't stop it.

I know that I don't have all of the answers.

One of the Barnes Brothers may hold on to one of the many life lessons I share with them, and another may miss it entirely. That's just the way it goes. With their multitude of differences, skill sets, talents, strengths and weaknesses, it makes my head spin thinking about how best to prepare all three of them to set out into this sometimes cruel yet beautiful world.

I start to think about all of the things that I'm not that good at—how to work on cars, how to build an amazing tree house from scratch, electrical and plumbing repairs,etc.—and it makes me feel far more inadequate than any woman has ever made me feel. But instead of knowing how to fix a transmission and hang dry wall, my boys will be able to rundown the players on Coltrane's last three albums, know the difference between pad thai and jollof rice and a safety blitz and a corner blitz; they'll be able to clearly verbalize Alain Locke's importance to the Harlem Renaissance, and weave, with precision and passion, lyrics from Stevie's "Overjoyed" into a love letter to charm the girl of their dreams.

I was thinking about all of this after sharing a few words and some laughs, too, with an older Jewish gentleman with whom I was waiting on a flight in Baltimore. He told me how proud he was of his youngest son, a film student who was beginning a very promising career in his freshman year. And then he laughed heartily when he recalled how that same son called him the other day to ask where, exactly, one buys postage stamps. We both laughed even harder after recalling a couple of our own clueless moments as young men.

After boarding my plane, I came to this very simple, logical conclusion: As fathers, we need to understand the inevitable: We're all going to hit and miss with the gems we try to pass along to our children. Sometimes I think we worry too much about all the wrong things with our kids, instead of teaching them practical things, like how to wash their clothes, how to cook at least 10 good dishes, how to keep their composure during the most trying circumstances, and yes, how and where to buy postage stamps.

When Solomon, my 4-year-old, asks me, "Daddy, what do you think of this break beat?" before sitting down at his drum kit, I say, "That's me."





When my 8-year-old, Ezra, remembers in detail the outfit that the little 9-year-old object of his desires had on that day at school, and continues to remind me of how pretty she was, I say, "That's me."




When my baby boy, Silas, aka "Nestle Snipes," remembers to say, "please" and "thank you," and is always first in line to kiss his mommy's hand, that's definitely me.



What am I saying? On this Father's Day, fellow dads, remember that everything you are, right now, IS ENOUGH. You can't be what you're not, you can't teach what you don't know, and you can't worry about how equipped or ill-equipped your children will be when they go off on their own. They will, your children, in their own way and time, pluck from you every good thing they will need on their journey.

Continue to BE YOURSELF, love them unconditionally, and on a daily, even hourly basis, tell the most high how grateful you are to have been chosen for such an important task.

Happy Father's Day


About our MyBrownBaby contributor: Derrick D'wayne Barnes is the author of seven children and young adult books, including the saucy MyBrownBaby favorite, the Ruby & The Booker Boys series. He's given his insights about fatherhood on GreatDad.com, and is an incredible role model for brown babies everywhere. He lives in Kansas City, MO, with his wife and their three sons. Read more about him on DerrickBarnes.com.