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. 

He Wants It, She's Too Tired To Give It: The Sex Lives Of Married Folk—Bali-Style.

One of my favorite TV shows ever is CBS's Sunday Morning. It's like NPR with pictures—thoughtful, interesting, fresh, and above all else, intelligent. On any given Sunday, you might get a profile of Lenny Kravitz and his interior design prowess, a retrospective of Kandinsky, and a smart, in-depth look at the fools behind Jackass, and every last one of the stories will make you think and stretch and happy you ended the hour feeling smarter.

One of the Sunday Morning features I'm really loving is Steve Hartman's "Everybody In the World Has a Story." Hartman gets someone to pick a random country off a globe, then dude finds some random person to interview and—voila!—there's an interesting story in the making.  And the story he found in Bali? Priceless.

Check it: Wayan Kamar and his wife, Wayan Sriani got issues. He wants sex. She's too worn out for sex. He's frustrated that he's not getting sex. She needs him to make some changes so she'll be in the mood for sex. You know—maybe wash a dish or two, cook a dinner, hit a girl off with some flowers, light a candle or something.

Um, sound familiar to anyone?

Hartman put it best in his wrap-up when he suggested that this couple's story "goes to show that when you dig beneath race, religion and politics, you'll almost always find someone you can relate to." He added:

In fact, after traveling around the world twice telling strangers' stories, I've concluded the only real difference between humans is that some people on Earth live for purpose and meaning—and the others are men.

You said it, brother. (I didn't, but I wish I did—LOL!)

You so have to watch this video. And if you're a total heathen like me and mine, you won't go wrong spending Sunday morning in your pajamas, drinking coffee and enjoying this thoughtful show.

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.

Wordful Wednesday: Just Me and My Beautiful Girls

Just the other day, my friend and MyBrownBaby contributing writer Bassey Ikpi wrote a beautiful piece on her Bassey's World site, about her memories of September 11th, and how the tragedy of the day made her remember—made a lot of us remember—"to focus on the second chance given to maximize love and live it." Every last one of her words was poetic and authentic—all-at-once powerful and sweet and haunting. But it was the last paragraph that made me want to pull my babies close:

I love you. I don’t want tragedy to remind us of what was. I want tragedy to remind us that what could be already exists. LOVE like you mean it. Like you made it. Like you own it. When I love you, it’s forever. I refuse to allow the trivialities and pettiness of urban living to blind me from what is. If I’ve wronged you, I’m sorry. If I’ve neglected you, please, welcome me back. If it seems like I’ve turned my back, forgive me, I’m holding out my arms now. If I love you, believe it. If you need me, I’m here. I love you all. Be safe. Stay safe. Be strong. Stay strong. Hug someone. Kiss yourself.

Love someone

mean it. 

And so, in honor of staying true to what Bassey implored each of us to do, I hugged my babies, kissed their face, and told them that I loved them since forever. And that I mean it. And today, I just felt like showing you all what that love looks like—me and my beautiful girls.

Now do like Bassey says. Love someone. And mean it.

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. 

{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)

She's My Favorite Girl (And Happy Mother's Day)

Sunday is Mother's Day.

And my mom is gone from here.

I struggle to find the words to express the profound longing I feel this time of year. So I won't—not this time.

Instead, I'll look at her pictures, open her jewelry box (miraculously, it still smells like her), and say a prayer thanking God for the time I did have her in my life.

I love you, Mommy.

And miss you tremendously.

I encourage you to head over to Parenting.com, where a tribute I wrote in honor of my mom, Bettye Millner, after she passed away, is being posted (CLICK HERE to read it).

And for my MyBrownBaby crew, Happy Mother's Day...

Celebrating—and Finally Loving!—My Curves

Editor’s note: I wrote this piece after a riveting conversation with the brilliant T. Allen-Mercado of Tea & Honey Bread, who is exploring body and self-love in her Sweet Tea Tuesdays series on Moms of Hue.


For years, my ass was my enemy. I hated her. She tortured me. No matter how hard I tried to stuff her into baggy pants and A-lined dresses, no matter how many thick, wool sweaters I wrapped around her, no matter how many ridiculous diets I committed to—the cabbage soup diet, the lemonade diet, the no-carbs diet, the eat-nothing-but-air-for-breakfast-lunch-and-half-of-dinner diet—I couldn’t hide her or make her go away.

I wanted to, though. Wished it with all my might. The stories are legendary, and, if you’re a “coke bottle” black girl, all-too-familiar. I grew up in a town where black boys wanted anything but what I had—curves, chocolate skin, a brain and my big brother’s mean muggin’. And I was raised and reared at the hand of a black woman who knew that eventually, what I had below my waist would be at a premium around some real brothers. I was all-at-once undesirable and a potential tart. A veritable Venus Hottentot—grotesque, untouchable, shameful and sexual, but certainly not sexy.

Then I got around some boys from Brooklyn. And Jamaica and Africa and Compton and Mississippi. All places where black men appreciate the art form that is a black woman’s curves. I distinctly remember the night I realized there is, as the comedienne Phyllis Yvonne Stickney once immortalized in a comedy routine, “power in the booty”: It was during a fashion show my friends had talked me into modeling in. Backstage, the producer was searching for someone tiny but curvy enough to fit into and look dead right in a tight, red, leather mini dress with sky-high black pumps, and the only somebody who could fit into it was, well, lil’ ol’ me. I didn’t want to wear it; it was tight and body-hugging and short and sexy—the exact opposite of every stitch of clothing in my closet. She might as well have asked me to walk naked out on that stage. But the producer was about the business—not my protestations. Before I knew it, she was squeezing and pulling and tugging me into that dress and pushing me out onto the runway and I was facing the spotlight and an audience full of guys who all seemed to move closer to the foot of the stage when they got a gander of what I was wearing—and specifically, all of what I’d squeezed into it. Let’s just say I gained a few, um, fans.

I was still uncomfortable with all of this, though, even as I forged a career and stumbled into womanhood and built a life on my own. Even dating and eventually marrying Nick, the King of Ass Men, didn’t change the perception I had of myself. I mean, this man has loved me inside and out, up and down, fancy or plain, clean or dirty, sweet or attitudinal, fresh or sweat, fly or foul. And I swear to you, every morning I open my eyes, this man tells me I’m beautiful. No matter, though: I still thought I was too curvy—that what I had needed to be hidden.

Getting pregnant changed all of that.



There’s nothing like the miracle that is procreation and the birth of a child to remind a woman just how incredible her body is. Honest to goodness, every inch of the parts that I railed against all the way through my late 20s became a huge asset—pun intended—when it came time to usher my children into this world. My booty is round and dense, my thighs thick, my hips wide—what you could call the perfect birthing body. My first baby was born after just three hours of contractions and 20 minutes of pushing. My second was out in three pushes.

My lower body is strong. Solid. Supple.

Perfect for what it was meant to do.

And even though I now have a two-baby booty and a little post pregnancy pot in my belly, a few stretch marks that weren’t around before and a couple extra pounds, I’ve fallen in love with me. All of me. I chalk it up to a certain level of confidence I gained when God put me in charge of two little human beings—two little girlpies who look to me for guidance and strength and clues for just, like, how to be. I’ve written HERE about how I’m trying to help Mari get comfortable with her inheritance; even at the tender age 10, it’s clear she’s got her mama’s figure. And with every lesson I teach her—every ounce of self-esteem I pour into my baby—I learn to love myself even more, without reservation, without hesitation.

Don’t get it twisted: I know I’m not perfect. But that’s the beauty of it. Honestly, when I saw Erykah Badu’s controversial “Window Seat” video, in which she strips naked in the middle of Dealey Plaza, I applauded her not for being edgy or questioning groupthink or inviting people to assassinate her work, but because she took off all her clothes and walked with confidence in her thicker, curvier, not-so-perfect-but-still-fly mommy body. She was walking like she meant it—like she was clear in her own mind that she’s comfortable with exactly who she is.

And as a 41-year-old mom of two I birthed and a third I’m helping to raise, I can say I feel the same way.

Finally.

Designing and Living Your Fullest Life with Execumama and Naturi Beauty

EDITOR'S NOTE:
CONGRATULATIONS, KRYSTAL GRANT—you're the winner of the ticket to Execumama's "With Mom in Mind" event. Akilah will reach out to you with details on how to retrieve your ticket.



I’d already written two stories, put the finishing touches on a book proposal, had a phone conference and several lively email exchanges with a handful of aspiring writers, sat through an intense book deal negotiation, pulled homework duty, served up dinner and took notes at a two-hour meeting with a board for whom I serve as the secretary, but that didn’t stop me from sitting down to my MacBook at midnight, convinced I could push out a deep post on the exploitation of black girls in advertising.

Um, yeah. I got out all of one sentence, and then my fingers, my eyes, my brain—all three gave up. I was dog tired and just didn’t have it in me to be deep. But I definitely had it in me to feel guilty about it. You know, the way we women—and especially us moms—do.

My sisterfriend Akilah of the fabulous EXECUMAMA, put a stop to the madness.

"You have 6 bazillion pots on the stove, and for damn sure, you have earned the right to stop trying to cook every single pot of stew perfectly right. Let it go, and leave the guilt at the bottom of a glass of wine where it belongs. No one will die or get hurt if you don't do that particular post tonight. Two days from now, will you even remember this concern? Probably not, because another pot will be bubbling over and you'll be Denene-Millnering it with finesse! Let. It. Go."

See? That’s why I love me some Akilah. My girl, author of Execumama: A Pocket Guide For the Twenty-something Mommy on the Move, is expert at helping moms like me find balance—to understand that it is possible to have it all, be happy, and let go. Akilah writes for the young mommy set, but this older mommy can most certainly still identify with her call for women to "define, design, and live your fullest version of womanhood."

Now, my girl is taking her concept off the pages and bringing it to life in her new women-focused workshop, With Mom in Mind™—an afternoon designed to help new and veteran moms and moms-to-be infuse healthier eating, less stress, and more focus to our everyday lives. It's not about piling on—this workshop is about learning how to let go and enjoy our lives in all their manifestations.

Akilah's built quite a team to help her help us moms; she's bringing with her the talented culinary artist (and MyBrownBaby "Taste" contributor!) Shelley Chapman of Naturi Beauty Concepts; Christine Martinello, educator, speaker and author of the bestselling book, The Momager Guide: Empowering Moms to Leave A Loving Legacy, and; certified Yoga instructor Tiffany Campbell, each of whom will share quick, easy, healthy recipes, time-management tips, and an interactive yoga session respectively with attendees.

Akilah promises great conversation, giveaways, and, most importantly, useful resources for moms looking to live their authentic life.

Want to join in on the fun? The inaugural event of With Mom in Mind™ will be held April 24, 2010 from 12:30 p.m. to 2:45 p.m. at the Studioplex on historic Auburn Avenue, here in Atlanta, GA. TIckets are $40; for more information, click HERE.

For my Atlanta connects: Want a chance to win a ticket of your own to this spectacular event? Leave a comment telling me how you "let go" when mommy stress threatens to overrun you, and you could win a ticket to With Mom in Mind™. A winner will be randomly chosen; the prize value is $40, and does not include transportation to the event, though if you live outside of GA and have an ATL-area friend who could use an afternoon of mom power, you, too, can qualify to win. The contest ends at 11:59 p.m. on Friday, April 9, 2010; the winner will be announced Monday, April 12, 2010.

Good luck—and congrats, Akilah, on what is sure to be a fabulous event!

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!

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!

Black Moms ARE Different—and That's OK.

So, after yet another white mom stomped onto MyBrownBaby accusing me of "segregating" myself for writing about issues affecting black moms, my homegirl Akilah over at the fabulous Execumama told me that I should "never freakin' explain again" why I do what I do. She's right, you know; if people bothered to look around and read the actual content on MyBrownBaby, they wouldn't get hung up on the name. But I felt like I needed to break it down so it'll forever be broke just one mo' gin, and this week, I did it in a much more public forum—on The Parenting.com site. Here's an excerpt:

'You’re so vain, you probably think this [post] is about you.'

But it’s not.

It’s about me.

And a bunch of other African-American moms who are tired of being ignored. Stereotyped. Put in a box. Left to wonder what, exactly, they’re to do with the unique circumstances that come into play when they’re raising black children in a society that all but ignores them, until something horrible happens.

What’s got me all in a tizzy?

Yet another white mom stomped onto my site last week, questioning why I write for and about moms of color. Apparently, the word “brown” in my blog title made her feel some kinda ways about my posts, subject matter, and intent, and she questioned why, if “everyone wants to be celebrated and recognized as ‘equal,’” I would “segregate” myself with a blog about skin color.

Um, you really want to make my nostrils flare? Tell me that you “don’t see color.” Or that we’re all the same—no matter the color, race, income level, background, origin, beliefs. Or that by simply acknowledging and speaking to issues that affect black moms specifically, I’m “segregating” myself.

To read the rest of this essay and the wonderful dialogue it's stirred up, head on over to The Parenting Post by clicking HERE. If you're so moved, leave a comment.

Joy!

Wordless Wednesday: What Happens When Three Brown Girls Have Too Much Time On Their Hands (and unrestricted access to a MacBook)

Yet Another Reason Why Mothers Totally Rock

“A mother is a person who, seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.” ~ Tenneva Jordan

So. True.

The First Lady Ain't Nevah Lied...

See? This right here? It's why I just love me some Michelle Obama. First Lady Obama told Prevention magazine in its November issue that she learned "what not to do" as a mother from her own mom, Marian Robinson, who tended much too often to put her own two children first, sometimes to the detriment of herself. Mrs. Obama says her mom warned her not to make the same mistake:

"Throughout my life, I've learned to make choices that make me happy and make sense for me. Even my husband is happier when I'm happy," Mrs. Obama told Prevention. "So I have freed myself to put me on the priority list and say, yes, I can make choices that make me happy, and it will ripple and benefit my kids, my husband and my physical health."

"That's hard for women to own. We're not taught to do that," she added. "It's a lesson that I want to teach my girls."

Tell it, Shelley. Because the one simple truth is this: When mama's happy, everybody is happy. I think a new pair of shoes—a cute suede peep-toe bootie—would make mama very happy today. Yes, indeed.