{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

On The Brown Bookshelf: Me, Mitzi and Our Hotlanta Series!

I simply can not sing enough praises for The Brown Bookshelf, an incredibly rich resource for lovers of children's books written for and by African Americans. The site showcases the rich selection of books for kids every age—from picture books for infants to novels for young adults, plus a fine list of publishers, imprints, and book review organizations dedicated to multicultural children's literature.

Last year, I told MyBrownBaby readers about The Brown Bookshelf's "28 Days Later" campaign, a showcase of 28 under-promoted or little known authors and illustrators of color—one for each day of Black History Month. In the past, the campaign has featured authors like MyBrownBaby favorites Derrick Barnes, Andrea Pinkney, Deborah Gregory, Jacqueline Woodson, and Sharon Draper and illustrators London Ladd and Nicole Tadgell. Each profile features an extensive Q&A with each author and illustrator, giving readers VIP access to black authors and illustrators we would otherwise have had little chance to read about or meet.

I'm SO very excited to tell you all that my writing partner Mitzi Miller and I were featured just this past weekend as part of The Brown Bookshelf's third annual "28 Days Later" campaign. Site co-founder Paula Chase Hyman, a fantastic children's book author in her own right, interviewed us for the feature, which focuses on our three-book young adult series, Hotlanta, our writing process, and our thoughts on the state of the publishing industry as it relates to books for black teens.



I encourage each of you to check out our feature HERE. To see the other incredible authors featured in the "28 Days Later" campaign, including Nikki Grimes, Sharon Bell Mathis, Janet McDonald, and a host of others, CLICK HERE. If you're so moved, please do leave a comment not just for Mitzi and I, but for the folks behind The Brown Bookshelf, who have given an extraordinary amount of time and energy to bringing us thoughtful, quality information we need, want, and deserve.

Nipples and Ninny: An African-American Mom's Breastfeeding Journey

It was a no-brainer for me: All the books said I should breastfeed my baby because it was best for her—that she would be stronger, faster, smarter, better for it. And so I rushed out and bought myself a fancy Medella breast pump and stocked up on breast milk storage bags and got all giddy when I started filling out my nursing bras. (Um, yeah—I was the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee and so the prospect of having boobies was a huge plus on my “Reasons Why I Should Breastfeed” list.) And I proudly told anyone who would listen that I planned to feed my child the natural way—the way my mother’s generation and all the generations before hers did, too. The way God intended.

Um, yeah. The nurses at the hospital where I gave birth to my beautiful Mari had other intentions. I mean, in theory, breastfeeding made all the sense in the world for me and my baby. But in the real world, a.k.a. a hospital in the middle of Harlem, where the environment made doctors and staff more prone to assume that a young black woman pushing out a baby was single, poor, uneducated, and alone, breastfeeding just didn’t fit into the equation.

And so the nurse put my Mari in my arms and disappeared, leaving me for 12 hours with nothing more than my baby and a “goodie” bag full of coupons for baby lotion and soap, useless pamphlets, and two bottles of baby formula. I was absolutely terrified, overwhelmed, exhausted and clueless; I simply didn’t know how to feed my newborn child. No manner of picture/conversation/book chapter prepared me for The Show—the actual breastfeeding of my baby. Was I supposed to be sitting any particular way? Pop in my boob any kind of way? Squeeze it to help get the milk into her mouth? Where was the milk anyway?!

I mean, I was convinced the baby would starve to death. And that she would die with a piece of my nipple in her mouth (those little gums were killer, especially when I unwittingly pulled my breast out of her mouth).

When a nurse finally made her way back into my room, she seemed surprised to find me breastfeeding. (She was also surprised that I had a husband, insurance, a good job, and that Mari was my first child—more on this ignorance in another post.) Still, she made quick work of showing me how to get the baby to latch on, how to get her to stop sucking, and, most importantly, she gave me a number to La Leche League so that I could ask an expert questions on how to feed my baby the right way.

Getting the breastfeeding right wasn’t easy or natural; for the first two weeks, the skin on my nipple was literally shredded and my breasts were raw—it was like a toothless little man was sucking on an open, achy wound. I’d smooth Lasinoh on my skin between feedings and sit shirtless with ice packs on my nipples, and literally cry out when Mari latched on.

But I didn’t give up.

Through the pain.

Through the doubts.

Through the pumping in the bathroom at work.

Through the ridicule from my more old school friends and family members who wondered loudly and unabashedly when I’d stop letting my baby “suck on my ninny.”

I breastfed my baby for 10 months, and pumped and fed her my milk for two more months after that, even after she stopped taking my breast. I was proud of myself for hanging in there. And proud of my daughter, too, for being patient with me. I know that it would have been just as easy for her to reject my breast. But she didn’t. And for this, I’m grateful.

There are plenty of moms who aren’t as fortunate—who don’t have the benefit of expensive breast pumps and copious amounts of time to recuperate from the painful beginning stages of breastfeeding or halfway understanding bosses who give them time to pump or even a pamphlet’s worth of information telling them how it’s done or extolling its benefits. These are things that some of us breastfeeding moms simply take for granted.

Of course, there are plenty of moms who forgo breastfeeding to formula feed—and this is their right. No judgment here. To each her own.

But I thank goodness that there are plenty of resources available for moms who do want to successfully breastfeed—much
more than was available when I had Mari more than 10 years ago.

And for this, we should all be grateful.

For more information on breastfeeding—from how to do it successfully to how to dress to what breast pumps to buy—check out the March of Dimes website, which is rich with great information on this and many other helpful "bringing home baby" tips.

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

Let's Talk About the Joys and Struggles of Black Parenting!

You all know by now how passionate I am about having black parents participate in the national conversation on parenting; I simply don't think that those who drive the public debates about the way Americans parent today ever consider the perspective of moms and dads of color, unless they're looking for a quote or two about black pathology. Thank goodness there are a few of us—in fact, a whole bunch of us!—taking matters into our own hands and doing what we can to speak up and out about what it's like and what it means to raise black children in 2009 and beyond.

To that end, the hosts of two fantastic black parenting sites, Lashanda Henry of BlackMomsClub and Lamar Tyler of BlackandMarriedWithKids are hosting a three-day web conference June 12 to June 14, 2009, for parents looking to discuss black family issues. This is a FREE, live, online tele-summit of some of the best of the best black parenting experts, and all are welcome to attend. MyBrownBaby will be one of the featured speakers on the June 14th panel.

Here, a breakdown of the discussions and info on how you can attend (again, it's FREE, and we would LOVE your support and input in these meaningful, much-needed conversations):















When: June 12, 2009 at 8 p.m.

Topic: The role of African American fathers today

Guest Speaker: Janks Morton, Creator of What Black Men Think

Click HERE to register for this free event. Space is limited.
















When: June 13 at 8 p.m. EST

Topic: The real issues that are overshadowed by stereotypes about black women

Guest Speakers:
Dee Dee Jackson, president, Mocha Moms, Inc.
Kimberly Seals Allers of MochaManual.com
Tara Pringle Jefferson of the Young Mommy Life

Click HERE to register for this free event. Space is limited.

















When: June 14 at 8 p.m. EST

Topic: The Role of black parents as our children transition from childhood to adulthood: What goes wrong and what are we doing right?

Guest Speakers:
Denene Millner of MyBrownBaby
Latrice Fowler of Raising Chefs

Click HERE to register for this free event. Space is limited.

MyBrownBaby Cause: A Mother's Love Giveaway

To celebrate Mother’s Day and say “thank you” for being one of their mom ambassadors, The March of Dimes sent me a beautiful necklace from Red Envelope—one with a pendant rendered from a single, unending loop of sterling silver. The Red Envelope description says it’s meant to be a unique interpretation of mother and child caught in an eternal embrace.

I wanted to brag on the gift—show it off and wear it well and tell you that it reminded me of the “push gifts” my husband gave me when I birthed his two daughters almost 10 and 7 years ago respectively (I reminisced about my beautiful sterling silver necklaces last week when my blog friend Future Mama wrote a post on her terrific site, Baby Makin(g) Machine, about the push gift she’s angling for when she becomes a mom).

But when I clicked over to the Red Envelope page to see details about my gift, I saw a simple message telling me that 10% of the proceeds for every sale of the Mother’s Love Necklace will go to the March of Dimes, an incredible organization that has worked tirelessly to improve the health of babies by preventing birth defects, premature, birth, and infant mortality through research, education, advocacy, and community service. And suddenly, my keeping the gift for myself didn’t seem as important as letting my readers know about the importance of doing what we can to help The March of Dimes continue its important mission of helping mothers and babies in need.

Particularly moving was the symbolism of the pendant—“the mother and child caught in an eternal embrace.” It made me think of my fellow March of Dimes Mom Ambassador Heather Spohr of The Spohrs Are Multiplying, who recently lost her beautiful one-year-old daughter, Maddie. She’s been blogging about life without her child, and, true to what the words “eternal embrace” laid on my heart, I found a post Heather wrote last week about how much she misses hugging her child:

My arms tingle, and I remember that I’ve had this sensation before. When I was on bed rest, my legs would ache and tingle. I mentioned it to my Obstetrician, and she said, “those are your legs muscles atrophying. It is an unfortunate side-effect of bed rest.” My arm muscles are tingling because I am not picking up Maddie. I am not lifting her up, holding her weight, feeling her cheek against my chest.

I want my baby. Oh Maddie! I need you!

No mother should have to ponder life without the embrace of her child—to have to face Mother’s Day without her baby there to touch her cheek and climb into her arms and say, simply, “I love you, Mommy.”

But there are many more Heather Spohrs.

The March of Dimes is doing its best to help stem this tide. It is my sincere hope that MyBrownBaby’s readers will help, too, by supporting The March of Dimes. You can do this by donating directly to the organization, or by purchasing a Mother’s Love Necklace for yourself or for a Mother’s Day present for someone you love. ProFlowers, the corporate owner of Red Envelope, is also donating $10 of every order of Mother’s Day flowers to the March of Dimes, in support of programs in communities throughout the United States.



To inspire you to give, I’m giving away my Mother’s Love Necklace to one lucky reader. All you have to do is leave a comment telling me what you love most about your child’s embrace AND click over to the March of Dimes website and tell me something you learned about the organization. Your offering MUST include both comments to qualify.

Please leave your comments by 11:59 p.m., Tuesday, May 5th, 2009. I will choose a winner via Random.org and announce the winner Wednesday, May 6th, 2009.

Good luck.

MyBrownEarth: Discovering the Secret Life of Bees

[NOTE TO MYBROWNBABY READERS: I've invited the good folks of I (HEART) FACES to critique my photos and give me constructive feedback on how I could have made my pictures even better. Specifically, I'd love to know what I could have done to make the picture of my daughter, Lila (holding the honeycomb out in front of her) more crisp. I use the standard photo editing tools on my Mac; I do not have Photoshop (though I'm working on this. Okay--have at it!)


Sometimes we go great lengths to give our kids enriching experiences—we take them to museums, put them in the front pew at church, pay hundreds of dollars for summer science and art camps, all with the hope that each moment will create memories, expand minds, and make fuller, more rounded little people. But what we don’t realize is that sometimes, the most valuable lessons are literally right outside the front door.

That’s what we found this past spring break when we visited my Dad in Virginia. My cousin, who’d just purchased the fixer-upper across the street from my Dad’s house, invited me, Nick, and the girls over to his new place to watch as two bee keepers extracted a massive bee’s nest from a back porch wall—a front row seat to check out the secret life of bees. We were standing only about a foot or so away from the action, peering through a large glass pane door overlooking the porch, and when the bee keeper pulled back that first chunk of sheetrock, we were literally shocked and amazed by what we saw: A massive honeycomb that ran both the length and width of the wall, teeming with Italian bees.

What an incredible sight to see!



The funny thing is that we look at bees as such a threat (I had my first run-in with the pointy side of a bee while I was driving; that sucker stung me right in the neck—hurt so bad I almost drove off the doggone road!), but we watched that entire extraction standing only a few feet away from hundreds of bees, and they had no interest in attacking us. They were more concerned about tending to their home—and certainly protecting their beloved queen bee.





As much as I shudder when I remember the great pain I felt from that bee sting and as scared as my girls are of getting stung, both they and I were amazed by the miracle those bees created in the wall, and impressed by the bee keepers, who very carefully took the bees, the queen, and some of the honeycomb and put them into special bee boxes, where they were going to make their new home—and lots of the sweet, sticky honey.









Later, Mari, Lila, and I got on the internet to learn more about the little miracles makers. One of my favorite stores, Anthropologie, just happened to be doing an Earth Day homage to the honey bee, and had this to say about their importance:

…these hardworking insects are responsible for pollinating more than 100 crops nationwide—or in other words, $15 billion worth of U.S. agriculture.

Sadly, in recent years, beekeepers have lost more than one-third of their bees to a phenomenon known as colony collapse disorder (CCD), in which bees mysteriously abandon their hives and die. Pesticides, viruses, poor nutrition and cell phone signals are often cited as culprits; however, the exact cause of CCD remains uncertain. Experts agree additional research is integral to the preservation of honey bees.

The girls and I then followed a link to helpthehoneybees.com, a site, run by Häagen-Dazs, that chronicles the plight of the honey bee, tells us exactly why we should be concerned, and gives us solid ideas for how we can help the little buggers live. The site also has a fun app that lets users create their own honey bees and email them to their friends; these are Mari and Lila’s creations.





Now, rather than run away from bees, the girls actually marvel at them. I’m not sure how I feel about this—I’m still a little scared of the damage they can do to an unsuspecting neck, but I can appreciate their importance, for sure. And I’m glad my girls got a great lesson—beautiful, informative, memorable, and free of charge!


MyBrownBaby wants to remind you that though tomorrow is officially Earth Day, it's important to celebrate our Earth and all it has to offer every day by recycling, reusing, reducing, and teaching our babies to be stewards of our beautiful planet.

Stick To It: Lessons On How To Keep Breastfeeding, Despite The Odds

By ELITA KALMA

When my son was born, I was told he needed formula because he had low blood sugar and jaundice, and for five hours, he was stuffed with the artificial milk, despite my pleas that he be brought to me so that I could nurse him. I was the one with the good stuff—colostrum, that early sugar milk brimming with antibodies. But I was scared for the welfare of my son, and too exhausted to fight the power. And by the time my baby finally was brought to me, my nurse, a sistah, was, let’s say, less than encouraging. She took one look at my breasts and declared, “You have terrible nipples—you’ll never be able to nurse!” Then she roughly shoved my boob into my baby’s mouth.

That was the beginning of my breastfeeding journey.

On my way out the hospital door, a nurse practically forced a diaper bag full of formula on me, insisting that my son would need it if he got hungry—as if my always available, always sterile, always-full-of-just-enough milk breasts just wouldn’t do. My discharge papers revealed that my son had been supplemented with formula every time he left my sight!

Lucky for us, this early introduction of artificial nipples and formula didn’t ruin our breastfeeding relationship; my son has been breastfeeding for 16 months now, with no signs of letting up. But there are plenty of moms and babies who aren’t as fortunate. Although our breastfeeding initiation rate is currently at an all-time high (about 60% of black moms are nursing when they leave the hospital), only a paltry 30% are still nursing at six months and only about 12% at one year. Our society has set moms up for failure, often starting from day one. If the nurses aren’t shoving a bottle full of formula down your baby’s throat, we’re often forced to run a gauntlet of well-meaning friends and family who don't know much about nursing and offer bad—and often discouraging—advice.

And don’t get me started on nursing in public! It's as if people expect a breastfeeding mother to never leave the house! Women are so scared of other people's reactions that they hide in bathrooms or their cars or give the baby a bottle to avoid breastfeeding in a public place. You have the legal right to breastfeed your baby in public but sometimes you wouldn't know it! I have nursed my son everywhere: Target, restaurants, my in-laws’ home, the mall. I will whip out a boob to feed my child whenever and wherever necessary. Some people won’t like it and you may get looks or worse. I was asked to cover up in a hotel lobby by a teacher chaperoning a high school field trip. I pretty much had to tell her where to go and how to get there!



I say all of this not to discourage you from nursing, but to encourage you to work through the obstacles because it is so worth it. Breast milk is a living, changing organism designed expressly for your baby. The bond you create with your child when you nurse him is unmatched. There are a million reasons to breastfeed, and for black babies especially, breast milk saves lives. Did you know that 8,000 black babies die before their first birthday in this country—triple the rate of white babies. Did you know that diseases and ailments that plague the black community, like breast cancer, ovarian cancer, diabetes, and obesity, are prevented or lessened if you breastfeed and were breastfed?

I know that it is more difficult for black women to breastfeed. Often we don’t have the jobs with the flexibility needed to continue breastfeeding. Our partners aren’t supportive. Our families think of breastfeeding as something weird that only white women do. Our bodies have been so hypersexualized in music and the media that we think our breasts can only serve one purpose. It's a disgrace that if you want to breastfeed it takes a mix of good luck and tenacity. If we, as a nation, a world, a community, want women to breastfeed, want our babies to be healthier, then we have to truly start supporting them. That means fewer unnecessary medical interventions during childbirth, longer and paid parental leave, on-site daycare, laws requiring employers to give women breaks for pumping/nursing, and normalization and acceptance of breastfeeding in public.
Then, and only then, will we see women doing what the American Academy of Pediatrics and World Health Organization recommend: exclusive breastfeeding for the first six months, and nursing until age 1 and beyond.

So if you are pregnant, take the time to learn as much as you can about breastfeeding. Read Kathi Barber’s The Black Woman’s Guide to Breastfeeding. Create a birth plan before you go to the hospital, spelling out your wishes for both labor AND breastfeeding. Talk to your friends who have nursed and ask for advice. Call the African-American Breastfeeding Alliance or your hospital’s lactation “warm line” at the first sign of difficulty. Bookmark http://www.KellyMom.com.

And of course, you can always contact me. I think I’ve become a bit of a pro! Breastfeeding is seriously one of the most amazing things I've ever done in my entire life. Snuggling my son close while he stares at me with those big brown eyes?

There is nothing better.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor: Elita Kalma is a librarian and the mother to 16-month-old Miles, who is still nursing. She blogs about breastfeeding at The Blacktating Blog and can be found on Twitter @blacktating.

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

SAVE A BABY'S LIFE: BUY A BOX OF PAMPERS (PLUS: GET $50 WORTH OF PAMPERS ON MYBROWNBABY)

My daughters think their pediatrician, Dr. Roberts, rocks. It's the nurses, with their finger prickers and their blood-sucking tubes and their needles full of mysterious liquids, that they don't care for. Indeed, news of a trip to see Dr. Roberts inevitably is met with a fist pump and a "yes!" and then quickly followed up with, "do we have to get shots?" Last year's visit was a mess; Mari cried the moment the first of the three needles she needed last year hit her thigh; Lila took off running down the hallway and hid under the desk in the nurses station, only to be dragged off by her mother kicking and screaming and crying to her doom—four needles were waiting for her back in Exam Room 3.

Not exactly our idea of a good time.

But I thank God every day for my children's health, and for our ability to afford our overpriced insurance (even if it works more like a discount healthcare coupon rather than the kind of health insurance we used to get working for The Man), and for the resources we have at our disposal to make sure that my babies get the best chance at leading healthy lives. They don't realize how blessed they are.

And that so many little lives exactly like theirs are lost because their mothers can't afford or don't have access to something as simple as the few ounces of liquid and a needle that could help them see many more days.

That's why MyBrownBaby is teaming with Pampers to help promote its "One Pack=One Vaccine Campaign,” a global initiative with UNICEF to eliminate maternal and neonatal tetanus (MNT), a preventable disease that claims the lives of approximately 128,000 infants and 30,000 mothers in less industrialized nations each year—approximately one death every four minutes.

Tetanus can be contracted during childbirth in developing countries, where women often must give birth at home in unsanitary conditions without access to adequate health care. The disease rages through newborns within days of their exposure to the tetanus bacteria and almost always leads to a swift and painful death.

And this fatal disease can be eliminated with a simple vaccine.

But YOU can help save a baby's life: By simply purchasing something you'd buy anyway—diapers and wipes—you can help wipe out tetanus. From now through May 1, 2009, buy the specially-marked "One Pack=One Vaccine Campaign” packages of Pampers or wipes, and Pampers will donate money to UNICEF to help provide one tetanus vaccine to a pregnant woman or a woman of child-bearing age in the less industrialized world. These specially marked packages of diapers and wipes cost the same as traditional products and are available wherever Pampers products are sold. For more information, click HERE

In addition to Pampers, parents can also redeem this special campaign baby body suit using "Gifts to Grow" points though Pampers.com; each baby body suit triggers a life-saving vaccine. To purchase one, click HERE.



Pamper's 2008 North America campaign provided funding to UNICEF for over 50 million tetanus vaccines to help protect moms and their newborn babies against tetanus. This year, Pampers aims to raise funds for another 30 million vaccines; it hopes to provide more than 200 million life-saving tetanus vaccines over the next three years.

Of course, MyBrownBaby has a little incentive for its faithful followers; add your name to the roster of moms supporting Pampers' efforts (it's easy enough—just click on the widget below and add your name) AND leave a comment below, and your name will be placed in a random drawing for $50 IN PAMPERS COUPONS and the special baby body suit. Earn extra entries by becoming a MyBrownBaby follower, an email subscriber, faving MyBrownBaby on technorati, or rating MyBrownBaby on Top Sista Sites.

Please be sure to leave your email addy so that I can contact you if you win. A winner will be chosen randomly on March 31.

IN THIS ECONOMY, WHAT'S YOUR PLAN B?

At the top of 2009, I told you about my girl Kimberly Seals Allers over at The Mocha Manual, the hot new online destination for moms of color. She’s been doing the doggone thing, using her popular maternity book, The Mocha Manual To A Fabulous Pregnancy, to inspire, teach, advocate for, and honor moms of color on her new site. The Mocha Manual is Kimberly’s baby—her passion—and she’s working hard over there to create a space that not only speaks to us, but fulfills her incredible entrepreneurial spirit.

And now, to celebrate her second book, The Mocha Manual To Turning Your Passion Into Profit, she’s about to show us how we, too, can, well, turn our passion into profit. On March 14th, she’ll be hosting the “Get Your Plan B” boot camp—a series of workshops designed to help people like you and me start or grow a small business “with less time, effort, and money.” Workshops include, “The Essential 8: The Skills Every Business Owner Needs For Success,” “Brand Building, Marketing and PR on a Shoestring Budget,” “Online Marketing for Newbies,” and even one-on-one business coaching and strategy sessions for folks who’ve decided to take the entrepreneurial plunge.



All sessions, save for the free “Where To Start” session, are $24; discounts are available if you purchase a day-long pass. And though you can attend Kimberly’s business bootcamp live in New York City, she’s arranged for online access so that those of us who tend to stick close to home on Saturdays can watch it live via the internet.

Hey, in this kind of economy, in which job security is about as sure as snow in Nigeria, it certainly wouldn’t hurt each of us to craft a “Plan B” for figuring out how to start our own small businesses. We moms are doing it; the question is how well are we doing it? I’m not mad at some insider tips on how to turn my passion into profit.

For more information about Kimberly’s boot camp, click HERE. Or register by clicking the button below.



Have a fabulous weekend, kids!

African American Babies Need Moms Who Know Their History

By DENENE MILLNER

I found the papers when I was 12—in a metal box tucked under my parents’ bed. I wasn’t supposed to be snooping all through their personal belongings; my mother had put a lock on her door, presumably to keep my brother and I from dipping into her stash of moon pies and using her pricy, smelly lotions, and discovering her and my dad’s copy of “The Joy of Sex.” But kids are experts at getting into stuff and finding the hidden, and that little flimsy lock was no match for the wits of a curious preteen and her big brother. If we wanted to see it, it was going to get seen.

But this? This I wasn’t ready for.

BABY GIRL...
DENENE MILLNER…
HEREYBY FORMALLY ADOPTED ON THIS DAY…

My fingers trembled as I brought the paper closer to my face—as if the words would magically morph into something wholly different if I just stared at them a little harder, a little longer, a little bit more closely to my 20/20s. But the words just… wouldn’t… change.

And then, suddenly, it felt like someone had fired buckshot into my chest. The shock was almost unbearable: My mom and dad weren’t my mom and dad. My brother? Not my brother, either. None of them by blood, anyway.

To this day, I can’t tell you how I got those papers back into the metal box, how I pushed that metal back under their bed, how I convinced my legs to carry me out of their room and shut the door and lock it back and act like I’d never seen those papers.

How I managed to keep their secret—my secret—for all those years.

For years—more than 20 years—I refused to acknowledge my adoption or tell my parents I knew they’d adopted me. At first it was because I was scared they’d be mad at me for snooping, but as I grew older, that morphed into my need to protect their privacy. Maybe they didn’t want to explain to everyone coming and going why they didn’t have biological babies together, or where they found me, or why my birth parents gave me up. Maybe, I reasoned, my mom and dad feared I would search for the people who abandoned me on the stoop of that New York City orphanage—that I would find them and, in turn, reject the two people who didn’t give me blood, but who truly gave me life.

I couldn’t do that to them. To me. To us. Though my birth parents deserve praise for birthing me and having the courage to love me enough to give me away, my parents get the glory for raising me, educating me, supporting me, disciplining me, and loving me beyond measure—and doing it with an enormous amount of grace and wisdom. Despite the odds. With little money. And no help. Just them.

And love.

No, there was no need to find the birth parents—it didn’t even occur to me to do so. Not until, that is, I became pregnant with my first baby.

Not knowing, you see, wreaked havoc on my health history, which, because I don’t know who my birth parents are, is basically non-existent. From the time I’ve been old enough to go to the doctor on my own, I’ve been forced to leave the “family history” part of the stacks of first-visit papers blank, which always leads to a really awkward opening conversation with my doctors, who realize pretty early on that they’ll have to treat whatever is ailing me without the extremely valuable “family health history” tools they need to figure out what might be causing my health problems. I haven’t a clue if cancer runs in my family, or diabetes, or weight problems—hypertension, stroke, gout. You name it, it could be lurking, waiting to claim me, and I will have no clue until it taps me on the shoulder and goes to work on my system.

This was most glaring while I was pregnant; neither of my ob-gyns had the valuable information they needed to help me figure out health risks for my pregnancy and, more important, my children. They knew Nick’s family’s health and were able to keep an eye out for specific Chiles family issues. But my side of it was the big unknown—you might as well have crossed an “X” across my paperwork.

And this disturbed me greatly.

I couldn’t change this in time enough for my pregnancies, and while I still have no interest in finding out who my birth parents are (wouldn’t be able to anyway, seeing as she/he/they left me on a stoop in the middle of Manhattan) I do wish that the government would change laws to at least allow adopted kids access to their health history, even if their adoption records are sealed tighter than Ft. Knox.

This doesn’t—and shouldn’t—be your story if you know who your birth parents are you’re looking to get pregnant or are pregnant. For sure, all you have to do to gather up your family health history is to start asking questions. Ask your mother and father who has/had what in their family; hit up your aunties and uncles at the next family reunion; quiz your cousins at the next barbeque. Your play aunties might even have some info—might know what your granddaddy’s brother might have had when he passed on.

Then take that information and write it down. The March of Dimes is a fantastic resource for info on the importance of family history, and has on its website a downloadable family health questionnaire to help walk you through the information you should be gathering. Take a look at what the March of Dimes has to say about the importance of genetic testing, too, to help you see into your baby’s health future.

I didn’t have this option.

You do.

Please, don’t take it for granted.

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

The Best Place To Find African American Children's Books And Authors Is Here

Paula Chase-Hyman.

Varian Johnson.

Don Tate.

Kelly Starling Lyons.

Carla Sarratt.

Black children’s book authors, and especially African American parents and any other moms who care about children’s literature—especially the books that chronicle stories by/about/for kids of color—should be thanking God for this Fab Five. For their dedication. Their perseverance. And their love for our beautiful babies.

Because this Fab Five, a consortium of children’s book authors and illustrators, are the brain trust behind the brilliant website, The Brown Bookshelf. The site, created in the Fall of 2007, was designed to showcase the rich selection of children’s books by and about African Americans—books that all-too-often get short shrift when it comes to mainstream media coverage, bookstore placement, and awards recognition. The site is rich with resources; you’ll find an incredible list of books for kids of every age—from picture books for infants to novels for young adults—as well as a fine list of publishers, imprints, and book review organizations dedicated to multicultural children’s literature.

And right now, as a part of its second annual “28 Days Later” campaign, the Brown Bookshelf is showcasing 28 under-promoted or little known authors and illustrators—one for each day of Black History Month. Authors like MyBrownBaby favorites Derrick Barnes, Andrea Pinkney, Deborah Gregory, Sharon Draper, Jacqueline Woodson, and Tia Williams are being profiled alongside unsung children’s book heroes like authors Evelyn Coleman and Philana Marie Boles and illustrators London Ladd and Nicole Tadgell. It’s a fascinating, insightful campaign that gives us VIP access to black authors and illustrators we would otherwise have had little chance to read about or meet.

I absolutely adore The Brown Bookshelf not only because I can find out about the latest literature for Mari and Lila's burgeoning collection of African American children’s books, but because the Fab Five did something not enough of us black authors have dared to do: Instead of complaining about the lack of diversity on book shelves and in book reviews, these five authors/illustrators did something to help change the industry. Because of them, there’s now an incredible resource for librarians and teachers looking for diverse titles. And we lovers of brown babies have instant access to this rich resource, too.

To read the wonderful “28 Days Later” profiles on The Brown Bookshelf as well as the latest in black chidren's book news, click here. To take a peek at The Brown Bookshelf’s library, click here.

And, as always, support African American children's book authors. They do what they do for little money and barely any recognition or accolades--all so that our children can see themselves reflected in the best source of entertainment any of our kids could EVER have: a book.

Happy reading!

A New Sweet Spot For African-American Moms, Plus: Win A New--FREE--Nursery!

About a year before I got pregnant with my first daughter, I interviewed the author of the book, “Having Your Baby,” for a Mother’s Day profile I was writing for The Daily News—one Hilda Hutcherson. She was a fantastic interview—smart, funny, down-to-earth, and a fantastic mother who was passionate about her children and her job. When she found out I hadn’t seen an ob-gyn in, um, er, years, she demanded I come to her office and get checked out. A little over a year later, Hilda delivered my first born—one of the last babies she “caught” before leaving the baby business and refocusing her energies on writing books about sexual pleasure. “Having Your Baby” was my bible while I was pregnant—one of only a handful of pregnancy books geared toward moms of color. Though my baby-making shop is closed, I still keep my well-worn copy of Hilda’s book on my shelf.

Next to it is "The Mocha Manual To A Fabulous Pregnancy", a young, hip pregnancy guide for moms of color, written by Kimberly Allers. Kim, too, is a writer whom I had the pleasure of working with during my days at Honey; she was the magazine’s financial columnist, and I was her editor. I knew she was passionate about black women and finance, but I hadn’t a clue that she was so very passionate about motherhood, too. Her "Mocha Manual To A Fabulous Pregnancy" has become quite the hit, selling tons of copies and even being turned into a DVD. And now, Kim’s put all her writer’s know-how into a fantastic new website, Mocha Manual: A Mom’s Guide To Life. On it, moms can find everything from pregnancy and new mom advice to stories on health, relationships, sex, and finances, and even channels for single moms and dads. Real talk? Her site is the fire.

I’m so very proud of her.

To celebrate her new venture, Kim is running a Mocha Manual Nursery Makeover GiveAway with New Arrivals, Inc., the website of celebrity nursery stylist, Tori Swaim, who’s styled baby rooms for P. Diddy, Christina Aguilera, Julia Roberts and more. The nurseries up for grabs are delicious; almost makes we want to have Nick rethink the whole “we’re done” thing. Er, almost.

So go not now, but right now, to check out Mocha Manual: A Mom’s Guide To Life—and come back here and tell MyBrownBaby’s readers what you think. And if you’re in the running for a new FREE nursery, go ahead and register for her contest here.

Congrats, Kim!

HELP WITH ATTENTION DISORDERS

MyBrownBaby contributor Vanessa Bush, who penned Picking Up the Pieces, an essay about her experience dealing with her son's Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, graciously shared with MBB online resources for parents who have children with behavior disorders. Here, her picks, with links to the sites:

A.D.D. Warehouse
The ADD Warehouse is the leading resource for the understanding and treatment of all developmental disorders. Here you will find a wealth of information relating to ADD, including conference information, articles, and books.

ADD Resource
The site brings together the expertise of Internet specialists and hundreds of ADD, ADHD and LD professionals worldwide, to help you find relevant information on the Web quickly and easily.

ADHD News
Filled with valuable information from respected professionals in the field of ADHD and Special Education, along with advice from parents and other readers. Registered with the Library of Congress.

ADDvance
The ADDvance Web site, first created in 1996, is dedicated to improving the lives of women and girls with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder.

CHADD
CHADD is the national non-profit organization representing children and adults with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Founded in 1987 by a group of concerned parents, CHADD works to improve the lives of people with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder through education, advocacy and support.

The Learning Disabilities Association of America
LDAA is a national, non-profit organization for children and adults of normal or potentially normal intelligence who manifest disabilities of a perceptual, conceptual, or coordinative nature.

American Academy of Pediatrics
AAP is committed to the attainment of optimal physical, mental and social health and well-being for all infants, children, adolescents and young adults.