The MyBrownBaby 2011 Bucket List

Here’s the thing: Resolutions just aren’t my thing. I mean, I’ve made them before—promised to stop cursing (I curse like a New York City reporter—which is, like, five gazillion times worse than the raunchiest sailor), promised to be better about my finances (I’m not Suzie Orman, trust), promised to dress up and wear make-up more often (seriously—Lawrence from the Real Housewives has better M.A.C and ready-to-wear game on the daily than I ever will), promised to stop eating junk and work out more (uh huh—yeah. Chocolate and cake will always be my BFFs—aerobics and that doggone treadmill, my mortal enemy).

What I’ve found, though, is that resolutions have been a big fat waste of time for me. Like, seriously—they fade away faster than my Chocolate Martini-laced New Year’s hangovers. So over the past couple of years, I haven’t bothered. Near Year’s comes, I toss a few back and I head on into the next 365 days with no expectations—simply happy to be me. After all, at this age, at this station in my life, I’m good. I like exactly who I am, I’m happy with my hustle and I’m living my life like it’s golden—chocolate, cusses, comfortable clothes and all.

But this year, after being asked by Weight Watchers to write a post about my personal goals for 2011, I decided maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to set my sights on something more than writing, blogging and doing my everyday thing. So I decided to put into words some of my biggest wishes for the year—things that I really want to do for myself and my family. This list isn’t about fixing or giving up anything; instead, it’s about rewarding myself by promising to do things that I know will add to my happiness. I call it Denene’s 2011 Bucket List. My plan is to tick off each one of these bad boys over the next 12 months and give you updates here on MyBrownBaby as I accomplish them. If they happen, great. If they don’t, *shrugs*. The sun will still rise, the Earth will continue to spin and I’m still going to be all right with me.

So, without futher ado, my 2011 Bucket List.

1. I’m buying myself a piece of art. I absolutely adore it—particularly works by African-American artists. I’ve been itching to buy a piece from one of my favorite Georgia-based galleries—Avisca Fine Arts. Maybe something by CharlyPalmer? Or Karen Powell? Or maybe I’ll take up a collection and write, like, 50 eleven more books so I can afford me one of those Romare Bearden pieces. Whichever it’ll be, I’m getting me a piece of art this year.
2. I’m going on vacation by myself—even if just for a long weekend. Sometimes a lady just needs a little time to herself to think, reflect, plan, and be quiet. No kids. No man. No phone ringing every second. No dinner to be cooked. No deadlines. Just me, my iPad, some spa treatments and… peace.
3. I’m taking two Mommy/Daughter sleep-away weekends—one for each daughter. This one is a no-brainer. One-on-one time with my daughters would be an awesome way for us to really enjoy one another sans the drama that comes when there’s a sister around competing for mommy’s attention. I’m thinking a night at a fancy Atlanta hotel, room service, a movie, pedicures and a little shopping. Oh yeah!
4. I’m going to the beach. Last year my family and I traipsed all over Paris for a super fantastic vacation. But this year, I want to go lay out on the beach, get chocolatey and have cute boys bring me cocktails. Oh. Yeah. (And yes, Nick can have cute girls bring him drinks, too. I'm generous like that.)
5. I’m going to a Broadway show and a Summer Stage concert in NY. I don’t know what I’ll be seeing on Broadway—maybe Driving Miss Daisy with James Earl Jones or  Black Angels Over Tuskegee or something else good on the Great White Way—but I know whatever play and concert I choose, I won’t be disappointed. I miss the theater and especially those free concerts in Central Park.
6. I’m going to a concert at Chastain Park. I don’t need to fly into New York to get some good entertainment; the open-air concert hall here in Atlanta is gorgeous and, with its generous policy allowing concert-goers to bring picnics and tables and candlelight and liquor, it’s the perfect venue for a romantic night out with Nick. We saw Stevie Wonder, George Benson and Raul Midon there a few years ago, but last year, I missed Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, Dwele and a few other favorites. Won’t happen this year, though. I’m going to a good concert with my super awesome picnic basket. Word.
7. I’m going to watch more sunsets. I truly am in awe of the wonders that God creates every morning and every evening. I see the sunrise every morning while I’m getting my kids to school, but I never take the time to enjoy the wonders of the sunset. It’s beautiful, it’s free, and it's an awesome reminder that God brought me through another day.
8. I’m taking a photography class, doggonit. I’ve been threatening to do this for ages, seeing as I have a fancy camera and don’t know how to use it. I take decent pictures thanks to the tips at one of my favorite photography sites, I Heart Faces. But if I knew what all those buttons and knobs and things are for on my Nikon D50, I’d be cooking with oil.
9. And after my class, I’m going on a photo taking tour of New York City. It’s my favorite city in the world and I can’t think of a better place to test out my skills than the Brooklyn Bridge and Harlem and Broadway and Central Park and more.
10. I’m going to plant a container garden on my deck. I’ve been doing this every year with my babies, and this year will be no exception. We do herbs, cutting flowers, plants, and even a few vegetables. This year, we’re going to do it up big and actually plot and plan it out so we can get some hummingbirds and butterflies to make our garden home. I can’t wait to see the beauty.

I’m super glad I have all of my 2011 things to do written down so that I can remind myself to have a little fun this year. Good looking out for the encouragement, Weight Watchers! I’ll keep you posted!

In the meantime, if one of your New Year's resolutions was to lose weight, I have a special treat for MyBrownBaby readers: a 14-day free trial to Weight Watchers Online! After the free trial, you'll be charged for a three-month subscription unless you cancel before the trial ends. After the first three months, subscription automatically renews monthly at standard rules. Click here to sign up for this great offer from Weight Watchers. The offer ends on January 26, 2011. 

This post was written as part of a web-wide conversation around Weight Watchers and New Year’s resolutions. To participate, Weight Watchers gave me a free three-month subscription to its online program. 

Happy Birthday To Meeeeeee!!!

Here's the thing: I spent an enormous amount of time in my life wanting to fix me...

My hair...

My skin color...

My curves... 

My smile... 

My outfits...

My cool factor...

But here's the one true thing that I've figured out, finally...

Now that I'm a mother...

And a wife...

And stronger...

And wiser...

And better... 

And grown...

I CAN ONLY BE ME.

And at age 42 (I ain't shamed to tell it—shoot, I look GOOD!) that's a helluva statement coming from someone who spent what seemed like a lifetime nose to the grind, fiercely nerdy, playing the rear.

Finally... 

Finally!

I'm happy to be me.

And if God gives me another 42, I'm going to try to spend every second of  my time on this beautiful Earth loving life like I do... air.

WANTED: A Wife

Forty-one-year-old woman with husband and three kids seeks consort/right-hand lady/stand-in to cut a sistah some slack/work out some things around the house when she just can’t take it anymore…

Must be in love with children—even when they cry, whine, ignore parental orders and slap box literally every five seconds for no other reason than that a fellow sibling looked in their general direction. This love runs a full 24-hour cycle; be prepared for middle-of-the-night duty, when you will get smacked in the head at will at all ungodly hours of the night for water/puke/pee/sore tummy/diarrhea duty that could include several 3 a.m. jammie and bed sheet changes, some stomach rubbing, and a lot of cuddling until they’re back off to dreamland, even if you’ve got to be up at 6 a.m. to iron school clothes, pack lunches and book bags, whip up a healthy breakfast and make sure the little funkmasters’ molars, pits and booties are clean enough for public scrutiny…

Must be able to use your “free” time during school days to scrub the house spotless, sort, pre-treat, wash and fold mind-boggling amounts of grass-, poop, and sweat-stained clothes, schedule all appointments with the cable, plumber, HVAC and lawn guys and somehow make it back to the house from the grocery store/dry cleaners/post office/random errand run before or after the stupid “four-hour window” so as not to lose the appointment you sweated two weeks to get, and be proficient enough in fixing all of that stuff to know when you’re about to be snookered for all your cash by male service providers who think your lack of a penis makes you a complete idiot/ATM…

Ability to (quickly) whip up meals that would make Top Chef’s Tom Colicchio slurp and ask for seconds an absolute essential; if you can’t anticipate the likes, wants, needs, desires, and dietary restrictions of everyone in the house and make said meal healthy enough to pass muster with the Today Show’s Joy Bauer, you’re an epic fail and need not apply. Ditto if you don’t have ESP or the uncanny ability to catalogue in the recess of your brain the whereabouts of every… single… solitary… random… thing… that belongs to family members, who will be much too busy to put their things away, let alone find it without uttering, “Where is [insert said random stuff here]?”…

Should be prepared to balance checkbooks, five-person schedules, and all doctor and dentist appointments and room parent, PTA, church, neighborhood association and community service volunteer assignments with grace and never-let-‘em-see-ya-sweat aplomb; driver’s license a must, as you’ll be the one scooting from one corner of town to the other to ensure your young charges make it to soccer/ballet/trumpet/Mandarin practice and countless after school activities, somewhere in between all of that other volunteery stuff you’ll be doing.

Oh, and yeah: Be ready to screw like a porn star. In full Victoria's Secret fashion show runway-worthy costume. Especially in the middle of the night when you finally make it to the bed and your hot head hits the cool pillow and you’re thisclose to that two-hours-worth of sleep you’ll squeeze in before that middle-of-the-night, “I threw up” slap you’ll be getting…

Base salary: Less than minimum wage. Bonuses come in the form of occasional hugs, kisses and the rare “thank you for all that you do” declarations (usually negotiable after total emotional breakdowns and threats of bodily harm).

Serious inquiries only, please. Weak, shabby, faint-of-heart women need not apply. Suckers definitely welcomed.

Editor's Note: "Wanted: A Wife" was written exclusively for Parenting.com's The Parenting Post. To get great mom-to-mom advice and tips on childrearing and motherhood, visit the MyBrownBaby Page at Parenting.com. 

Paying in Sweat at World Fitness Day

Um, yeah.

I never could strike that Jane Fonda leg-warmer pose. My legs are too heavy.

Seriously, I'm not going to lie: I have a love/hate relationship with exercise. Get me in the room with some African drums and my incredible dance instructor (and friend!) Sauda (as chronicled in THIS POST), and it doesn't matter that I can't dance a lick—I'm swaying and bending and leaping my way to a more fit body, and having so much fun that I'm telling everyone I know that I'm addicted to exercising. But let me walk into the great room in my basement and see the treadmill all dusty and lonely, laying up against my good walls, and I'll cuss out that big hunk of machinery like it stole money from my mama.

I guess you can say that I can't really be left to my own devices when it comes to staying fit. I do my best to eat right—not only for my sake, but for that of my family—and my girls and I are good for inspiring each other to get in a good work out at group classes, like belly and pole dancing. But outside of that, I need a bit of inspiration to get my work-out on at home.

On Saturday, May 1, I'm going to get a stadium full of inspiration to get moving, for sure, when I take part in World Fitness Day. The brainchild of actress, author, philanthropist and fitness icon Jane Fonda, World Fitness Day is an annual initiative to highlight the importance of staying active and fit. I'll be joining literally thousands of Georgians on the field of the Georgia Dome—home of the Atlanta Falcons—to participate in a one-of-a-kind group workout with celebrity fitness and health experts Richard Simmons, Billy Blanks, Denise Austin, dancer/director/choreographer Debbie Allen, and Dr. Sanjay Gupta. California Governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger also will deliver a video tribute—I swear, if he says, "I'll be back," it will make my millennium!—and The Pointer Sisters will pump up the crowd with live renditions of some of their greatest hits. Ludacris will also kick a few verses for the cause.



Tickets to participate in World Fitness Day are $75 a pop (though if you register now, you can get 50% off by CLICKING HERE); you can come alone or bring a bunch of friends and come as a team. If you want to just cheer on your peeps and get workout tips without moving, tickets are only $25. Kids ages 12 and up, accompanied by an adult, can participate, too; their tickets are $25, too. To register, form a team, or become a workout sponsor, CLICK HERE.

The event will benefit the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention, the nonprofit organization Fonda founded in 1995.

Not planning to be in Atlanta on May 1st? You can still participate in the workout by logging on HERE to check out a live feed of the event on UStream. Tune in and you might just see me getting my sweat on and doing my best Debbie Allen imitation:

You want fame? Well fame costs. And right here is where you start paying... in sweat.

Get it Debbie! And Jane! And Billie!

And Denene!

Spiked Hot Chocolate

Godiva Chocolatinis.

Godiva liquer- and rum-infused fudge and caramel brownies.

The oh-so-chocolatey Morris Chestnut (The Best Man) and Omar Epps (Love & Basketball).

And my girls *waving at Angelou, Akilah, and Selassie*

Oh, lawd, yes.

These are the things that make for the perfect Spiked Hot Chocolate party.

You better go on ahead and get you some!

Terror on the Pole

By MALAKA GYEKYE

I’m really hoping to go to Ghana this summer with the girls. I’m in the midst of looking for a Twi teacher to help them assimilate a little bit better, and have been plying them with plantain and stew so that they can appreciate good Ghanaian cooking when it comes across their plates. Their immersion into Ghanaian culture is nearly done, with only one thing alluding me: the money for the plane ticket.

Conservatively, the price for the girls and I to travel to Ghana in the summer will be close to $3,000. I make $8 at my part time job where I work 8 hours a week, so it will take me about 4 years to save up the money for our vacation. This, my friends, in unacceptable. It has become increasingly apparent that I must take matters into the palms of my mommy hands and do the unthinkable: I must dance for money.

Adwoa and I discussed it this evening, and detailed the chain of events which are to take place. A svelte and leggy girl steps off the stage after gracefully enthralling the male viewers in the audience with a seductive dance. They enthusiastically throw $1 bills at her as she finishes her number. Suddenly, the room gets a little darker and the trembling voice of the club owner announces that there will be a special treat this evening: Post-partum Delight.

Taking my cue, I shuffle onto the stage in green granny panties and a nursing bra. As the speakers blare a catchy techno tune, I try in vain to heft my jiggly frame, riddled with stretch marks up the pole. Half way up, I give up and drop to the floor in defeat, sweat pouring from my brow. The next part of my routine is to expose my right nipple from its harness, also chapped from years or nursing, to please the crowd. The audience gasps—whether in horror or delight I cannot tell. I’m too busy thinking of how to end the routine and do not bother to reconnect the bra.

My bare breast hangs lifelessly as I maneuver around the stage. For my finale, I roll vigorously on the stage, as if I’m having a seizure. After failing to spin on my back like that chick in Flash Dance, the whole routine ends with a half split. The music stops and another dancer has to help me off the stage. I wait expectantly on the stage’s end for my tips. I get $3.00 from a sympathetic viewer who begs me never to return their again as he drops the singles into the strap of my nursing bra.

Undeterred and undaunted, I vow to return again and again, until I have made the $3,000 needed to ferry my children to the land of my birth. At $3.00 a dance, I would only have to disgrace myself 1000 times to earn the needed amount.

If you want to prevent this tragedy from happening, feel free to send me your loose change to add to the Back to Africa Fund…or you can pray for a miracle.


About our contributor:
Malaka Gyekye is a “hybrid Ghanaian” who lives in Roswell, GA, with her husband, Marshall, and their three kids—the very dramatic and inquisitive Nadjah; the rambunctious Aya; and the "too-sleepy-to-tell-what-disposition-he-may-have-yet" Stone. Having been laid off five times since graduating in 2000, Malaka has given up the pursuit of a stable corporate gig to be a devoted full-time mother. In lieu of drinking, she uses her spare time to write for www.maizebreak.com, Africa’s version of The Onion. Find more of her hilarious musings on her blog, Mind of Malaka: Motherhood. Marriage. Madness.

I’m Going To Sleep My Way To the Top

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter—I don’t mean that kind of sleeping! I’m talking, literally, taking my behind to bed and getting in some quality sleep time.

Let me explain: My friend and writer Meera Bowman-Johnson tagged me in a note on FaceBook last week, challenging me to get a minimum 7.5 hours a sleep every night for the next 30 days as part of the 2010 Sleep Challenge announced earlier this month by Ariana Huffington and Glamour’s Cindi Leive. Huffington and Leive insist that if we ladies squeeze in the roughly 7.5-hour minimum our bodies need to function happily and healthfully—instead of the paltry six hours most single working women and working moms with young kids tend to get—we’ll be more productive during our waking hours.

Now, being the productive chick I tend to be, I didn’t quite see at first how cutting into work time to—gasp!–sleep, would increase my productivity. “But then when,” I wrote on Meera’s wall, “do I get my writing done? And the dinner cooked? And the house cleaned? And the grocery shopping and laundry and errands finished? And the girls’ hair twisted? And their homework checked? And their extracurricular activities accomplished? And keep tabs on their teachers? And help in the classroom? And write the blog? And the helping everyone else with their books and blogs? And stay fit and sexy? And somewhere in there, I have to give my husband some… 7.5 hours is a LOT of time… LOL! (Only half LOL…)

Of course, seeing as Meera’s a busy, accomplished mom of three young kids, and Huffington and Leive clearly lead high-powered, hectic lives of their own, I’m thinking they understand my reservations. But, Ariana and Cindi insist in their Sleep Challenge 2010 post that the health of us sleepy heads is at stake.

You probably already know about the health consequences of sleep deprivation, how cheating your body out of the R&R it needs can make you more prone to illness, stress, traffic accidents and even weight gain…

But there's more to it than simple physical problems. Rob yourself of sleep, ladies, and you'll find you never function at your personal best. Work decisions, relationship challenges, any life situation that requires you to know your own mind—they all require the judgment, problem-solving and creativity that only a rested brain is capable of and are all handled best when you bring to them the creativity and judgment that are enhanced by sleep. "Everything you do, you'll do better with a good night's sleep," says Dr. Breus. Yet women who constantly push themselves to get by on less never know what that "peak performance" feels like.

Okay, but forreal forreal? More sleep = peak performance? Like, I’ll be able to knock out MORE work during the course of the day if I get more sleep at night?

Yeah, I gotta see this.

Starting tonight, it’s going to be lights out for me at 11:30 p.m.—a full two hours before I go to sleep most nights. I’m vowing to make sleep a priority for the whole of February—28 days straight. No more blogging at midnight—damn FaceBook and Twitter and book proposals and columns and feature writing at 1 a.m. Laundry, hair-washing, coupon clipping—all of that will be done, somehow, during the day. If it doesn't get done before 11:30 p.m., it's not going to get done. I'll update my progress on FaceBook (friend me at Denene Millner if you want to see my progress or you want to take the challenge and tell me how you're faring).

Shoot, if Meera, Ariana and Cindi are on the money, I might be able to knock out at least two more books by Feb. 28, what with all this extra productivity I’ll be gaining in the process.

Sleep on!

MyBrownBaby Has a Hot Birthday Date With Maxwell!

Don't be mad.

I'm going to see my man... er, Maxwell, in concert with my other man... er, Common.

(Oh, and Chrisette Michelle will be there, too.)

Uh, huh—my husband hooked it up.

Got me two tickets and a hotel room for my birthday (it's Oct. 21, but I celebrate all month long... word.)

I just love me some Nick Chiles, particularly when he hooks me up with hot dates... er, concert tickets.

I get one ticket.

The other is for Angelou.




We're going to be road trippin' to North Cackalacky for the next two days to see the concert.

Yes, like my girl Akilah over at Execumama, I cross state lines for Max.

There will be lots of shenanigans on the way to the concert venue.

And especially when my man... er, Maxwell takes the stage.

Adult elixirs may be involved.



And I expect to thoroughly lose my mind when he leans into that mic and lets that falsetto loose.

And don't get me started about what I might do when he gets to gyrating those hips.

Ha'. Mercy.

It's. About. To. Go. Down.

I'll see you all on Thursday.

Maybe.



(P.S.: I know this ain't got nan thing to do with babies or moms, but good grief, we gotta have our fun sometimes don't we? )

Time For You: Nourish Your Inner Lusciousness

UPDATE: CONGRATULATIONS JEWELRY ROCKSTAR—YOU'RE THE WINNER OF THE NATURI QUENCH GIVEAWAY! SHELLEY WILL REACH OUT TO YOU DIRECTLY FOR YOUR INFORMATION. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATED!

By SHELLEY CHAPMAN

The other day I was having a conversation with my friend about being busily productive. We both were making strides in our academic and entrepreneurial pursuits AND we were both exhausted! How easy it was for us to describe our lists of daily tasks, to-do-lists, upcoming events to attend, penciled in meetings, appearance-only engagements and our accomplishments of the week. We were painting a total picture of success, right? NOT! How is not taking time for yourself success? We were both missing our personal time, fully overloaded, sleepy and gasping for air!

My mom always told me, "how you care for yourself is how you care for others." *Gasp* Here I am thinking that I'm offering all that I have and being of use. Well, I'm definitely offering all that I have. As far as being of use? Yeah, not so much. So, I took it as my cue to realign myself with the very core of my being and my business, Naturi Beauty, where I offer products and services by promoting radiance from crown to core by encouraging three concepts: nourish, nurture and grow.

For some of us this doesn't always come easy. The reasons—I mean excuses—are innumerable, from not being used to putting ourselves first, to not having enough money to do what we want, to not finding time. Well, I say there is no such thing as not enough! We create time, not find it. Get used to putting yourself first; there is nothing wrong with it. You deserve it! For those that live on the other side of prosperity, never let what funds you think you don't have stop you from having the most precious gifts we could give to ourselves: time and attention.

There are enough "Stop and Smell the Roses" self-care tips. Naturi Beauty takes it a step further and encourages you to "CREATE the Roses!" So with that said, I have taken the dutiful liberty of creating a starter self-care list. You can do it by yourself or with a delightful partner of your choosing. Dig it:

Naturi Beauty's Suggestions to Nourish, Nurture and Grow

1. Celebrate Your Body
Create a spiceful, intimate evening with your partner. Reserve an area in the house and transform it into an art studio. Lay down a protective barrier for the floor (an old sheet or painter's drop cloth will do the trick). Lay down comfortably and allow your partner to decorate your nude temple using sensuous brushstrokes with varying degrees of pressure. Do not direct the experience, allow him/her to be creative and enjoy feeling your body being worshiped. Once the master piece is complete, hand your partner the camera, strike a sexy pose and model away!

2. Indulge in Scrumptious Delights:
Gone are the days where cooking is a chore and a bore! Step into the new millenium and sign up for a Girls Night Out Cooking Class! What more fun can it be than to indulge in some serious grown, sisterly, unadulterated food play for your self! No husband, no children, just your own tastes to fulfill while sipping on a glass of wine. Sounds good to me. Many cooking schools offer Girls Night Out cooking courses; check Viking Cooking School for your local classes and times. (Of course, you also could gather up your girlfriends and your own favorite recipes and take turns teaching each other how to cook them in your own house.) Get dressed, travel to a culinary destination with your girls, cook and indulge in global cuisine with all the prep work done. Enjoy without the guilt, the calorie count and the budget check. Celebrate each other, savor the bite, relish in the feeling of consuming pure deliciousness and swallow heaven. Yummmmmmm!

3. Dance! It's the Feminine Art of Sensuality:
Dance is a healing universal gift and language. It speaks to our souls, our bodies, our minds and our WOMBS! Yes that's right, our wombs. Movement is a feminine art and is sensually expressed in dances such as Belly Dance, Salsa and Soukous. Feeling the sexy sway of our hips, the undulations of our curves and the subtle arches in our back bring about a desirous and powerful feminine force! Put on your waist beads, your "come hither" threads, let your hair down and embrace the part of you that is soft, willing and open. Your mind, body, heart, and womb will thank you. (So will your partner—wink, wink!)

To celebrate the grand opening of Naturi Beauty Concepts, MyBrownBaby is teaming up with Naturi's founder, Shelley Chapman, to give away a jar of her all-natural Naturi Quench, an intense moisturizing cream with Hemp and jojoba oils, aloe and honey—designed to rejuvenate dry hair and restore moisture and sheen. It's great for daily moisture, smoothing edges and styling touch ups, and works wonders for braids, twists and braid-twist outs. Akilah at Execumama speaks highly of the product, and I'm going to buy a coupla jars for Mari and Lila's hair, for sure.

Want a jar of your own? Here are three ways to win:

1. Go over to Naturi Beauty Concepts and become a follower and then leave a comment HERE on MBB telling me you did.

2. Check out the Naturi Beauty Concepts website and leave a comment here telling me something good about what you learned there.

3. Tweet about this giveaway, and leave the link to your tweet in the comments section here on MyBrownBaby.

This contest will run until 11:59 p.m. on Thursday, September 17, 2009. The winner will be picked via Random.org, and announced on MyBrownBaby on Friday, September 18, 2009. The prize, which retails for $20, will be sent directly from Naturi Beauty Concepts. Good luck!


Photo credit: The beautiful picture illustrating this post is from the luscious site, Gorgeous Black Women

Take It From Me, Someday This Brown Mom Will Be Free

By MALAKA GYEKYE

When I was getting ready to go to college in 1996, that was the big interview question we couldn't wait to be asked from a potential employer. We had whole sessions about the appropriate answers to give, interview gems and catch phrases that would wow the interviewer and land you the job. Yep, that was during the boom years of the Clinton presidency. I fully expected to get a job earning $45-50K, right out of college, with little more than a bachelor's degree, as my predecessors had done. Most likely living it up in some fast paced cosmopolitan metropolis with my equally cosmopolitan friends. I had lofty goals in those days. I'd be a svelte size 10, with a weave down to my butt, driving a red Mercedes Benz convertible. 10 years after graduation I'd be in Ghana as the head of my own media company. I couldn't wait to hit the real world!

Fast forward 10 years later.

I don't even think most corporate human resources reps ask the question, "Where do you see yourself if five years" anymore. Most Fortune 500 companies' balance sheets are riddled with more holes than a pitted pomegranate; many of them don't know if they will be in business next month. The dot com bubble burst, making paupers out of millionaires overnight; Al-Qaeda decimated the stock market when they took down the World Trade Center, and; the freaking Pirates in Somalia and Nigeria finished up the job by affecting the oil supply and jacking up prices. No one saw this coming.

And I certainly didn't foresee myself where I am today, either.

Nearly 10 years after graduation, I am a tired mother of three. I have an afro puff and am a hefty size 18. It has taken me six hours to sit down and write this note, because I can't get a private moment to myself. Even now, someone screams "Mommeeee!!" incessantly in the background. My lofty goals of media domination have been reduced to just being happy if I can crank out one good story for my online newspaper sometime during the week. I pray daily that readers will find it in their hearts to click on a few ads to beef up my Google AdSense and generate some revenue. No one is on my payroll. In fact, I am vulnerable to the whims of the federal government, who at any time can stop my unemployment payments, leaving me gobsmacked and one check away from homelessness.

What is the point of this drivel? It's to ask myself again, where do I see myself in five years. I see nothing but blue skies. I have note one iota of doubt that I'll be one of the happiest frikkin' women on earth.

In five years, my oldest child will be 10, able to do laundry and make a mean pitcher of Kool-Aid. The second born will be eight and able to read a book to herself. Both will be in school all day. The youngest will be beginning kindergarten and I can feign the sort of sadness at his departure that make your kids truly believe that you "wish they could stay at home with you all day, you really do, but the system won't allow them to."

In short, I'll be a free woman. Free to write. Free to think. Free to go number two without someone bursting through the door and standing between my legs while I try to deliver a sinful payload to the porcelain throne below.

Free to dream again.

Ms. Celie couldn't have said it better: I may be black, skinny (hopefully), and ugly (most likely), but dear God, I'll be here... and FREE!

About our contributor:
Malaka Grant is a “hybrid Ghanaian” who lives in Roswell, GA, with her husband, Marshall, and their three kids—the very dramatic and inquisitive Nadjah, 4, the rambunctious Aya, 3, and the "too-sleepy-to-tell-what-disposition-he-may-have-yet" Stone, 3 months. Having been laid off five times since graduating in 2000, Malaka has given up the pursuit of a stable corporate gig to be a devoted full-time mother. In lieu of drinking, she uses her spare time to write for www.maizebreak.com, Africa’s version of The Onion, and co-authors an African sexuality blog with best friend Nana Sekyiamah. On weekends she works at DSW to fund a compulsive and insatiable shoe addiction.

Or Maybe I'll Just Enjoy The Color Purple...

I’ve been laboring at two jobs since the summer of sophomore year at Brentwood High School, when I kicked off my working life pulling a shift as an assistant at a local psychiatric hospital in the afternoons, and working the register at Kids R’ Us in the evenings. I’m no stranger to hard work; I get it from my mom and dad.

But today, I’m done busting up the chifforobe. Instead, I’m doing the happy dance, because guess what? I’ve got me a break coming. Finally. In the past month and a half, I’ve written two books—a celebrity memoir and a novel for tweens—and mama is, as my aunties used to say, plum wo’ out.

And instead of taking on another project/fighting with co-authors/wrestling for my checks/begging for mercy, I’m… going… to… sit… down.

I bought Coleson Whitehead’s new book, “Sag Harbor.” Maybe I’ll read it.

My girl Vanessa over at Food Lovers Like Me has some great new recipes on her site. Maybe I’ll try a few.

One of my favorite furniture stores, Arte Forma, is reducing its showroom and clearing out the joint. Maybe I’ll go shopping.

I’ve been threatening to make some new drapes for Mari’s room. Maybe I’ll sew them (yes, this is fun for me).

Lowes has some pretty purple flowers on sale. Maybe I'll get the girls to help me plant them.

Or maybe I’ll just sit…

…and be quiet.

Yeah.

PILLOW DIPLOMACY: A Mom Learns How To Take Back Her Bed From The Kids—One Night At A Time

By CAROLYN EDGAR

One of the things I don’t miss about being married is sharing my bed every night with another person. I think Lucy and Desi had the right idea: double beds. You can come visit me in mine, but you’ve got to sleep in your own.

I prefer sleeping alone because I know I have annoying sleep habits. Unless you are a soft downy pillow, I do not want to cuddle with you. My bed is piled high with comforters all year round, and I spend most of every night kicking them off and pulling them back up. I actually enjoy doing this, but many people find it irritating, or sweat-inducing, or both. If I irritate you, I don’t want you in bed with me. I am also not a fan of sleeping in a pool of someone else’s sweat, even if the getting sweaty part was kind of fun. Finally, because I am a chronic insomniac, when I finally do get to sleep, I like to stay that way. I protect my side of the bed as if there are distinct, legally enforceable boundaries, and I do not grant permanent easements. I have never had enough room in my New York City apartments for separate beds, but if I ever decide to get married again, I would consider it. I may even go for separate rooms.

I haven’t had to share my bed with another adult for quite some time, but my kids keep trying to move into the space my ex-husband left. At one point, kicking two crying children out of my bed was part of my nightly bedtime routine. My daughter now claims to be too old to want to sleep in my bed, but she has her tricks, like coming down for a “girl talk” at 11 p.m. and then being “too tired” to go back to her own bed. My son considers it his privilege to sleep in my bed whenever he is not feeling well. I know he is sick when he leaves his room and crawls into my bed, and he simply will not leave until he feels better. My daughter gets quite vexed when she finds out her little brother has slept in my bed, though for me, it is not a privilege, but a supreme irritant.

This was no more true than last night. Randy and I have been passing a cold back and forth for the better part of two weeks; just as he started getting better, I picked it up, and then when I was finally feeling well enough to go to the gym, I came home and found Randy lying in my bed with a 101.1 fever. I gave him Motrin, hoping it would drive the fever down and him out of my bed, but deep inside, I knew better.

“Mommy, can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

“No. You have to sleep in your own bed.”

“Okay,” he said, drawing the word out in that long, plaintive, whiny voice he develops when he isn’t feeling well. He left, but not for long.

“Mommy, I can’t stop thinking about what it will be like when I die!” he said when he returned. For dramatic effect, he was clutching the prayer blanket his grandmother gave him during our Thanksgiving visit.

I felt his forehead. “Randy, you’re not dying. You have a little bit of fever and a sore throat, is all.” But his words struck a nerve with me. The boy was talking about death.

“Can I just lay in your bed for a little while?”

“Fine,” I said. “Fifteen minutes.” I was on Facebook and e-mail, and fifteen minutes turned into an hour or more. By the time I looked back at my bed, he had fallen into a deep sleep. I didn’t want to have another discussion with him about death, so I decided to leave him there.

When I was ready to go to bed, I knew I had a problem. His fever was breaking, and he was sweating all over my sheets. Thankfully, he hadn’t peed on them as well, but he was lying diagonally across my bed, a significant amount of his lanky body on my side. When I moved him, he mumbled and moaned a bit, but didn’t fully wake up. Still, just as I shut off the computer monitor, I heard a little voice ask, “Mommy, when are you going to turn off the lights and come to bed?”

I frowned. Had someone replaced my son with some man I didn’t know I had? I had to remind myself that he’s seven. I answered civilly, “Mommy’s coming to bed right now, sweetie.”

When I got in bed next to him, he flipped over to face me, one outstretched arm poised for a hug or a cuddle. I acted quickly. Whenever one of my kids sleep in my bed, I enforce what I refer to as pillow diplomacy. I put a pillow between us as an impermeable boundary, and the penalty for repeated attempts to cross the boundary is eviction. I gently moved the outstretched arm to the other side of the pillow. The arm reappeared, and a random leg soon followed, but after a couple more gentle reminders, he got the message, and flipped back over, facing away from me.

But sometime around 4 a.m., the cat, who has taken to sleeping under my bed, started flipping out, as she normally does, in order to wake me so I will let her out to use her litter box. I got up, and was surprised to hear my son’s voice asking, “Where are you going?”



Given that my son is only seven, I must conclude that males are genetically programmed to ask this question whenever a woman gets out of a bed they are sharing. It never fails. You get up to go to the bathroom, or to get a glass of water, or, in the worst cases, to go look in the mirror and ask yourself what the hell you were thinking and how you’re going to get this fool to leave, and there he is all of a sudden, asking you “where are you going?” I’ve never understood the purpose of the question. In the middle of the night, how many options could there be? It has to be a male thing, because if a man gets up in the middle of the night, I don’t care where he’s going. And he may not have a spot in the bed when he returns.

I decided not to blast my 7-year-old son with all of my marital and pre-marital baggage over that question. Instead, I let the cat out. He was insistent when I returned. “Where did you go?”

“To let the cat out, sweetie.”

“Oh.” And just like that, he went back to sleep.

That was it for me and him, however. At least for now. Pillow diplomacy had worked, but there had to be some penalty for his having asked one of my least-favorite questions. Randy spent much of the day Sunday lying in my bed, still spiking a slight fever. When night fell, however, I wasn’t playing around.

“Get out,” I said, and threw the covers back.

“Mommy,” he whined.

“Nope. Gotta sleep in your own bed tonight.” I felt his forehead and cheeks. The Motrin, coupled with plenty of rest and lots of liquids, had helped. I took his temperature and gave him one final dose of Motrin to be certain. “Okay, guy. See you in the morning.”

He didn’t protest. Cami lingered on in my room instead, typing a paper on the computer until past 11 p.m. I heard “I’m sooo tired!” a number of times, but I wasn’t having it two nights in a row. Finally, I had enough. “That’s it for you,” I said. “You can’t be up doing homework this late at night. Go to bed.”

She grumbled, head hanging down, but she left. I even booted the cat to nix the 4 a.m. litter box call. Monday’s a vacation day, and I hope to get a nap in after the kids go to school—provided Randy is well enough to go. If he’s still spiking a low-grade fever, I’ll have to keep him home, but as long as he’s going to ask me “where are you going?,” he’s not entitled to pillow diplomacy. He can be sick in his own bed.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Carolyn Edgar is a corporate attorney based in New York City. As you can tell, the single mom of two really likes her bed.