All of me

Today while doing yoga in my bedroom, I glanced up, looked in the mirror. I saw a reflection of a body. A body, that I actually love. I saw my belly swollen, brown, and spilling over the band of my ever sagging exercise pants. I saw my belly, and my belly button, A part of my body I have never noticed. And I looked at myself. Hard.
That belly, a stomach that has never seen daylight. A stomach that has held two children. Is ripped and striped. A belly that has been hidden during love making, and hands have been removed from. I looked in the mirror, and I looked at myself. It was longer than a glace, I stared at myself. In that moment, I fell in love.
I have been looking for love for 30 years, and no one told me it was here all along. It is in the bridge of my nose. The nose that I hated growing up, the nose I wished away. Wished it wasn't as round, that is held my glasses, that my nostrils were smaller.
The love I have been looking for was in my collar bones, bones I have not seen in years, but I feel as I massage my neck, or wrap a scarf around it. Hidden, like a treasure, a secret only for me.
I found it in my wrists, my finger tips.
I found love in my lower back. There it was rooted in my thighs, shaking while holding a triangle pose. Thighs that make jean shopping impossible, that rub together. I love, love, love my thighs. Thighs that are strong, that can hold a body, just so. Thighs that have walked miles, and climbed mountains.
I found love in my ankles, and my toes.
There is no love, like the love I have for myself. It may have taken me 30 years to get here. Fad diet, after fad diet. Looking down on myself, and wishing I could be somebody, anybody else. Why?!?
I didn't realize how soft my skin is, and how my laugh can light up a room.
I thought if I was just a little quieter, a little softer, maybe I would be more likable.
To who?
So as I looked into my own face, and down to the rest of me. All of my strength, and vulnerability perched in motion. I looked into myself and I fell in love.

Rufus the stupid

Memories, there are moments of time where I find myself falling into deep bouts of quietness. In these moments, or hours I have lost myself to a clouded childhood, where I am finding little bits and pieces. These pieces like shards of glass, evasive, and hard to the touch. I wonder, where did I lose myself, and how did I find myself. Did I actually, find myself? And who are we if we are not made up of little bits and pieces, strewn around the ground. Discarded but not forever. Where did I come from? There is a place, there has to be a place. And I find myself every time I think of the words my father has said.

This might be an interesting way to find oneself. If you look up one day, at 27 or 28, with two kids, a house, a husband, a career, and you wonder, who the hell am I? You may as well start looking somewhere.

For the entirety of my life my father has been present. From what I remember we have lived together since after my second year of life. He balked when my mother presented me with earrings, forcing her to take them out, and making me wait until I was 14 to get them re done again in secret. I was a pretty baby, and like to think of myself as a pretty person, mocha skin, brown eyes, curly hair, and I grew into an even prettier child. These are all things I know only from looking at pictures. I do not have any memories of my child hood, anything deeper than knowing where I lived, or what we looked like because of my father’s meticulous photo keeping, and his love of the camcorder.

While this story or timeline is not about me, it’s about figuring out who I am through my father. I will be included, and tucked in neatly in order for this whole thing to make sense. So introducing me is best. I am Tershia, a 28 year old (at least at the start of this) mother of two. I sometimes use the expression “I wear many hats” to describe myself. There is always something else I am doing, or working on, that defines me. For these purposes I would like only to be defined as someone’s mother, and someone’s daughter. Nothing more, or nothing less.

Rufus

When I thought about writing a book, for real, not starting a book, but writing one from start to finish, and seeing something through. One story came to mind over and over again, it’s a favorite of mine to tell. I must have been about 13 maybe 15, and I had confided in my father how much I disliked my name. Tershia, going to an all-white school, where they mispronounced, made fun of, and made me feel inadequate. It has been the story of me with this name, trying to figure out if I love it, or hate it, the compromises we made as a family to help me adjust.

My father as I talked about the latest mispronunciation of my name laughed. He said to me, and my cousin who was in the car who had a perfectly normal name. “I hated my name as a kid too.” To which I asked why, and he replied “It was always so easy to make fun of.”

How, what could they have called you, Rufus is such a strange name. I couldn’t understand it, what would they have said. It must have been because it’s a dog’s name. I said this because I was feeling like I could say it in this moment, and he wouldn’t have a fit. Truthfully I had been holding onto this gem for a while, and waited a lifetime for the right moment. For this conversation to come about, because somehow I knew it would, eventually.

“Think about it” he said “What rhymes with Rufus?”

I don’t remember where we were going, and why we were in the car for so long, but over the low droning of talk radio, and classical music, that are the main things my father listens to in the car I tried to puzzle it out. What rhymes with Rufus? Were the kids in the 60’s and 70’s that much more creative than me, was there a word that eluded me, and I would never know it because I have not read the dictionary enough when he told me to.

“It has to be idiot dad.”

Laughter, one thing I will always be able to recall about my dad, and anyone who meets him, will be his laugh. I remember thinking if it’s not idiot what could it be, my cousin jumped in to defend me with a series of words that didn’t rhyme, but were things one maybe shouldn’t say to their uncle. He laughed and laughed, but wouldn’t budge. Finally I got it, in a stroke of genius, I yelled it out.

“Rufus the stupid!” Hysterical, I had cracked the case, I had solved the mystery. My father got quiet. The car got quiet; I sounded the word out again and again to make it rhyme. “Rufus the stooooopid”

As the car got quieter, he looked at me with disbelief, and yelled

 “Rufus the Doofus, Tershia, Rufus the fucking Doofus.”

That was, a much better fit.

Motherhood

I think that all mothers have felt this, the immediate dread of saying the wrong thing within a conversation. When the argument with your toddler in the store gets out of hand and you see both patrons and employees peering into the aisle to see just who you are and what you are doing. Being judged, judging, it happens to the best of us. Why is this? Why don’t we as women choose to love one another and the struggles that go with having children? I was reading an article where a woman without kids writes about her friend who has kids, asking the complex question of what her friend does all day. What do we do all day? And does it matter?

I know I have been judged, and have been on a daily basis. This is why I decided to write it out. I could probably add to this by day, second, minute, and moment. We all have different views on the world. I hang out with people some who choose to parent similarly, some I do not understand at all, most with well-behaved children, some whose children get away with everything. I know this about them, because I have watched, observed, but I can honestly say I try my best not to judge. I do not judge because of the list I am going to give to you, I am not the perfect parent, and I do not claim to be. What I do claim is that I have two fucking fantastic kids, who I love more than anything; they are gorgeous, well mannered, smart, curious, while also crazy, annoying, irritating, loud, and many, many other things.

Things I know I am judged for in no particular order:

I am not an animal lover, I will not pet your dog, I will not say it’s cute, I don’t want to talk about your cat, I have one too, and I don’t even like her.

My kids eat McDonalds *gasp* they do whenever my parents feel like feeding them it, and whenever I am out of time, and they need something other than stale fruit snacks and any other thing I can find in my car.

We frequent aquariums, circuses, and zoos! And we love them, every second of them, my son waits for the circus to come every year, we sit up close, just to see the tears in the elephants eyes. Also I have totally ridden an elephant, and loved that too! I did this stuff as a child, why should my children miss out because society says tigers aren't meant to be performers. We enjoy it, and no matter what sign you shove in my face will not make me change my mind. Did I mention I don’t love animals?

I believe in physical punishment within reason. I have a mean death stare and arm grab. I also kick my son under the table when he’s getting out of hand in restaurants, and he may say “you missed me”, but he calms down when it happens. I also threaten my kids, bribe them, scream at them, and lose my mind in my car about once a month. I cannot say I have spanked them; they have never given me a reason to. Can I say I won’t? NO! There are spankable offenses in the world for which I have saved them up for, these are stealing, hurting others, getting a girl pregnant, I am not sure, but I can’t promise they will never be spanked. I never was until 16 when my mom smacked me across the face, and 11 years later I remember it, clearly. Think about that.

I let my son choose what he wants to do, and yes that includes organized sports. If he says he wants to do something and I pay for it, he’s doing it, every time. None of that I don’t feel like it, better not ask me to sign up next time. I believe in seeing things through, especially when there is money involved.

I did not breast feed until my kids were six, they each got 5 months, and they seem to be just fine.

I let my kids climb, until it makes me nervous. Old women ask me to make my daughter stop, and I say if she falls she will learn. She never falls. She climbs fences, ladders, trees, climbing frames, and I let her. Because the worst that can happen is she learns her own limits!

I give in to candy requests, I buy cheese doodles, and ring pops (both my daughters favorite) and I let her eat them, whenever.

My favorite parenting word is “whatever”. Because really whatever.

We laugh at farts, and I blame a lot of mine on my daughter. The world doesn't know she’s potty trained at 2, and she claims them always, which makes her a great scape goat.

My son goes to public school, and will take the common core tests. He may even go to Charter school, because I think that education is key to black children, and that school is a way out of many situations.

I take my daughter to nail salons, and tell her she is beautiful, and smart, and dress her in pink, sparkles, and cheetah print. Because I love that shit.

I do not brand boycott, in fact I love name brands. My son will only wear name brand clothes and sneakers, and I will coupon for food, and shop online in order to save money for him to have new things seasonally. Nikes, Jordans, Addidas, we buy good sneakers, and always have three pairs in rotation. Because I love that shit.

This list could go on and on, I could ask my kids for some insight, my son would say well you let me curse when dad isn’t home. Oh and I don’t love Jesus, those would be my two biggest parenting flaws from his view. And my daughter, she would say it’s because I will not start breast feeding again, or only feed her hot dogs.

There are some things I do amazingly, which I will not list, let’s just say my son got a letter from President Obama, and has his autographed photo on his wall. He can read and write at five, has won future leader of his class two years in a row. He is ridiculously good looking, kind, caring, compassionate, and one of the best big brothers ever. He sucks at sports, but he keeps playing, and plays with a smile. He does not give up, tells me he loves me and I am beautiful, follows instructions, and goes to school every day happily. My daughter is a gymnast, she is stubborn, gorgeous, smart, well spoken, and looking at her makes me fall in love over and over again. I love being a mom, and I love my children, what I don’t love is the outside world telling me in tiny voices what I should or should not be doing. I want them to know I love them, but I am not their friend, I want them to learn how to treat others, how to respect, commit, create, love, and be themselves. I want them to live a life where they know they are not only brown, but beautiful. Most of all I want them to have the best childhood memories ever, circuses and all.

Lions eye

I find myself facing a parenting dilemma. Friday my husband and I spent our day without 18 month old daughter at the eye doctors. We were referred there by her pediatrician because she has been having an eye problem since she was born. The problem is small but annoying, her eyes are constantly runny and people always ask “have you been crying sweetheart?” and look at me with accusing glances. No she hasn’t been crying she just always looks like it. In fact my daughter isn’t much of a crier, a yeller, a biter, and a screamer, but we don’t see tears unless she’s tumbled out of her high chair, or her brother refuses to share snacks.

Were sitting at the eye docs, and there is another child Zoey’s age and they are playing together. We were there forever so his mom and I get to talking; they came all the way from Plattsburgh to have the same testing done. Both of our children are bumping into walls and tripping over their feet because their pupils have been dilated after some medical concoction was put into them. This mother tells me that her son has already had the surgery the eye doctor insists we get, but it didn’t work. So they have come to Albany to try out this doctor and have the second stage procedure. This procedure gave me nightmares, it involved eyes and balloons and separation. I’m not very technical, but shit sounded intense.

We meet with the doctor he looks at Zoeys eyes and tells us how he will surgically operate on my baby. My little lady who I have only had for 18 months, I have waited a lifetime for her. He tells us how he will put a mask over her face and make her go to sleep, and then he will take a wire and unclog her tear ducts one by one. My husband and I now have a decision to make, should we go through with it? Will it work? What if we don’t go through with it and Zoey hates us when she’s a pre teen and has to have it done. Will she out grow it, the doctor says no but there’s a faint tugging at my heart saying this is a possibility. I’ve only had my wisdom teeth out as an adult and I hated every second of it, should I jeopardize my child’s happiness by doing this? There are so many what ifs running through my brain.

All I want is a daughter who is happy, healthy, and normal…normal may be asking for too much but at least normal on the outside. So now I am faced with the decision of a life time, not only mine but my babies, and I have to face this decision alone as her mother, but with family support. The question I have pressing at me is will Zoey hate me for doing this, not now but in the long run. The list of what ifs seems to be suffocating me. Who said being a mom was easy?

top 10ish pet peeves for 12/6/2012

I am full of opinions, I have been for quite some time, but as I get older things seem to bother me more and more. As I child I was kind of quiet and more of an observer, I took in things, and noticed a lot more than other children my age probably should have. My father, who is an interesting man, kind of put his stamp or branded me at a young age. He has own slightly skewed version of how the world works, and although he didn’t really try to teach us much of it, I learned, and mastered.

My father has weird ideas, like his idea that short socks make you homosexual, I am not lying, this is something he believes strongly, and so whenever I or my mother would buy my younger brother a pair, he would throw them out almost immediately. There are other ideas he has of child rearing that just don’t seem reasonable to me, but I agree with him, because it’s a little easier that way. We spent a lot of time outdoors with my father, and now he comes up once or twice a month and takes my children out on walks by the river, and shows Zaryus and Zoey nature, we have a huge turkey feather in my house currently that Zaryus keeps asking for ink to use, because his poppy told him that’s how you write with it.

My father also taught me what it was to be a black American, how skin color works, and what it means to be me. He gave me access to any book I could ever want to read, and would ask my opinion on it. He also made me keep a journal of what I did at school each day, and would read it and complain about how I wrote my “f”s. Seriously, this was my childhood. He balked at the fact when I was around 12 I read a Malcolm X biography and refused to eat pork again, (I still haven’t). He tried to break me, with the smell of fried bacon in the morning, ham for dinner; luckily I do have a mother, who made him stop eventually. Even though to this day when I ask what’s for dinner at my mom’s when I’m over, he will say “swine, why are you hungry” or something to that effect.

I speak about my father because he is the background for me, and who I am, I am also my mother’s child, and I will write about her at another time. Being my father has made me have very strong opinions about who I am, and has caused me to have many, many pet peeves, or things that get under my fucking skin. This is a list. Today’s list, it changes and I add things from day to day.

Grown men riding bikes in traffic, with helmets on. It really kills me when they are riding women’s bikes or bikes that are entirely too small for them. And when they use their hands like traffic signals.

Fat people with too small clothes on, I hate to see someone’s back or their stomach flopping over their pants, put some fucking clothes on that fit. That’s me in my head.

People who smell like cigarettes, or have bad hygiene in general. This has really started from working in the court house, if I have to do you paper work and your breath smells so bad I can smell it before you enter the room there is something wrong.

Bad little kids. I really hate them, I love kids in general, but if your kid is bad and I can’t beat them or put the fear of Jesus in them, don’t bring them near me. I hate a screaming ass kid, especially irks me if they are black, because our culture doesn’t tolerate that shit. And I hate to see a screaming bad kid in the store, if I can have two quiet kids, why can’t you?

Kids over the age of 1 with a pacifier. Seriously?

That said kids over 2 in a stroller, this is on Zaryus’ list as well, he calls them out to their parents and everything, that is not a baby!

People who can’t drive, and old people driving.

People who drive too slow. I’m always rushing even if I’m early.

People with food stamps in the store who have Iphones, coach bags, and uggs on….

Grown women with nasty weaves, bad hair in general gets on my nerves.

People who have dogs, and let them A kiss their mouths, and B shit all over the place. Especially in public parks. Nasty, just nasty.

I’m sure I’m missing about 20 or so items, I left some really offensive ones out, something’s I know I should probably keep to myself. I will just leave you with this. I’m not sure if Rufus Overby raised me right or not, but I know who I am, and for those of you who don’t know me. I will let you know J

My Christmas list

All I want for Christmas, let's see the list is so long. I would like to be able to use the bathroom without being interrupted. Pee with the door closed, shower without someone coming in with me, or a flattering comment about my body parts, or how I smell. I would like a vacation on a beach with chiseled men licking my toes (not really into that but I'd give it a try) and feeding me alcohol by the gallon.
I'd like a house that keeps itself cleaned, a closet that stays full with clothes that fit no matter what. A personal chef and a house elf to keep things going while I'm at school or away.
I'd like a nanny, or two, so there are no more two o'clock in the am wake up screams, and Saturday mornings that start before the sun rises. I'd like to get wasted drunk and not have to wake up to a little person under my covers telling me they think they smell beer. Why and when did you get in my bed anyways?
Back to the vacation, it needs to be somewhere with white sand, and blue water. And I need to be able to swim without worrying about my hair when I get out.
I'd like to be able to come home from work, and have all of my time to focus on the kids I brought into the world. This brings us back to having a house elf and a chef. If you can see there is a theme going. I don't want to have to worry about bills, and homework, and snagging a state job with good benefits.
Did I mention I'd like to pee without having conversations while I'm doing it? Never mind the conversations; I want to be able to go in the bathroom without being asked if I have to pee or poop, or whether I washed my hands. Who raised this kid anyways? Does anyone else’s kid need to know this information?
What I would most like is to see my children grow and be happy and successful, I'd like to be able to spend every waking hour with the ones I love and not the ones I spend my days with now. Who I in no way shape or form love.
I want to make memories that last a lifetime, splash in blue water with two other pairs of feet splashing besides me.
But what I would really really like first and foremost is to get a god damn lock on my bathroom door.

My President is Black

So instead of filling people’s newsfeeds on fb I am choosing to go low key this year. We all know who I am voting for and while it is because I’m black, it’s because I believe that this man Barrack is the man who should be in charge of our country. I believe in him, I never doubted him when others said he wasn’t keeping his promises. I love this man, and I don’t know him, I love the way he talks, I love his relationship with his wife, I love how he treats his daughters. I love him because he is our president. And by ours I mean us as displaced Africans. He is ours; it doesn’t matter if his skin is light, if he wasn’t raised around us. He knows who he is, and I’m sure many a republican has called him all the names I have been called in my life.

I do not consider myself an American, although I am happy to have the right to vote, and to have the rights that we are said to have. I know that this is not my country and that my people came here without their own consent. That said this election is the most important in my life. This election is a decision that our nation has to make. What rides on this to me is my children’s future. Not only my children’s future but my friends children, the families I work with, their education system.

I write this as a mother of a child who was able to go to school because of government subsidies that helped us to be able to pay for his early childhood education. I write this as a mother whose daughter receives WIC and if she didn’t we would not be able to afford her prescription formula, because she has allergies that we cannot afford. It is not that we are not hard workers; my husband works more than he is home. I work and go to school to get my second and third degree so we can make more money and not have to ask for any help. There have been moments in my son’s life where he didn’t have any insurance; since we have had him on child health plus another government funded program he has never missed an appointment.

How can anyone, want someone who has such disregard for families, women, minorities and their needs to run this nation. Does Romney know that it is a stated fact that we as black families make less money than anyone else in this country? No he thinks like most rich white people that we are lazy and wait for handouts. It’s been stated. I go to school with financial aid, and I am proud to be in school, to be working hard to give my children the same opportunities that I had. I want my son to see me and be inspired. His mom could work, take care of home and take 15 credits a semester. I want to be their hero.

Is it our fault that my pay rate is way less than my white counter parts? That society steers us to only be able to live in certain areas, and if we don’t we will be made to feel so uncomfortable that we would end up moving? I want to know what else Romney wants me to do. I know I am not the only parent who has these hard ships. I speak to people like myself on an everyday basis.

So when I’m asked why I want Obama to win and will be heartbroken if he doesn’t these are some of my reasons. I feel proud when my son says he wants to be like this man who likes him on the television. I cried with tears of joy when I saw him walk across the stage during his inauguration. It is not all about race, but it is uplifting to see someone who looks like me. As young Jeezy said “My president is black”, and he deserves 4 more years.