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

Vintage Boogie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope she knows now.

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

Rest easy, Sis. Thank you for life.

Love,

Bassey and Boogie

Bringing Up Boogie: Black Boys Shouldn't Shoot

By BASSEY IKPI

From the second my sonogram revealed I was having a boy, I vowed not to dress him like the lame little boys in sailor suits and rompers way past the age where sailor suits and rompers are acceptable. And then I went home and made it clear to all family and friends that all clothes for my baby boy were to be gender neutral. No little baseballs or footballs scattered across a onesie. Nothing that said, "Mommy's Strong Big Boy." I didn't want to politicize my child, but I also wanted to raise him from day one to be aware of the boxes this world wants to place little brown boys in and I wanted him to defy those boxes—to be an advocate by example and upbringing. A smiling revolutionary. Someone who would change the world with good in his heart and not a chip on his shoulder, because it is the right thing to do. 

Of course all my ideals and grand speeches fell on def ears. My baby boy got "Grandpa's Little Slugger" and mini-baseball uniforms, blankets spotted with every sporting utensil (or whatever). Everything was blue and blue and blue and boy and boy and gender stereotyped. Instead of having to constantly battle, I finally just let it go. But there was one thing that I've held firm for the last four years. 

No. Guns. 

None. 

No army anything. 

No military regalia.

And most of all, NO GUNS.

People actually respected that request more so than the other ones. There was the one uncle (from Texas) who brought my then 2-year-old a tiny neon-colored water pistol. My son never saw it or any other gun replicas. And despite constant warnings from parents of other boys that my son would use most anything—remote controls, dolls, straws—as a weapon, Boogie never did that. The coast was clear. I was convinced my son was going to stroll through adolescence without any gun play. 

And then came last weekend. Some friends had organized a block party in Addams Morgan in DC, and seeing as  Boogie is a high-energy people person who enjoys being outside, I figured this would be a good opportunity for him to run around and wear himself out and play with some other kids while I caught up with some friends. Thing is, when we got to the park, everyone was armed with neon-colored water guns—adults and children alike, screaming and having a great time spraying each other with the cool water in the hot sun. I saw my baby boy's wide eyes get even wider and I groaned to myself. I was hoping he'd be more interested in climbing the jungle gym and giving me a stroke by leaping off the highest point. But nooooo: He looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes, silently pleading to join in on the fun. I tried to distract him by asking if he was hungry. He shook his head no and then added, "Maybe later." Then I saw it, those Golden Arches in the distance. 

And yes... I did. I distracted him with the promise of a Happy Meal—just marched him right on over to Mickey D's, hoping all the way that whatever toy that was in that magic box would be enough to distract him from the water gun fight down the street. He sat and ate, talking his usual mile a minute, even charming a guy cleaning up after a birthday party into giving him a balloon. Yes! Happy Meal toy and a balloon! Those water guns didn't stand a chance.

That stupid toy and balloon were soon forgotten, though, when we made our way back to the block party only to find that double the amount of people were there now and those who weren't dancing were... in an epic water gun battle. Now, though we've never spoken about it, somehow Boogie instinctively knew I wasn't down for the guns. He's never had one, and I wasn't about to let him get one, not even on this day. After all, this world is too unkind to little black boys and I really didn't want him to ever know what it feels like to shoot anything, even if it was just water.

Call me oversensitive but I'm convinced that because of this rule of mine,  20 years from now, we can call my  baby boy alive.

Anyway, I turn my attention to a friend and leave Boogie to play with some other children for just a minute when he wanders back over to me with a neon-colored water gun in his hand: "Look, mommy, I have a water blaster." Water blaster. He didn't even know the word gun. My heart sank as I took the piece from Boogie and gave it back to the person who'd given it to him. "Thank you so much but I don't allow him to play with guns," I said simply. As I was saying that, my son's body language completely changed. His face fell and his body sort of slumped into a physical, full bodied frown. It broke my heart. I weighed the fact that literally everyone in this place had one and the fact that I swore that he would never get to play with guns. I considered the fact that he called it a "water blaster" and decided, "OK, fine. He can play with it here. But only here."

The other parent apologized for not checking with me which was really cool. Before I let Boogie run off to play, I told him that this was only for fun and he shouldn't aim it at anyone who didn't have one too. No grownups unless they're playing. And if someone says stop, you stop. He gave me an "Okay, mommy." Then he tried to shoot the thing. My boy had no idea how to even  hold it. It was clumsy and awkward in his tiny hands. He finally figured out which finger was supposed to go on the trigger and the best way to aim and hold it and then he was off. I watched him play with some other kids and he was less shooting and more flinging the water in the gun at people. Another little boy showed him the correct way to shoot and, even as I turned away and continued talking, I could hear him laughing and screaming with joy and having a great time.  When I turned my head to make sure he wasn't climbing on anything or anyone he shouldn't, I saw my sweet, little baby boy, coming down the slide with two water guns in each hand shooting. 

He went from a "what's this" to an assassin in 10 minutes. 

All of a sudden, he's Rambo. 

I watched him leap from behind poles and attack. He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his jeans and climbed the jungle gym so he could rain water on an "enemy's" head. It was scary. 

I called him over to see if he was OK and he trotted over smiling and soaked to the skin. 

"You all right, buddy?"

"Yes. I'm having fun. I have to go back!"

He runs off and I lamely yell, "Well! Don't shoot anybody in the back! If you have to shoot make sure you shoot them from the front!"

What am I saying? I knew I was taking it all too seriously. It was just fun and games, but with all the attacks on black men and children accidentally shooting each other, and children shooting each other on purpose, I'm just not comfortable with him and guns. I'm not comfortable with him being comfortable with guns. But I have to find a way to get over it. 

I watched him for the rest of the time we were out. Then in the car, I tried to have a conversation with him about safety and not touching one unless I'm around. Somewhere between my explaining to him who Amadou Diallo was and what the NRA is, my little boy fell asleep.

He's 3 1/2 and he just had the time of his life playing water games with other children. I watched him in the rear view mirror, his tiny head slumped to the side, still clutching his "water blaster." He had a slight smile on his face and his T-shirt was just starting to dry. I put my attention back on the road and decided that all my hard fast rules needed a bit of tweaking. I can't protect him forever. I can only make sure he leaves with enough information that he makes choices that he can be proud of. 

And, I decided, I need to hide that water gun before he wakes up.


* * * * * * * * * *

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


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

Photo credit: Jenster181 via Flickr

MyBrownBaby Mom: Malaak Compton-Rock

Update:

Congratulations to Ms. Understood, Joyce the Writer, and Malaka G., who will each receive an autographed copy of Malaak's book. Thanks everyone for participating!


If service to others is a gauge of a human's heart, then Malaak Compton-Rock's is as tall as Mt. Kilimanjaro and as wide as the Caspian sea. For sure, Malaak, wife of comedian/actor/film producer Chris Rock, is a do-gooder—a dedicated mom who's living quite a fulfilled life serving and giving to others. She's headed up no less than five organizations dedicated to helping everyone from women moving from welfare to work, to orphaned children and people living with HIV/AIDS in South Africa, to at-risk kids from Brooklyn recruited to participate in a two-week mission to serve others and experience the world (the latter, her Journey for Change: Empowering Youth Through Global Service, was featured on CNN's Black in America 2). More recently, she's dedicated her attention to The Angel Rock Project, an online e-village that promotes volunteerism, social responsibility and sustainable change, and authored the new book, If It Takes a Village, Build One: How I Found Meaning Through a Life of Service and 100+ Ways You Can Too. The book, part memoir, part guidebook, details Malaak's own experience with service and gives the ABCs on things like how to research charities, how to find the right volunteer opportunities, how to get kids involved in a life of service, and even how to start a nonprofit. It's an amazing legacy that Malaak is leaving for her daughters—one that, no doubt, will make them equally strong, powerful, courageous women. Just like their mom. Here, Malaak shares stories about her greatest love—her brown babies—and her dedication to raising smart, fun children who share her passion of service. AND (!) she's giving away THREE AUTOGRAPHED COPIES of her book, exclusively here on MyBrownBaby (read on for details). Without further ado, MyBrownBaby Mom Malaak Compton-Rock:

My name is... Malaak Compton-Rock.

I live in... New Jersey, 20 minutes outside of New York City.

My brown babies are... Lola Simone, age 7, and Zahra Savannah, age 5. We also have Ntombi, who is 2 years old and from South Africa. She visits our family often and is our pride and joy.

I make a living... giving speeches, writing, and doing occasional TV work. I also run a nonprofit program for teens, but defer my salary.

The last time my kids cracked me up is... everyday, but they really cracked me up at the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards this week because they were so nervous meeting Justin Beiber and the other celebrities. The five-year-old said, "I can’t move, I can’t walk, my neck is too hot!” That really made me laugh. Now we can’t stop asking her if her neck is hot.

The last book I read with my kids was... Frindle with Lola and Ladybug Girl and Bumblebee Boy for Zahra. She is loving this book right now.

My favorite place to take them is... Houston’s restaurant followed by Barnes & Noble’s children’s book section. This is a Saturday ritual and staple for us. We also love to go to the park. Van Zandt park in Paramus, New Jersey, is a favorite because it has jungle gyms for all ages, a small zoo, a train, merry-go-round, and pony rides. We love it and can stay all day. I also love to take them to our local nail salon for mani/pedi’s, followed by a trip to Acorns, a local children’s bookstore.

My proudest mom moment was... seeing Zahra so proud of doing her math work for me during a parent visit at school. The smile on her face, the happiness in her eyes, and the confidence in her soul were almost too much to take. Lola recently accompanied me on a mission to Ghana, where we met rescued and current child slaves in Kete Krachi, who are enslaved in the fishing industry on Lake Volta. I was so proud of the way she interacted with the Ghanaian children and how involved she was in our work to learn more about child slavery. And she basically understood that all children are the same and set about playing and chatting with them as she would any child.

The thing I most want my children to know is... “to whom much is given, much is required.”

The one family tradition I hope my kids continue when they grow up is... putting on music and dancing at night as a family before going up to bed, and making every holiday, even the little ones, special and memorable.

If I could invent one thing to make mom life easier, it would be... something that would keep my car clean and snackproof. I cannot stand a messy car as it makes my mind go to mush. I often make a rule that the kids can’t eat in the car because they are too messy and don’t clean up after themselves, only to break it the very next day carpooling from school to an activity. Oh, what I would do for an “instant-car-cleaner-upper thingy.”

The best invention for kids ever is... the sippy cup hands down for toddlers, and the rolling backpack for big kids, since we are always on planes. I also really liked the scented bags for diapers when they were younger. I think the portable potty for my car and the large seat covers that stick are both a must-have.

The kid snack I am most likely to get busted eating are... fishies, their cereal, and drinking from a juice box.

The most important life lesson I want my kids to learn is... to “treat others as you would like to be treated,” and that it is important to always remember, “if I get there before you do, I am obligated to bore a hole and pull you through.”

The one thing no one knows about me is that... I am a mean cook. I can throw down in the kitchen.

The thing I lost as a mom that I wish I could get back is... sleeping in on the weekends and then waking up and reading the paper from front to back; getting a massage without wondering what the kids are doing, and then not feeling guilty for leaving them to get a massage instead of relaxing; being able to read more than two pages in a book at a time; sleeping in a bed without feet in my face and back; and not falling asleep in the movies because of lack of sleep.



THE CONTEST:

Three lucky MyBrownBaby readers will win a copy of Malaak Compton-Rock's new book, If It Takes a Village, Build One, autographed by Malaak! The book, a testament to Malaak's dedication to the service of others, is an incredible guide to how we all can help those less fortunate than us—in big ways and small ways too—and find fulfillment in it. The book can be purchased on Amazon for $24, but Malaak Compton-Rock's autograph is priceless.

Here’s how you enter: Visit Malaak's The Angel Rock Project website (CLICK HERE) OR check out a video of Malaak on Oprah, giving tips on how to get kids involved in service CLICK HERE TO SEE THE VIDEO and then come back here to MyBrownBaby and leave a comment about something you learned about Malaak's foundation or her kid-friendly service suggestions. You must leave your comment by 11:59 p.m. EST on Wednesday, May 5, 2010 to qualify to win.

Want to enter more than once? Boost your chances of winning by completing one or more of the following tasks:

1. If you haven’t already, sign up for MyBrownBaby’s email updates by 11:59 p.m. EST on Wednesday, May 5, 2010. To be eligible, you must verify your email subscription when Feedburner sends you a verification email. Your entry will be invalid if you do not verify. If you would prefer to get MyBrownBaby updates via an MBB RSS feed, please leave a comment letting me know you’ve done so, and include an email address, as RSS subscribers are anonymous.

2. Buy one or more of copies of If It Takes a Village, Build One on Amazon HERE, and email a copy of your confirmation order to mybrownbabycontests@gmail.com. For every purchase of her book between April 6th - July 6th, 2010, Malaak will donate $1 to The Global Fund. CLICK HERE to learn more.

3. Become a MyBrownBaby Google Follower.

4. Tweet about this giveaway: "I'm rocking The Angel Rock project for a chance to win @mybrownbaby and @arproject." (You can tweet this message up to five times—once per day. Please leave a separate comment for each tweet. While appreciated, extra tweets beyond the alloted five will not be counted.)

5. Follow @mybrownbaby or @ARProject on Twitter.

6. Fave MyBrownBaby on Technorati. After you do this, come back to MyBrownBaby to leave a comment with your Technorati user name so that I can verify it.

See? That means each of you can receive up to 11 entries. Two winners will be chosen via Random.org, and contacted via email. This contest is available to U.S. mailing addresses only. PLEASE LEAVE A SEPARATE COMMENT FOR EACH TASK YOU COMPLETE. This is the only way that your extra entries can be counted on Random.org.

Well… what are you waiting for? Go ahead—Angel Rock is waiting!

To Hell With Marriage Vows

I've been itching to write about all this cheating husband mess running all up and through Hollywood, but my girl/co-author Mitzi of the hysterical Mitzi Moments said all that needs to be said on the subject and then some:

It looks like the state of marriage continues to rapidly deteriorate. Not only did lameass Tiki Barber leave his pregnant wife of 11 years for an intern but it seems Garcelle Beauvais-Nilon's husband has also been outted for his five-year affair. So how many celebrity husbands are in the shit house behind women probably not worth the gum on the bottom of my shoe: Steve Phillips, Tiger Woods, Shaq, Jesse James, Tiki Barber... Nice, very nice.

Keep it classy ya'll.

But not for nothing, there's been such a varied response to the cheating by all the wives. Don't ya think? Let's see: ESPN analyst Steve Phillips' wife sued him and homegirl; Elin chased Tiger's ass with a golf club; Shaunie O'Neal snatched the kids and went to LA; Sandra straight disappeared; Ginny Barber immediately started crying to the press, and; good 'ole Garcelle... Well Ms. Thang sent a damn email to the ENTIRE talent agency where her husband works. Mmm-hmm, talking about:

"I found out today that MY husband of almost 9 yrs has been having an affair for 5 yrs with some slut in Chicago. I am devastated!!!! And I have been duped!! Our boys don't deserve this!"

JUST LIKE THAT.

I gotta say, it's been a bad run for unfaithful men over the past seven months. And sure, I'd like to be optimistic about the situation. Cause you know, not everyone has to put his hand on the fire to figure out that it burns. But it's just... I mean honestly? Interns, waitresses, low budget internet porn stars, party promoters and your homeboy's fiancee? It's a lot. Le sigh.

Jesus be the secret bank account in your mama's maiden name.

And this right here is why I love me some Mitzi: She's a fool all day, er' day—and she always gives it straight, no chaser. Check out more of Mitzi's musings HERE at Mitzi Moments or check her out on Twitter at @mitzimoments.

MyBrownBaby Mom: Holly Robinson Peete

CONGRATULATIONS Arlice Nichole and Hil'Lesha—you're the winners of autographed copies of "My Brother Charlie," by Holly Robinson-Peete and Ryan Peete!




The hair, the smarts, the cute boys, the secret undercover stuff—all of these things made actress, author, and philanthropist Holly Robinson Peete the envy of the girls and the ruler of men when I was a teenager; you couldn’t tell me she wasn’t the coolest black girl on TV when she starred on 21 Jump St., one of my then-favorite shows. Now, I heart her for many more meaningful reasons, chief among them because of her dedication to her husband, Rodney Peete, and their four beautiful brown babies. For sure, Holly is a busy mom: Currently, she’s showing off her keen business sense on NBC’s Celebrity Apprentice; co-hosting a “family reality” talk show on Oprah Radio; running her own philanthropic The HollyRod Foundation for families affected by Parkinson’s disease and autism; serving as an outspoken advocate for children with autism, and; authoring two books, including her latest, My Brother Charlie, a delicious children’s picture book based on her twins’ experience with autism.



I had the distinct pleasure of providing editorial guidance to Holly and her daughter, Ryan, as they breathed life into My Brother Charlie, and what stood out to me was her passion for raising authentic little human beings. Like each of us, she worries—about their schooling, about their extracurricular activities, about what they’re eating and how they’re getting along with one another. You know, regular mom stuff. Which makes her just as regular as you and me—an endearing trait that oft goes unseen in the sensational/me-myself-and-I culture of pop celebrity. Perhaps most touching of all was her sharing of personal stories about her struggles and triumphs with her son RJ’s autism; particularly moving was her story about the day her son said, “I love you,” to her, even after a doctor said RJ’s autism would prevent him from expressing his emotions in any meaningful way—and especially from saying, “I love you, mommy.” This special story, and many others, are chronicled in My Brother Charlie, and today, Holly is sharing a few more personal stories about mommyhood as a MyBrownBaby Mom. AND (!), she’s giving away two autographed copies of My Brother Charlie… read on for details. Without further ado, our MyBrownBaby Mom, Holly Robinson Peete:

My name is… Holly Robinson Peete

I live in… Crazymommaville , USA

My brown babies are… Ryan and Rodney, Jr., (twins), Robinson and Roman—each of them delicious and hilarious.

I make a living… by what I give!

The last time my kids cracked me up was… this morning in the car on the way to school. They were mocking me: “Kids check for ash! Ash check!” (I can’t stand an ashy chile.)

The last book I read with my kids was… Olu’s Dream by Shane W. Evans, and My Brother Charlie, of course!

My favorite place to take them is… the beach. They are so free and peaceful there.

My proudest mom moment was… when my son, RJ, who has autism, spoke for the first time in a meaningful way.

My most embarrassing mommy moment was the time when… I was out of town and a mom emailed me to say my kids came to school lookin’ like they crawled through a dust storm (I have MAJOR ash issues…have you noticed?) Hubby got an earful.

The thing I most want my children to know is… service is the rent we pay for living! My hero Marian Wright Edelman said that.

The one family tradition I hope my kids continue when they grow up is… celebrating Kwanzaa. They learn more about their ancestors in one winter week than they do all year at school.

If I could invent one thing to make being a mom easier, it would be… a way to clone myself.

The best invention for kids ever is… LEGOS.

The kid snack I’m most likely to get busted eating is… Goldfish pretzels! The snack bag is a perfect portion!

The most important life lesson I want my kids to learn is… luck favors the prepared! Be armed & ready for life’s catapulting moments.

The one thing no one knows about me is… I hide in the closet and read magazines with a flashlight. They find me everywhere else. My version of a quick mom-cation.

The thing I lost as a mom that I wish I could get back is… me time! Naps!

My “I’d Rather Be…” bumper sticker would say… having a lychee Martini!

My Brother Charlie by Holly Robinson Peete from Expanded Books on Vimeo.

THE CONTEST:

Two lucky MyBrownBaby readers will win a copy of Holly Robinson Peete and Ryan Peete's new children's book, My Brother Charlie, autographed by Holly! The story, in which a sister explains the joys, frustrations and triumphs of living with a brother with autism, is a testament to love, patience, and acceptance—and the illustrations by MyBrownBaby favorite SHANE EVANS warms this book in a way that you must see up close to appreciate. The book can be purchased on Amazon for $17, but Holly Robinson Peete's autograph is priceless.

Here’s how you enter: Visit Holly's blog on the HollyRod Foundation For Help and Hope website (CLICK HERE), and then come back here to MyBrownBaby and leave a comment about the most surprising fact you learned from Holly's "Shifting Focus: 8 Facts About Autism the Media is Not Covering." You must leave your comment by 11:59 p.m. EST on Sunday, April 25, 2009 to qualify to win.

Want to enter more than once? Boost your chances of winning by completing one or more of the following tasks:

1. If you haven’t already, sign up for MyBrownBaby’s email updates by 11:59 p.m. EST on Sunday, April 25, 2009. To be eligible, you must verify your email subscription when Feedburner sends you a verification email. Your entry will be invalid if you do not verify. If you would prefer to get MyBrownBaby updates via an MBB RSS feed, please leave a comment letting me know you’ve done so, and include an email address, as RSS subscribers are anonymous.

2. Buy one or more of copies of My Brother Charlie HERE on Amazon HERE, and email a copy of your confirmation order to mybrownbabycontests@gmail.com.

3. Become a MyBrownBaby Google Follower.

4. Tweet about this giveaway: "I’m in it to win it 4 kids w #autism thanks to @mybrownbaby and @HollyRod4Kids #mybrothercharlie" (You can tweet this message up to five times—once per day. Please leave a separate comment for each tweet. While appreciated, extra tweets beyond the alloted five will not be counted.)

5. Follow @mybrownbaby or @HollyRod4Kids on Twitter.

6. Fave MyBrownBaby on Technorati. After you do this, come back to MyBrownBaby to leave a comment with your Technorati user name so that I can verify it.

See? That means each of you can receive up to 11 entries. Two winners will be chosen via Random.org, and contacted via email. This contest is available to U.S. mailing addresses only. PLEASE LEAVE A SEPARATE COMMENT FOR EACH TASK YOU COMPLETE. This is the only way that your extra entries can be counted on Random.org.

Well… what are you waiting for? Go ahead—Charlie is waiting!

EVERYBODY Should Read Black Children's Books

Yup, I admit it: For years, I've been on a secret mission to integrate the bookshelves and toy chests of a bunch of my daughters' white friends. Every time Mari and Lila were invited to a birthday party, I'd send them with fancy gift bags full of copies of Debbie Allen's "Dancing in the Wings," bell hooks' "Home Made Love," and Faith Ringgold's "Tar Beach," plus a chocolate Barbie for good measure.

Subversive? Yes.

Necessary? Very.

See, the majority of the parents of my daughters' friends, no matter how kind and smart and sweet they are, didn't buy black books, dolls, or movies for their children. I don't think they were being racist or striking out against diversity, by any stretch; it just never seemed to really occur to them that maybe, just maybe, their daughters would identify with the pretty, round-faced girl pie in "Home Made Love," or Sassy, the talented but shy ballerina in "Dancing in the Wings" -- or that there would be value in letting their daughters read their sweet, insightful, beautifully human stories.

Indeed, one of my mom friends, the mother of three boys, recently confessed to me that she'd gotten into a nasty argument with her mother and sister when she gave her niece a black doll for her birthday. The store, see, had run out of the white version of the doll, which her niece really wanted, and so my friend just went on ahead and bought the brown version. Well what did she do that for? "My mom and sister were livid," she said. Two weeks later, they were still speaking to her only when spoken to.

To my friend's credit, she couldn't understand what the big deal was. And the fact of the matter is, it shouldn't be. It's not like the black doll is going to jump out of the toy chest and go "boogedy, boogedy boo" at the first kid who finds it, or that a black children's book is going to be chock full of stereotypical Ebonics and rated "R" storylines ready to turn out the innocent ears of the babies. But this, it seems, is how all-too-many white parents treat them.

I speak from experience, you know. I'm the co-author of a three-book teen series called "Hotlanta," and I've stood by and watched white teenage girls excitedly read the back jacket, only to have their moms literally wrestle the book out of their hands and lead them to white books. A fellow author, Derrick Barnes, recently told me that books four and five in his brilliant children's book series, "Ruby and the Booker Boys," will likely never make it to bookshelves if sales for the first three in the series don't pick up -- a problem that could be remedied easily if black moms weren't the only ones shelling out $5 a pop for Derrick's books. Hell, the black Barbie dolls that were priced to move in Louisiana last week -- they were being sold for nearly half the price of the white dolls -- are there not just because black moms aren't buying them, but because white moms pass them up for the white ones.



I get it: I want my daughters to play with dolls that look like them, too, for all the obvious reasons. But when my friends gifted "Good Night Moon" and "Eloise" and countless "Junie B. Jones" books to my babies, I didn't have a conniption. When they served up blonde Barbies to my girls, I didn't take them out back and burn them in effigy. I simply added them to the collection. My girls have a literal rainbow coalition of doll babies—chocolate brown ones, Asians, Latinas, white with blonde hair, red-haired, olive-skinned ones. We bought some of them. Some of them were gifts. Neither their bookshelves nor their toy chests discriminate: Indeed, my girls' toys reflect the truly diverse world they live in, where the kids who fill their school rooms and playgroups speak different languages and come from different countries and backgrounds and income levels and aren't necessarily a bunch of frilly little tea-toting girls.

My hope is when I pass along a black children's book or a black doll baby to my daughters' friends, that they get the same subliminal lessons -- that brown children matter. Books like "Ruby and the Booker Boys" speak to our experiences and show both our differences and our commonalities with white culture. Introducing books like these to white children is the most simple, basic way to introduce a child to another race in a positive, thoughtful way. A white child introduced to Ruby may not necessarily say, "Oh look! A black girl is the star of this book!" when she reads it. She might not notice the character's color at all. But she just might decide to make friends with a little black girl out on the playground because she looks like the character in the book she liked. And since she really liked that book, she'll probably really like that little girl, too.

Children really are that simple. That uncomplicated.

My prayer is that we moms get a little of that act right in us, too.



In the meantime, if you want to make a difference, pick up one—or all—of these beautiful books for your child (click on the titles to purchase them online):

The Ruby and the Booker Boys series, by Derrick Barnes
Tar Beach, by Faith Ringold
Homemade Love, by bell hooks
We Had a Picnic This Sunday Past, by Jacqueline Woodson
The Gospel Cinderella, by Joyce Carol Thomas
Olu's Dream, by Shane Evans
Precious and the Boo Hag, by Patricia McKissack
Whistle for Willie, by Ezra Jack Keats
A Chair For My Mother, by Vera B. Williams
The Willimena Rules! series, by Valerie Wilson Wesley


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.

(And um, since there are a few moms over there acting like my request that they let their children read black children's books is tantamount to me asking them to grill their children and eat them for Sunday dinner, maybe you could go on over there and add to the conversation in the comments section. I'd greatly appreciate that.)

(Even more importantly: I'm asking each of you to show Scholastic that we love Derrick Barnes' Ruby and the Booker Boys series and want it to continue by BUYING THE BOOKS. You can get the first four in the series for $20—very reasonable considering the gift you'll be getting in this beautiful series. Buy the books as a gift for a lucky little girl in your life or your local library or a local community center or a church playroom or your doctor's office. Every book sold is a vote in favor of authors like Derrick and me, who spend every waking moment of our working lives dedicated to telling beautiful stories for and about our children—all children. Please: Support Ruby!)

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.

When It Comes To Disciplining Our Children, Where Should We Draw the Line?

By BRITNI DANIELLE

Last week I filed my first child abuse report.

After becoming utterly annoyed by a student’s immature and disruptive behavior, I called his mother. I explained the situation and asked if she wanted to speak to him. Instead she told me she was on her way with her belt "to whoop him in front of the class.”

My mind went blank.

I tried to convince her not to come. After all, it was a shortened day and we were going to be out of school in less than 20 minutes, but she would not be moved. About 10 minutes later, both parents showed up and my students and I had a front row seat to abuse.

A hush fell over the classroom, all of the students waited to see what would go on. I thought that this kid’s parents would pull him aside, talk to him, and at worse make him cry, but I was not ready for the sound of the slap that echoed off of his face. I’ve never seen anyone—in person—slapped so hard in my life. I hurt for him. The other students sat in awe and I was thrown, completely thrown at how to handle it. Do I call the police? Do I call school security and tell them what just went on? I was at a loss.

After he got slapped, my student tried to play it off like nothing happened. You could see the tears welling in his eyes, but he wanted to show strong for his friends. One student voiced what we all thought, “Ms. I know he acts bad, but he didn’t have to slap him like that.”

At first, I wasn’t sure it was my place to file an abuse report and perhaps throw this family into the system and under the watchful eye of child services, but I couldn’t ignore what I saw.

After work I discussed the incident with a few co-workers and asked them if they thought the slap constituted abuse. Most agreed that I was right to file a report, but one said, “Well, that was daddy being daddy. I wouldn’t file a thing.” This threw me. When did slapping a child in the face become an acceptable form of discipline?

Growing up, my parents subscribed to the belief, “spare the rod, spoil the child.” My mother wasn’t afraid to break out “Mr. Leather” if she felt we were doing wrong. However, she didn’t abuse us, never left a mark, and never spanked out of anger. But we quickly learned to abide by the rules or get ready to feel the sting of leather on legs. But slapping? My mother never hit us in our faces, cursed us out, or did any of the other things that many of my students seem to encounter at home.

Many may shrug at my student being slapped by his father, but does this type of discipline work? No, it doesn't. After being slapped, my student not only continued to be the same immature, fidgety 7th grader that he was before, but now he has the added shame of being pimp slapped by his daddy in front of his peers.

I look at my students, at their behavior, and I often wonder: What systems of discipline are in place in their homes? Why is it that they only seem to respond to being yelled or cursed at? How can they be disciplined without abuse?

Most parents abuse their children because they don’t know any better. They are merely repeating what was done to them. It doesn’t make it right, but it gives us a jumping off point to teach parents that disciplining children does not begin and end with a slap—that slapping a child doesn’t teach them a lesson, but often causes them to act out even more.


About our MyBrownBaby contributor:

Britni Danielle blogs about her experiences raising a son while his father is incarcerated. She is a teacher, writer, and avid music junkie, and mothers over 100 brown babies a day in her classroom before coming home to her own. Check out more of her incredible writing and poetry at ThisSideoftheWall.

MyBrownBaby MOM OF THE MONTH: Jennae Petersen

Our "Go Green" efforts at the MyBrownBaby household are cute and all—we use recycled bags at the grocery store, we keep our showers to three minutes or less, and we recycle everything from our newspapers to the cardboard boxes our Dove soap comes in. But what we do is mere child's play compared to my girl, Jennae Petersen, purveyor of the drool-worthy blog, Green Your Decor. On her site, Jennae scours the market for stylish, sustainable, green-forward home decor, and then breaks down why buying the pieces she features are good for the environment. A thought-provoking question she asks at Green Your Decor: "You may turn off the lights every time you leave a room, but do you know whether an old-growth forest was cut down for the wood used to make your bed?" Yup. Simply put: Jennae. Breaks. It. Down. So. It. Will. Forever. Be. Broke.

But the products she features aren't just great for the environment; they're super beautiful, too. For sure, Jennae's got an eye for pretty things—so much so that she recently founded a second green-conscious site, Green and Beautiful, which is dedicated to showing us through posts on beauty, fashion, family, technology, and other topics that we can be green and super cutie. Of course, green and super cutie is the perfect description of Jennae, whom I've known since I started blogging in October '08, but had the pleasure of meeting in person at BlogHer '09. She is such a warm spirit—quiet but opinionated, shy but smart, sweet but no-nonsense, and, above all else, kind. (And she is the mother of the cutest little girlpie, shown here with Jennae and her lovely husband.) I'm proud to count her as a friend, and can't wait for you all to get to know her better here at MyBrownBaby. Without further ado, our MyBrownBaby Mom of the Month:


My name is… Jennae Petersen

I live in… Athens, GA by way of St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands

My brown babies are… Ja’Naya, 4; Ja’Quan, 7; Ja’Keil, 9; and Ja’Vontae, 10. Yeah. We like the Js in this household, although the 3 boys currently live in Florida with their mom. I'm pretty sure if we ever get a dog, we'll find a J name for him too :)

I make a living… as the owner and lead designer of Hibiscus Creative, a full service graphic design firm, and as a blogger and freelance writer.

The last book I read with my kids was… “Suba Starts with Self.”

The last time my kids cracked me up was… when I read a book to my daughter, I always start with the title. So I began, “Suba Starts with Self…” and my daughter quickly corrected me. “No Mommy. Suba starts with S.”

My favorite place to take them is… Memorial Park, otherwise known as the duck pond. We feed the ducks and occasionally pull out the fishing poles, though we have yet to catch anything.

My proudest mom moment was… when my youngest stepson asked if it was OK for him to call me Mama. It still brings tears to my eyes when I think about it, because I knew right then that he understood I love all of them like they came from my own womb.

My most embarrassing mommy moment was the time when… I got out of my husband’s Cadillac, with the car still on, completely forgetting that the locks were messed up and sometimes would lock automatically. Inconvenient? Yeah. But what made it embarrassing is the fact that my then infant daughter was still strapped into her car seat in the back. We called a locksmith, and I felt like the worst mother in the world when he realized that there was a baby in the car. Thankfully the air conditioner was on and we played peek-a-boo through the window until the doors were unlocked. She had no idea what was going on :)

The thing I most want my children to know is… they are beautiful just the way God made them, and that anyone who truly loves them will accept them as they are.

The one family tradition I hope my kids continue when they grow up is… praying together, as a family. I know it’s a cliché, but I truly believe that the family that prays together stays together. And I find that when we pray out loud, we find out what is truly important to each of us.

If I could invent one thing to make being a mom easier, it would be… an extra hour or two of sleep time for the kids every night so I can squeeze in all the little things I never seem to get done. Or some extra quiet time for me and the hubby.

The best invention for kids ever is… not exactly an invention FOR kids, but the iPhone. With its endless educational apps, it is great for keeping restless kids occupied during car rides and long waits.

The kid snack I’m most likely to get busted eating is… Goldfish.

The most important life lesson I want my kids to learn is… the only limitations that matter are the ones that are self-imposed. As long as we believe we can achieve a goal, it is already done.

The one thing no one knows about me is… I’ve known my husband since I was 13, and I knew the moment I met him that he would be my husband. That, and I can sing. Like really sing, and not just because my mama told me so :) I'm just too scared to do it in public anymore.

The thing I lost as a mom that I wish I could get back is… spontaneity.

My “I’d Rather Be…” bumper sticker would say… laying on my husband’s chest on a beach back in the Virgin Islands.

THE END ZONE: A SON LEARNS TO DEAL WITH HARD KNOCKS ON THE GRIDIRON

By VIVIAN EISON

I snapped hundreds of photos of my youngest son, but my favorite is a black and white of him at age two. He's wearing the cheesiest smile and holding on for dear life to his Batman and Robocop toys. His saucer-shaped eyes are playful and slightly mischievous. He’d just bounced back from his bout with chicken pox. Life was sweet, simple and uncomplicated. I’m a softie for nostalgia.

My son is 20 years old now—6’2” and tipping the scales at a rock solid 195 pounds. Troy is a senior at the University of Akron and was a wide receiver on the football team until two weeks ago. The call came while I was standing in line at the bank. “Mom, I just quit the team. I thanked my coach for the opportunity. It’s over.”

Stunned, I grabbed my deposit slip and ran into the parking lot. “What happened?” My heart was racing. “Are you okay?”

He calmly explained that while he loved the game, he couldn’t stand the coach favoritism and empty promises. He added, quietly: “I lost my ambition.”

I hurt for my son! He’d worked his butt off to be a legitimate athlete for the past 10 years; he was 5’9” and 150 lbs as a high school senior—not a physical powerhouse, but he had heart and guts and a dream to play in the NFL. I will NEVER forget his first touchdown. Of course, I acted up and screamed his name like any red-blooded mom would do. Troy’s catch made the front page of the local newspaper. I ran my mouth! You would have thought he won the Heisman.



Troy joined his college football team as a freshman walk on after getting only limited playing time in high school and getting passed over when the college scouts handed out football scholarships. He spent his summers on campus, religiously lifting weights and running routes with teammates, even though it wasn’t mandatory.

Still, this year he was frustrated that he wasn’t “getting in” during preseason practices with his team after sitting out his junior year to satisfy NCAA rules for players who transfer to new schools—a red flag of how the regular season with his newer, bigger school would go down.

I didn’t want to make matters worse by talking him to death and letting on that this situation had my stomach in knots. When your child is an adult, you teeter a tight rope between being a loving, concerned parent and a total nag. Angst and panic often hitch a ride on this neurotic super highway. You have to sharpen your listening skills and your intuition, and know when to back off or you’ll be spoon-fed incomplete information or, worse, be completely left out of the loop. But you never, ever stop worrying—even if you keep it to yourself.

You do, however, get to witness firsthand how well a job you’ve done as a parent. Though my heart ached for my son, I was proud to see that his decision was mature, not knee jerk or impulsive. It wasn’t the product of rage, big ego, whining, jealousy or arrogance. He was relentless, self-motivated, disciplined, coachable and driven, and pushed himself mentally and physically to meet the demands of college football while sitting pretty on the Dean’s list.

What my son did wasn’t about quitting. It was about knowing when to say goodbye—being content with his decision and walking away with integrity when he gave his all. Troy dared to dream. His dad and I encouraged his passion and didn’t kill his spirit. The Jim Kelly, Peyton Manning and Chris Carter camps were worth it. The lingering smell of Icy-Hot on his banged up legs and requests for back rubs and jugs of Gatorade warmed my heart. The life lessons learned on the football field about working hard and dealing with adversities will go a long way with him as he enters the working world and has his own family one day!!

Next year I’ll get to act up and scream his name again with pride when he WALKS ON the stage to get his Bachelor’s degree in Mass Communications. My kind of cheering—with a box of Kleenex and all.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Vivian Eison is a divorced mom of two grown sons. In addition to being a registered nurse, she is a contributing writer for BlackPower.com, and is writing a book about surviving divorce. She lives in Connecticut.

For Black Moms Who’ve Considered the Cuss Out When the Playground Banter Is Much Too Much

Editor’s Note: So I was fussing around on Twitter Sunday afternoon when I came across poet and writer Bassey Ikpi’s tweets from the frontlines—er, playground. What started out as a lazy, playful afternoon for the Baltimore-based mom and her deliciously cute son, Elaiwe, quickly turned into a “get it straight” verbal smackdown when another mom questioned whether her son was “slow.” Right. In one almost hour-long twitter stream, Bassey expressed the fears, frustration, and anger black parents face when others make foul, wrong-headed assumptions about our brown babies. Here, the blow-by-blow of Bassey brilliantly breaking down why it’s just never a good idea to “innocently” verbalize said assumptions about black children to their moms, as told through Bassey’s tweets.

By BASSEY IKPI

• At the park with Boogs. Poor thing needs some friends. He's trying to convince some big kids to let him play soccer. 1:29 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• This kid isn't afraid of anything! Where did he get that from? I long to be that free and unafraid. 1:31 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Ugh! This is why I hate hanging out with parents I don't know. Just because our kids are playing together don't mean you and I should talk. 1:39 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• E is clearly smaller than your kid. Why would you ask me if he's delayed? Do people do that? Am I wrong? 1:40 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I was like… what? He's 2 and a half. She goes, what?? Then she wants to compare notes. He started walking when?? He says what??? 1:42 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Bitch, you started it! I wasn't trying to tell you he was a genius. I was letting him play with your barely talking yet 5 year old. 1:43 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• White people blow me with that! He can't be gifted? He has to be tiny and slow?? 1:44 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• My 2 year old is convincing your 4 year old not to be scared of the slide and you trying to say what to me? Ridiculous. 1:46 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• And yes I am tweeting in her face. 1:46 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Boogie is having fun but if this chick doesn't stop with the questions. Like I'm going to say well when his home planet was destroyed... 1:50 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• "Oh his father must be thrilled." Someone is about to be arrested. 1:52 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I'm taking my cues from Michael. I'm a lover not a fighter. I just explained to her that her questions come off both rude and racist. 1:56 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• She apologized and said that she saw how he was behaving and assumed he was older but because he is small she thought he was autistic... 2:01 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I'm not sure how that's better... but I asked her why she wouldn't assume that he was advanced for his age rather than slow for his size. 2:02 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Hell why not just ask me how old he is? She said she was just stunned bcuz her 4 yo 2:03 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Doesn't speak as clearly and isn't as self possessed as E is. I said that has nothing to do with me and my kid. 2:04 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Was that rude? I'm not trying to be rude but Boogie is just Boogie. I don't compare him to other kids. 2:04 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• She shouldn't compare little Dakota or Simon or whatever. No wonder he's so scared of slides. Let the boy live. 2:05 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Crap. Stupid bleeding heart. Now I feel bad.2:06 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Boogie: What happened, mama? Me: That lady is stressing me out. B: Me too! Can I have ice cream? (Love this kid) 2:13 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• E is fine for his age. He's smart but he's not Doogie. So to think he's a tiny 5 year old that's slow? What time is your plane to conclusions? 2:14 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• It was more how she asked. He started walking early. He started talking early. Yes he eats fast food. Yes he watches TV… 2:17 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• These are just facts. I'm not all hmph.. give your kid a happy meal. That's what works for ME! (Kinda) 2:18 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I get nervous about my parenting but I know I'm doing the absolute best I can. That's it. Leave me alone random white woman! 2:19 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Oh I don't feel bad. I know Boogie is awesome. I just was annoyed by the whole conversation. I don't like talking kids with parents.

• So if I'm saying yes he knows a lot of words. Yes he's pretty fearless. Yes he's very confident. LEAVE ME ALONE. 2:23 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Ok. I'm done talking about this. You can't be mad and eat ice cream. It's like illegal in 4 countries. Thanks for listening to me! 2:24 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

About our MBB Contributor:
Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic. She’s half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius... the left over bit is a caramel creme center. She’s also the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi, who, as you can see in the picture above, be flyer than most, even on a sick day. Get more Bassey at basseyworld.com

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

MyBrownBaby MOM OF THE WEEK: Danyele Easterhaus

I met today's MyBrownBaby Mom of the Week through the comment junkie website, The Secret is in the Sauce; we were comment neighbors that day, and though I can't remember who visited who first, I became an instant fan of her site—A Thorn Among Roses. It is there that Danyele Easterhaus, mom of four beautiful girls—one, a brown girl pie named Jada—writes and photo journals about her parenting journey and her family's wonderful life. I absolutely adore her stories about her girls, who are so stinkin' cute and sassy and funny and nutty, they're addictive. And while it isn't the focus of her blog, I especially love that Danyele really does think about the impact of raising Jada in an all-white household, and ponders often what she can do better as a mom to make sure her beautiful, brown baby lives an authentic, God-fearing life, confident in who she is—and sure that she is loved beyond measure. One post in particular that truly moved me was SADNESS, in which Danyele chronicles the heartbreak she felt when her then-3-year-old brown baby told her she wanted her skin to look like that of her white sister, Brooke. While Danyele struggled with what to say, Brooke said some really wise words that most grown folk wouldn't have been able to conjure up: "Jada, God made you and He loves you. He does it all right the very first time." Couldn't you just reach through the screen and squeeze her? Out of the mouths of babes, I tell you. Well, that kind of wisdom comes from solid parenting—and Danyele is a heck of a mom. After you read more about her, go on over to A Thorn Among Roses and give her some MyBrownBaby love! Without further ado, our MyBrownBaby Mom of the Week:

My name is… Danyele Easterhaus…or mommaof4wife2r.

I live in… Indiana…and there’s more than corn in Indiana, I promise!

My brown babies are… Well, now isn’t that an intriguing question! I have only one brown baby girlie and three vanilla girlies. My brown baby is Jada, #3 of 4 girlie pies. Jada is 4, and is fashion savvy, opinionated, sweet and cute, loving, playful, poignant, girly, and fancy. Paige is 14…in high school…too pretty for her own good, but doesn’t know it. She’s kind hearted, gentle, a softball rockstar, dedicated and just plain fun. Brooke, 6, is starting kindergarten…vivacious, witty, smart, keen and hilarious.
And Sofia, 18 months, is amazingly tiny, cute, smiley, witty, strong willed, loving, and a miracle.

I make a living… changing diapers, loving hubs and the girlie pies, cooking and shopping, doing coffee time with my teenage daughter, leading Bible studies for teen girls, cleaning (when it’s convenient), laughing and crying, guiding and directing and teaching my kiddos to love and respect. Oh, and I don’t get a paycheck… I’m a stay-at-home mom now—retired from automotive engineering.

The last time my kids cracked me up… Are you serious? My kids constantly crack me up…read my blog. It could be jada screaming at b

The last book I read with my kids was… Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy, with b and jk; My Big Animal Book, with Sofia, and; our Bible study book and Bible with Paige.

My favorite place to take them is… on our “alone time” getaways with each of our girlies each week. And it’s different for each one. For Paige, it’s coffee and shopping. We chat and laugh…and I try really hard to embarrass her and I often succeed. Time alone is just precious and super fun! Brooke’s favorite place is the pet store, but I love taking her to the playground or on bike rides. She is so full of energy and creativity that she just “goes” and has a blast. Jada’s favorite thing is definitely french fries. I love that girl. Anything we do, she wants fries first, and I love a girl with priorities. We end up at the park or at the bookstore, but for her, the french fries are the important part. Sofia is still little, but I love spending time alone cuddling her and reading books, and if we’re out and about, it’s definitely playing at the park. We do life as a family, so I love just all of us being together—in the back yard, playing softball or soccer, or at the park. When we are together, life is better.

My proudest mom moment was… When I saw the face of each of my girlies for the very first time, I just couldn’t believe they were mine…each of them have their own story and their own “first sight,” but they are all my proudest moment as their momma.

My most embarrassing mommy moment was the time when… so many to choose from and I must only choose one. Hmmmm. Maybe when I laughed so hard, I peed myself in front of about 75 women on a retreat. I wasn’t mortified, but everyone there remembers me as the peeing girl.

The thing I most want my children to know is… Apologize. Love. Praise. Laugh. Serve. Humble yourself. And pray always. God is passionate about you…he will never leave you…you will never be alone.

The one family tradition I hope my kids continue when they grow up is… eating dinner together every night at the table. It seems to be a lost art these days. For birthdays, we always make homemade cakes and make our own decorations.

If I could invent one thing to make being a mom easier, it would be… a big red flashing sign that said, “(Insert your kid's name here) don’t do that. It’s against the rules and you WILL be busted. Step away from the temptation. Step away from the temptation.” And, of course, if they didn’t, a little water spritz or something could nail them in the face and they would get their second chance before I would have to constantly bust them and put them in time out. I would still do the discipline, but they would get the warning—big flashing lights and spritz is a good warning.

The best invention for kids ever is… For babies, definitely The Bumbo. Ingenious and cute! For preschool/elementary kiddos—cereal bars. That means a few minutes of extra sleep some days. And I can take every wink I can get! For teens—cell phones. Good and bad, I’ll take it all. I love texting my girl, Paige when she’s away and I can keep tabs with her. Hate all the nonsense that goes along with it, but Paige is a no drama girl, so it’s been fine.

The kid snack I’m most likely to get busted eating is… Sadly, cheerios. I love those dumb things. And since I have my own “mommy food stash”; I don’t need to sneak their goodies (because they don’t get any candy) unless, of course, it’s Halloween or Easter and then it’s totally free game.

The most important life lesson I want my kids to learn is… the choices you make don’t affect just you, they affect everyone else around you. Don’t fall for the lie the world sells on this one; everything you do is important. Every word. Every deed. Every action and every inaction. Fearlessly be yourself.

The one thing no one knows about me is… I am a motor head. I love old cars. I still have my first car—a 1966 Mustang. I rebuilt the motor and got her back into shape. Oh, and I’m a total daddy’s girl…still.

The thing I lost as a mom that I wish I could get back is… quiet time for study and reading and sewing and sitting and scrapbooking. But I am in a season right now {keep saying it, danyele…keep saying it}. The day will come when the girlies are older and I will again have my own quiet time, and then, I will probably want more girlie time. Ok, so maybe it’s my waistline. i miss my body…and I know two of them are adopted, but seriously, I gained way more weight with them than the pregnancies!

My “I’d Rather Be…” bumper sticker would say… laying on the beach with a Diet Coke in my hand, donned with a pretty pink umbrella in the foam cup…watching my family play in the sand and surf. (I’d be skinny too and wearing a really great bathing suit).