Attitude of Gratitude

“Many people who order their lives rightly in all other ways, are kept in poverty by their lack of gratitude.” Wallace D. Wattles, The Science of Getting Rich.

It is easy to get so mired in the day-to-day that we forget to be grateful for what we have. Today, I promised myself that I would be thankful for everything that I could think to be thankful for. The day did not disappoint. Getting in my car, I could not help but be grateful for its existence; and even more grateful that it has not given me a moment’s trouble since I got it last year. Going to work, I was grateful for the clear roads; no traffic today. That made it easy to appreciate the cleanliness of the roadways. Which got me going on a gratitude tangent – how ever does the government keep the foliage on the side of the highways neat and trimmed and the grounds so clean? More gratitude for that. Enjoying the scenic Saw Mill Parkway, I thanked God for my sight. I listened to a book on CD and had to give the Woman Above a “big-up” for my hearing and the fact that I could comprehend it. I struggled up the hill going up to my office while lugging my big work bag; that turned into the opportunity to be grateful for the fact that I could walk.

At my desk, I observed the piles of papers and felt inclined to grumble; instead I closed my eyes and thought of the millions of people who are unemployed in this country right now. I projected a silent “thanks” and went to work.

I started filling out the paperwork for Brendan’s summer camp and felt my stomach churn when I saw the price. Then I thought about my little guy and thanked God for lending him to me in this lifetime.

Even typing this post, I had to inwardly thank my parents for sacrificing in order to send me to a high school that taught typing and other useful skills.

Every where I turned today, there was a choice to be made: complain or feel good. Today, I choose to feel good.

How Do Kids Learn These Things?

Yesterday, I gave Brendan a quarter to buy a gumball from the machine at the car wash. It was one of the "new" quarters with the State-specific designs on the back. Yes, they've been around for years, but they still look new to me.

Brendan flipped it over and immediately said what I was thinking: "A quarter just doesn't look like a quarter without an eagle on the back."

Write it Down, Make it Happen

I just finished reading a book by Henriette Anne Klauser titled Write It Down, Make It Happen. The title says it all; if you write down your dreams and goals, they will come true. It seems a bit simplistic, but it works. I've discovered journals from years ago where I've written about my aspirations and have been surprised by how many of them actually came true. There is one catch, though (isn't there always?) -- those things that you have the least attachment to will likely come true before those that are most important to you. Let me put it this way, writing down your hopes, dreams and goals is a little like planting a vegetable. You need to dig a hole, drop in the seeds, water it every day, but detach from the result. If you dig up the seeds every day to see if they're growing, they're not going to grow. Why not? Because you're hampering their growth. But if you step back, in a few weeks, some green leaves will break through the ground and a few weeks after that, you'll have a full grown plant.

When I was 28 years old, I was desperate to meet my "soul mate" and get married. I am from Honduras and according to my family, at 28, I was way past my expiration date. My sisters, including my younger one, had all married by no later than 25 (and even that had been considered "late"). For me, it wasn't so much the marriage that I wanted, it was a child. I wanted to be a "young" mommy and at that point, it just wasn't happening. In the heat of that desperation, I wrote a journal entry where I said that if I was not married by age 32, I would have a child by myself. I was a professional woman; I could raise a child as a single mother.

By the time I turned 32, I had left the practice of law and was working at a job that was law-related but not as stressful. I had just purchased a co-op apartment in beautiful Riverdale. I'd recently broken up with Big Bren and was dipping my toe back into the dating scene. One day, Big Bren called and we decided to hang out. As they say in campy novels, "one thing led to another," and we ended up having sex again. We agreed that we weren't getting back together and went back to our separate lives. About 4 days later, I had a dream where I was standing in front of a mirror, horrified, because I had found a gray hair. In the dream, I was bemoaning the fact that I was 32. While still in the dream state, I tore my eyes from the offending gray hair and noticed that I was pregnant! I woke up in cold sweat. The journal entry came rushing back to me. "No, no, no! Please, God, no! I was just kidding. I was a stupid child back then. I do NOT want to be pregnant! I CANNOT be pregnant!" (I figured if I spoke to God in exclamation points, She would have no choice but to listen.) I went on: "What will my mother say?? She's going to kill me! What will I tell the people at work?" I continued to bemoan my fate until I feel back asleep.

When I woke up, it all seemed like a bad dream. I felt no different, so I decided to will myself back to non-pregnancy. For weeks, my body cooperated. I had no morning sickness; in fact, I had no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever. A few weeks later, I decided to test the Fates and took a pregnancy test and there they were, the ominous two lines.

The rest of the story: my mother didn't kill me, although she came close; I was no longer the old maid in the family (just the harlot); I married Big Bren; and the best part -- I had my Brendan.

When I picked up the book, it was with the intent to make all these great things happen: publish my book, get out of the rat race, etc. But I also did so with desperation (again!) and attachment to the end result. I am convinced that the reason I got pregnant at that time was because, by writing it down, I set my intention in stone; and, most importantly, allowed it happen without attachment to the result. At the time I made that journal entry, there was nothing more I could do about it -- it was 4 years in the future! So I let it be. Yes, your words have power -- they are coming from the deepest part of you and the part that is connected to your higher source. But they should come from a place of peace and surrender.

Happy writing!!

The Road Less Traveled

A few months ago, Big Bren came to me and asked whether his other son -- who is now 10 -- could move in with us. In Stepmom Diaries (below), I've written how difficult I find it at times to deal with his children. And that was just on weekends. With those few words from my husband, I was suddenly standing on a precipice. As Victorian as it sounds, I literally took to my bed. And stayed there for a few days.

I truly, truly did not know what to do. If I said "no," hubby would be angry and disappointed. But if I said "yes," I would feel as if I had let myself down. I thought about all the work involved: the cooking, the shuttling to/from school and other activities, the laundry, the homework. I was getting a headache just thinking about it. I burrowed into the sheets a little more. When I was no longer sleepy, I took a sleeping pill. I didn't want to face the world; and I most definitely did not want to make a decision.

I let it drag on for a few days. In the meantime, there were endless telephone calls to Big Bren from the child's mother (a.k.a The Psycho). He would hang up with her and the phone would ring again -- his son this time. Mother and child were not getting along. The son was getting increasingly disrespectful. He was doing poorly in school and the Psycho was not equipped to deal with it.

I spoke to my most trusted advisors and the response was unanimous: "Do not let that crazy woman's child into your home full-time." My decision had seemingly been made. I had a peaceful night's sleep for the first time since Big Bren broached the topic.

The next morning, I went to my child's room to wake him up and get him ready for school. He was asleep in his bed, with his bottom up in the air. I smiled at the perfect picture of him in his room. He had his toys in one corner, a rocking horse in another, and his little Thomas the Train bed. And I realized how lucky he was to have his own space, a peaceful home and two parents who adored him. It suddenly dawned on me that was all Big Bren was trying to provide for his other son. The child was thin from not eating many balanced meals (candy and junk food abounded in his mother's home and she simply is not someone who believes in balance, structure or effective discipline). He had a never-ending "cold" or "allergy" that lasted year-round. He had a nervous cough that was seemingly triggered by the cold/allergy, but which did not occur when he was asleep. By all accounts, a true cough did not cease upon sleeping. From what I understood, he still slept in his mother's bed and, when he was at our house and had to sleep alone, always slept with all the lights on. Despite his mother's receipt of child support, all his clothes were ragged and short and all his shoes tight. Whenever we took him anywhere, we ended up buying him new clothes. He had no pajamas and his underwear was stained. No mother in her right mind wants to see her child do poorly, so no doubt, despite her issues, the Psycho was trying her best. Maybe what she needed was a little help.

After I got to work that day, I called Big Bren and told him that I could live with it if he decided to have his son move in. (Not the most enthusiastic of endorsements, but the only one I could muster at the time.)

It has been five months since he moved in. As a self-admitted introvert, I find it uncomfortable to have many people within my personal sphere, so I am probably not the best stepmother there is to have and every fear I had about the amount of work it would take has proven true. The "crazy woman" part proved prophetic as well (because this is a "feel good" post, I won't delve into her antics.) What I can report is that the child is healthy now. No cough; no cold; not even a sniffle. Every evening, he eats all his dinner and sometimes asks for seconds. He takes healthy snacks to school. When he moved in, Big Bren bought him a new wardrobe that was age-appropriate and fit properly. He got shoes and winter wear as needed. And his face lights up when goes to his very own room -- which is decorated as a sports fan's dream, with a basketball hoop, sports figures, balls and memorabilia plastered all over the walls. He joined Cub Scouts and won a trophy for some event. He is even excelling in school now.

For Big Bren's and the child's sake, I am glad I kicked off the covers and decided to take the road less traveled.

Facing Down the Beast

Last summer, with pretty much no forewarning and absolutely no preparation, one of my sisters picked up her two children and moved half-way across the country. She and her husband scraped together their combined savings and put it as a down payment on a house. They had nothing left over for moving expenses, so they left everything behind. They simply got in their car, stuffed as many clothes as would fit in the trunk and started driving. Upon arrival, they had no money for furniture, so they’re sleeping, eating and living on the floor of their brand new home.

I’ve written before about how my siblings and I were raised. My parents did – and still do – worship money. These are people who will forgo basic necessities in order to save money. Because my parents were so devout to the Almighty Dollar, it stands to reason that my siblings and I turned out to be money pagans. We do not worship at the altar of timely bill payment. We do not light candles to the Credit Score god. Budget? We spit on you. It is something that we all have in common and which causes my parents an endless amount of stress.

So when my sister moved to another state with no money, no savings, no job prospects and no interest in getting a job, my poor parents almost had synchronized heart attacks. My mother lost sleep; my father went ballistic; one of my other sisters denounced her as “irresponsible”; and I was just in shock.

Let me say that my sister is no lay-about. She has been working non-stop since she was 16 years old. She has a bachelor’s degree and 2 masters in Education from NYU; she has just completed another degree in Theology. For 20 of the 21 years of her marriage, she was the primary breadwinner. Her husband would work for 4 to 6 months and “take a break” – all while she slaved to keep the kids’ tuition paid, the rent out of arrears and food on the table. When she couldn’t do it alone, the rest us of pitched in to help (be it by taking the kids for the weekend or buying them school clothes). For her to simply say “I refuse to do this anymore; let the chips fall where they may,” was huge.

While this may seem like the perfect recipe for disaster, I am beginning to see the method in her madness. By being Superwoman, she infantilized her husband and spoiled her kids. None of them had any consideration for her or any appreciation for what she provided. Because the chips are certainly falling – everywhere, I might add – her husband has had to break his “4 months of work and 8 months of vacation” habit. Her eldest child has had to get a job. Her youngest must make do without the $150 sneakers he had grown accustomed to. In the meantime, my sister attends to the home and rejects job offers; all while continuing to sleep on the floor (“it’s good for the back,” she quips) and eat on the floor (“every day is a picnic,” she chirped the last time I spoke with her).

The experience is certainly teaching her family a valuable lesson, but the biggest lesson may be for my sister, herself, whether she realizes it or not. You see, in my parents’ eyes, this is the absolute worst thing that could happen to a person – to be broke and have no immediate monetary prospects. Yet my sister is facing the financial beast head on and not backing down. She is unabashed in her self-imposed poverty and has weathered the economic storm without seeking shelter under anyone else’s pecuniary umbrella. Most importantly, my sister has shown us that even stripped of all material things, she is still, well, her. She didn’t die when her last paycheck was used up. She didn’t turn into dust when the last dollar in her savings account was depleted. And by experiencing true scarcity, my sister will never again succumb to the scarcity mentality my family falls prey to. She has – albeit in the most excruciating way possible – shed the family karma that continues to plague the rest of us. It is exhibiting true courage in the face of a beast.

My sister is now 8 months into her sojourn into the belly of the money beast. I don’t know when she will return; but it will be cause for celebration when she does.

Verbal Constipation

The organization that Big Bren works for gives him these cards at the beginning of every year. They are affinity cards – they indicate that you are related in some way to a member of the organization. And as one credit card company would say, “membership has its privileges.” The most hardened member of the organization becomes helpful once you show them the card. Because the cards are useful, people have taken to stealing them or trying to buy them on E-bay, so Big Bren personalizes the ones he gives out by writing – with permanent marker – the intended recipient’s name on the top and his name, title and telephone number on the bottom.

This year, I eagerly awaited the receipt of my card. Come the end of January, however, Big Bren had still not given them out. One day, I came across the stack in our guest bedroom. Perhaps it was just inherent nosiness, but I looked through the stack to see who – other than moi – would be benefiting from use of the card. What I saw made my breath catch in my throat.

No, it wasn’t a mistress (if it had been, I’d be locked up somewhere and you wouldn’t be reading this post); rather, I noticed that on each and every card to various family members, in addition to the name and his information, Big Bren had written a phrase or a saying. One said “Be safe.” Another, “I love you.” Yet another, “Take care.” Some were a casual “Love ya.” And on mine: nothing.

The blank space between the “To my wife, Mirna,” and his information at the bottom taunted me.

There are people who inspire conversation. My mother is such a person. She greets perfect strangers with a smile and takes her leave with a “Bye, Papi,” or “See you later, Love.” She meets someone and within an hour, they have told her their whole life story; they’re chatting like old friends. I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite. I can meet someone multiple times and not even make small talk about the weather. It’s not meanness on my part or even a lack of social grace; when necessary, I converse, and under the right circumstances, I am a veritable chatterbox. But, most times, I am content to be silent.

So I really should not have been surprised by the “silence” on the card. Yet, I was indeed surprised. That card, in all its simplicity, lacked more than words; it lacked heart and emotion. By the time I got the card in hand, it had been edited to include a large "I [heart] you" in the middle. Still, where my mother causes verbal diarrhea, I apparently produce verbal constipation (the words eventually come out, but not without some strain).

I am Maid

I happened to be at my parents’ home one day this past week during dinner time. Although I usually eat when I visit my parents, I am never actually there when it is time for my father to dine. I had forgotten the intricate ritual that goes into “serving” him his dinner.

Initially, my father doesn’t eat a simple meal like most people; his meals have parts and sub-parts. There’s the meat, and rice, and boiled green banana or sweet plantains (boiled or fried), and there’s salad. Everything is served all at once. He sits down and my mother runs around the kitchen getting everything together. She brings the food first, then he’ll bellow: “cubiertos!” She’ll put down whatever she’s doing and hurry to get utensils for him. Then he’ll say: “limon!” and she’ll stop whatever she’s doing again and fetch him a lemon wedge. When he’s satisfied with what’s in front of him, he takes the salt shaker and sprinkles salt generously on his food – without tasting it first. When he’s just about done, he’ll say loudly for my mother to hear, wherever she may be in the house, “I could drink some soda now!” And she’ll come scurrying and open the refrigerator – which is located right next to him in the eat-in kitchen, by the way – get him a can of soda, open it and put it in front of him.

When he’s completely done, he will wipe the corners of his mouth with a napkin that she placed there for him, and get up – leaving the plate with the scraps on the table. He will then go watch the news while reclining in his chair. My mother takes the plate from the table and does the dishes. Only then, when she’s done with her “wifely duties” can my mother relax enough to sit down and eat.

This is nothing new for me, of course. Until I moved out at 22, I was one of the women scurrying about like frightened slaves trying to anticipate my father’s every need. But until I saw this again the other day, I had relegated it to the back of my mind. And I have to say that it bothered the crap out of me. I recall the years of servitude; never having a free moment, because you could be called to “duty” at any moment by a whistle (yes, my father would whistle for us when he needed something). It could be something as simple as passing him the remote (because it was too strenuous for him to reach over the 11 inches to get it) or something as disgusting as clipping his toenails or putting medicine on his corns. As a fully grown woman with my own family now, I don’t understand why mother accustomed him to being treated that way, so that now in their twilight years, she continues to be a servant when she should be the one being waited on. I know it’s too late for them; neither one of them is going to change, but the whole thing still leaves a bad, bitter taste in my mouth.

Under Construction

I’ve written before how most women juggle multiple balls – relationship, children, work, self, friendships – at any given time. I’ve admitted to dropping one or more of the balls, but that the most dropped ball is “self.” I often get caught up in trying to take care of everyone and lose sight of me. Now, I’ve learned that I’ve also dropped the “friendships” ball and it is hidden somewhere behind the sofa so that I may not be able to retrieve it again!

I e-mailed two good friends of mine yesterday – I’ve known both women for 8 years now – with the subject line “I feel abandoned.” These are ladies with whom – up until a few weeks ago – I would engage in a three-way e-mail communication several times a day, just sharing random thoughts. One of them did not respond to the e-mail; the other sent me a long response basically stating that they had not abandoned me, I had been so involved in my own life that I had pulled away from them.

At first I felt offended; but I’m wise enough (ha!) to know that when you hear a truth, your ego will often rise up with the “oh, no, she didn’t!” reaction in order to divert your attention from the truth. So, I removed my fingers from the keyboard, before I could respond in a way that would do lasting damage.

Then, as the icing on the cake, I sent an e-mail to another friend – this one I’ve known for 25 years – about Brendan’s birthday party and got an e-mail back saying that she would love to come, but she was having a party for her daughter the same day. But she didn’t invite me and hadn’t even mentioned it until I brought up Brendan’s party.

Here I was, patting myself on the back because I had managed – since September – to get up on time, pack my child’s snack for school and have him there on time (most days, anyway – I’m not perfect, you know); when, in fact, my friendships were collapsing around me. Today, I had to face the unsavory truth that I have not been a good friend. I have not e-mailed anyone in a while; I don't call to check up on my friends; and I don't remember the last time I sent a birthday or Christmas card. The sad part is that not only have I not been a good friend to the ladies who have held me together when I was falling apart (one of them even got on a plane with me to chase my then boyfriend down on vacation because I thought he was cheating on me), but I just haven’t been good to myself lately. I really have been engrossed with the minutia of everyday life. Truth be told, I am tired of it. I am tired of the lunches, and the laundry, and the cooking, and the cleaning. I feel like I’m on one of those wheels that the hamsters exercise on. I realize that the reason I feel like this is because I have no other life! I know that if I saw a movie with a friend now and then; or met up with someone for a manicure and pedicure; or for a chat and a cup of coffee; or even just keeping up my e-mail correspondence, I wouldn’t feel so bored and isolated.

I honestly don’t believe that life is meant to be depressing or boring. So, going forward, I intend to be a better friend. I truly hope that the “friendships” ball is retrievable. And I hope that my friends can understand that their girl is not a finished product – I am the first to admit that I am “under construction.”

"You Can't Play 'Cause You Have Different Skin"

Brendan has been obsessing about color lately.  Last week, he said he no longer wanted to be brown.  When I asked him what color he wanted to be, he paused, then threw his arms around me and said "I love you very much, Mommy."  Then, he hurried away before I could ask him any more questions.

A few days later, he said that he wished I wasn't brown.  I told him that I loved being brown, but given a choice, what color would he make me?  Another pause, then he answered that he wished I was the same color as his cousin Joey's mommy -- who is also brown.  I was puzzled, but before I could question him any more, he hurried away again.

Then, on Sunday, the truth finally reared its head:  in recess recently, four boys that he looks up to and used to play with all the time told him that he couldn't play with them anymore, because he had "different skin."  He tried to tell the story nonchalantly, as if he couldn't care less whether those boys played with him or not, but I could see the pain in his eyes.  It was like I had been stabbed in the chest.  

Big Bren and I have gone out of our way to provide a multicultural environment for Brendan.  He watches multicultural programs; his "people" toys are all different nationalities; even the angel on our Christmas tree was of color.  What we didn't realize was that Brendan would not -- and could not -- grow up in that bubble.  We assumed, I guess, that other parents would be raising their children the same way.

I wonder whether racism occurs through nature or nurture.  Is it in our DNA to discriminate against those who do not look like us or are we raised to do so?  The fact that those boys used that terminology -- different skin -- makes me think that their parents are not necessarily racists.  If so, they would have used other, not so benign, words.  Just the same, if the parents surround themselves and their children with people who all look the same, it's no wonder the kids are so intolerant of change.

Big Bren, who, while not brown, feels strongly about having a child who feels comfortable in his skin, whatever color that may be, marched to the school the very next day and told the Head of School about Brendan's experience.  The point was not to get those boys in trouble, but to steer them in the direction of acceptance of others.  On our end, we will not do anything differently. We are already teaching Brendan not just tolerance, but acceptance, of cultural differences.  And with our wonderfully multi-hued family, he gets to do that every day.

The Most Expensive Thing I've Ever Had ...

... is Brendan.

Kids are frigging expensive. There’s tuition and afterschool and clothing and entertainment and Christmas gifts and birthday gifts and birthday parties. Geez!

Big Bren made fun of me the other day because I bought some eye shadow at the dollar store. I thought about making my usual trip to the Mac store, but when I thought about the amount of gas I would spend to get there, plus the $18 for the actual eye shadow, I decided to go down the hill to the dollar store and called it a day. The damn thing probably contains lead and might dry out my eye lids, but what can I say? I’ve become “frugal” in my old age.

The Unloveable

For most of my life, I have not felt loved. Worse, I have not felt love-able. My parents were neither affectionate nor effusive. They never said “I love you.” They never hugged us or kissed us. They didn’t tuck us into bed at night or say “I’m proud of you” if we did anything noteworthy. By the time I was seven, my mother cut off any physical contact with my father, like kisses goodnight or sitting on his lap, because she had seen too many instances of incest in the Honduran community and she wanted to remove any “temptation.” My mom was also of the opinion that a child would be “spoiled” if showered with attention; my dad left all the child-rearing decisions – insofar as it related to us girls – to my mother.

On one hand, it was good that my mother ruled with an iron fist, because my sisters and I avoided the pitfalls that surrounded us in the projects where we lived. All around us, the girls were dropping out of school and getting pregnant. And while we probably would’ve have sought out the attentions of young men to fill the void of love we felt at home, my mother timed our commute to and from school, was on good terms with a welfare mother on our floor (who watched everything we did and if anyone entered the apartment while my mother wasn’t there) and had a voice-activated recorder on the phone in her locked room that taped all conversations on our telephone line. Simply put, we had no opportunity to become sluts.

Growing up that way comes at a price. For many years, I harbored a deep-rooted belief that no one loved me and was convinced that no one could love me. I felt unworthy and ugly. I mean, if no one in my early life had – and who better to love you than your mother, your father, your family – then why would anyone in my later life? As a result, I always felt that any man I was with had an ulterior motive for wanting to be with me. The first time that I have felt true love – given and received – was when I had Brendan.

In recent months, I began feeling a sense of stagnation. Life was not bad, but not great. The fact is that I feel a yearning, a longing for something, but the something is fuzzy, not clear. I feel like there is more to be done, but I’m coming up against an unbreachable wall that will not allow me to do it – whatever “it” is. I knew that there was something I was meant to learn, something I was meant to understand once and for all. Whenever I get into these depressive moods, I try to pray or meditate them away. And so it was that I bumped into Michael Bernard Beckwith’s “Life Visioning Program” on CD. I won’t describe the whole program here, but it entails asking the “right” questions for personal growth. He recommends not asking “why” questions (those are my personal favorites: Why me? Why now? Why? Why?), but “what” and “how” questions. What must I become in order to manifest my vision? How must I grow? What must I change about me? What is it that I need to let go of? Once you ask the question, you should mediate on them and let the Universe, your subconscious, God, or whatever you want to label it, will give you the answers.

I asked the questions and … nothing happened. (Did you expect the skies to part and God to give me the answer??) I was truly frustrated. I copied the discs onto my I-pod and sent the originals to my sister, thinking that perhaps, she’d get better use out of the program. Maybe I had done it wrong.

That night, as I tucked Brendan into bed, I kissed his forehead and said, “que sueñes con los angelitos, Hijo” -- “Dream with the little angels, my son.” And I stopped. That was odd. I never say that phrase to Brendan. I almost always say “goodnight, Baby. I love you.” But I remembered the phrase well – when my mother wasn’t working nights, she would be in the living room watching her telenovelas, my siblings and I would line up at the living room door to say goodnight. As we kissed her cheek, she would say to each of us, “que sueñes con los angelitos negros” – “dream with the little brown angels.” Odd, indeed, that I would say that phrase.

A few days later, I was going to a seminar when the answers struck me. Seemingly out of the blue. Memories came flooding into my brain. There was my older cousin, Adora, caring for me when my parents came to the States. She was carrying me on her hip, so the hot sand would not hurt my bare feet in Honduras. My head lay sleepily on her shoulder as she carried me. She was smiling and planting feather-light kisses on my forehead as she walked. There was my oldest sister, Elsa, playing "school" with me in our bedroom in the projects. She was teaching me English words. There I was, feverish and coughing, during a bad winter soon after we’d moved to the South Bronx; and there Elsa was again, rubbing Vicks into my bony chest to ease the cough, then leaning me against her and covering me up with sheets. Elsa yet again, at the book fair at our school; my mother hadn’t given us enough money to each buy a book, but Elsa had found me and was handing over her few coins so that I, at least, would get something I wanted. I saw me at around 8 years old waking in the middle of night with a nightmare and having Elsa, who was only 5 years older than me, rub my brow until I fell asleep again. Now, it was my brother, Arles, holding me in his arms, shielding me from our mother; she was trying to get at me because I had not ironed my uniform jumper properly and we were going to be late for school. She was screaming and frustrated; she pounded furiously on Arles’s back and arms, but he would not let her get to me. Even my mother made some positive appearances; she had taken time off from her day job to take me to the dermatologist – in times of stress I get severe bouts of seborrheic dermatitis. My mom again, getting up early to braid our hair before school, even though she’d worked at her night job and must have been tired. And last, my dad, making the car “dance” to music by stepping on and releasing the brakes, so my siblings and I could laugh; taking us to the movies to see the Mexican actor “Cantinflas” in his latest comedic escapades while my mother worked; and driving two hours to the beaches of Long Island each Sunday during the summer so we could see something other than projects and crackheads.

Then the inner knowing came: I had been loved all along. Perhaps I hadn’t known it, but I had been loved. Then the same inner voice implored me to look at my life in recent years. How my mother and my sisters had driven to Buffalo to help me move from one apartment to another. How, after I had carbon monoxide poisoning and was afraid to sleep, Elsa -- who was the working mother of two young boys at the time -- stayed up the whole night watching me to make sure that I would wake up. The voice said to see my mother in her perpetual penance: cooking my favorite meals, calling to see how I am doing all the time, saying “I love you” to my son. To notice how my husband has lived up to his vows of in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer. And all my friends who care for me for no reason other than they care about me. And I felt a sense of peace. A sense of belonging unlike anything I had felt before. And I knew – I know – that everything will be okay. That I will do whatever it is that I am meant to do.

Change has Come

Today, my co-workers and I gathered around an archaic television set in our conference room and watched Barack Obama become the 44th president of the United States of America.  It was totally awesome (in the original meaning of the word -- not the way teeny boppers and my almost-5-year-old use it).  I was a huge goosebump for the entire duration of the ceremony and his speech.  Standing before the country was the epitome of the American Dream.  He is what my mother always said people of color could be.  He is what Dr. Martin Luther King foresaw when he said that one day Black people would be judged by the content of their character and not the color of their skin.  Today, I was truly proud to be a person of color and an American.

Behind the Curtain

I think The Wizard of Oz is one of the best books ever written. Unlike most people, however, I don’t think the best parts are those that come after Dorothy discovers that the Wizard is a sham. Once she opens the curtain and exposes the balding little man working strings and levers to make the “magic” happen, it is not the beginning of an adventure, but the beginning of the end. At that point, she loses hope. There will be no wizard who will save her; no white knight. Then and there she knows that she’s going to have to save her damn self. The winged monkeys and the wicked witch are just distractions. At the end, it’s just a girl and her shoes.

I started thinking about The Wizard of Oz the other day after a conversation with Big Bren. Brendan had gone to bed and we were laying about, just killing time. I was on our bed, in my flannel pajamas, doing what I always do in the evening before bed – reading the gossip rags on line. Suddenly, the conversation turned to how I had been 10 years ago, when Big Bren and I first met. Smiling, he said, “I like you better now. You’re more real. I’ve made you into a woman; you know, a wife.” For a minute, my blood ran cold. Not that I don’t like being a mom and a wife; I most definitely do. But I feel like I had to kill my inner wizard to become that.

In some sense, Big Bren is right. When we met, I was a completely different person. I would work at the firm until late in the evening, then go hang out with my co-workers at some posh restaurant or bar. All my clothes were designer and I thought nothing of spending $1,000 on a handbag. I had a personal trainer at the local gym, and a standing appointment on Tuesdays with a Russian aesthetician named Anya, who gave me a mani and pedi and made sure that my various parts were plucked and/or waxed to my satisfaction. I had a closet full of lingerie and I could not walk out of my apartment in the morning if my bra and panties did not match. What can I say, I was a bit of a pretentious twit. But that was my curtain; everything that anyone saw was simply the projection -- the show -- that I was putting on. None of it was real.

I don’t know when my wizard died (let’s face it, that old me ain’t making a comeback). A piece of her died when I got carbon monoxide poisoning in the Murray Hill apartment that I rented for more money than I could reasonably afford, because I convinced myself that I just had to live in Manhattan. I was removed unconscious from that apartment in my fabulous Victoria’s Secret underwear.

Maybe she died when I started suffering stress attacks after the carbon monoxide incident and I couldn’t sleep for fear that I wouldn’t wake up. It’s hard to think about matching underwear when you’re falling apart psychologically.

No, I don’t know how or when it happened. Big Bren did not ride in on big white horse to rescue me. There was no knight in shining armor. We just took one step at a time. It feels like I just woke up one day, wearing no make-up, with unshaved and unwaxed body parts, stuffed into flannel pajamas. It wasn’t something that I planned or even wanted. And, yet, it is more real to me than anything I have ever lived before. When my little guy rains kisses on my face, it’s worth more than a million Gucci bags. When I put my head on my husband’s chest at night, he doesn’t care that I haven’t had a manicure in a month.

Sometimes, when “real” life threatens to overwhelm me, I wish I could click my heels three times and go back to that life – it seems so easy, so glamorous, in comparison to my reality today. But I know, as Dorothy came to learn, that there really is no place like home. Right now, there may be more dish-washing than Broadway plays and more laundry than pomegranate martinis, but, at the end of the day, it is the place that I call home.

What Donuts Do

Brendan and I were running errands today when we passed by the local Dunkin Donuts and Brendan asked if he could have a donut. While I’m not a big proponent of giving kids what amounts to pretty much unadulterated sugar, I felt like having a little something sweet myself, so to Dunkin Donuts we went. Brendan wanted a powdered donut; I got him 3 powdered donut munchkins and some hot chocolate and we got back in the car.

I focused on driving and totally forgot about Brendan and his donuts until I snuck a peak in the rear-view mirror to see what he was up to. I almost drove off the road when I saw that my child, from head to toe, the booster seat and the backseat immediately surrounding him were covered in white powdered sugar.

My eyebrows came together in a frown. At the next stop light, I turned around and said, “Brendan, look at the mess you’ve made back there.” He looked down at himself and his chair and over at the backseat, then shrugging slightly, he said “But, Mommy, that’s what donuts do!” Despite myself, I had to laugh. He was absolutely right, powdered donuts will no doubt create a mushroom cloud of sugar and little boys will undoubtedly make a mess.

The Kindness of a Stranger

I work in the legal department of a large insurance company. Part of my job is to provide legal support and training to claims folk across the great State of New York. It was in that capacity that, not too long ago, I got summoned to Syracuse. I started driving from downstate New York in reasonably balmy 40-something degree weather and clear skies. I made it up to Syracuse without incident, got something to eat and settled into my hotel room for the night.

When I woke up the next morning and looked out the window, I thought I was still dreaming; the world was blanketed in snow. Not just a dusting, but several inches worth. I’m not an idiot, I know it’s Winter in New York; but I had checked the weather and no snow had been in the forecast.  As I looked at my buried rental car, a sense of despair overcame me. I had no scraper, no brush, no shovel, absolutely nothing. I glanced down at my flats and trench coat and just knew it was going to be a long, cold, miserable time before I unearthed that car.

I walked gingerly across the parking lot, snow filling my shoes with every step.  And with every snow-filled step, my mood got darker and darker. I finally made it to the car; I used my gloves and a credit card to clear off the frozen snow on the windshield where my eyes would be.  Still, I couldn’t hope to drive like that – there’d be too many blind spots.  I settled into the warming car to think. What to do? What to do?

Then, suddenly, the ice and snow was being cleared away from my windshield!  Then, the side and rear windows. I rolled down my window to speak with the child of God who had decided to perform a random act of kindness for a perfect stranger that morning.  I found out that he worked at the Hampton Inn where I had stayed that night and was getting off the night shift.   He had seen me shuffle across the parking lot in my inappropriate attire and had realized that I would never be able to clear my car, and so, he had come out to help.  I thanked him profusely aloud, and silently heaped blessings upon him. He just shrugged, and with the car now road-ready, he trudged back into the hotel to complete his shift.

I never asked his name, nor is it likely that he will ever come across this blog. But if he ever does: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

How Do I Live?

How do I live?

How do I live, with this dream heavy on my chest?
Unfulfilled, yet refusing to die
How do I live, with it taking up such space?
It’s blocking light and air. Oh why?

How do I go on? Pretending to exist
In this role I call my life?
What will I do? What will I be?
Can’t I be simply mother, worker, wife?

Why do you, o Dream, torment me so?
Please, just go and let me be!
I am too tired to fight and humbled by life
Please, just set me free.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

May 2009 bring you much joy, love and peace!

From the Horse's Mouth

With all the Christmas shows featuring Rudolph and Santa Claus, Brendan decided that he wanted to be a reindeer when he grows up.  His goals were lofty -- he didn't want to be just any old reindeer, he was going to be one of Santa's reindeer (the ones that fly).  I let the reindeer fantasy go on for a while, but, being the realist that I am, I felt duty-bound to tell my child that people did not simply turn into beasts at whim.  I cornered him as he ran around the house, holding his hands up to his head and spreading his fingers to look like antlers.

"Brendan?"

He stopped, antler-hands still in position, "yes, Mommy?"

"Baby boy, you know that people can't turn into reindeer, right?"

Long pause.  "Why not?"

"I don't know why, but they just don't.  People are people and reindeer are reindeer.  You can pretend you're a reindeer, though."

He looked off to the side.  Then, slowly, he unspread his fingers and brought his hands down from his head.  He started to walk away.  Great, now I had crushed the kid's spirit.

When he was halfway across the room, I called out to him again.

"Honey Bunny?"

He trotted back, "yes, Mommy?"

"Are you upset because you can't be a reindeer someday?"

He gave me a toothy grin.  "Not at all, Mommy.  I didn't want to be a reindeer anyway. ... What I really want to be is a horse!"  And he galloped off, neighing as he went.  (Sigh)    

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

Merry Christmas!!

Happily Ever After

I was researching a project when I came across a website called divorcerate.org. According to divorcerate.org, the oft-quoted “50% of all marriages end in divorce” is actually inaccurate. In reality, between 40 and 50% of all first marriages end in divorce. Second marriages have a fail rate of over 60%, however; while third marriages dissolve more than 70% of the time.

The statistics feel wrong to me. I mean, I can understand first marriages failing – people are often young and idealistic when they first marry. They think that love and marriage will be some sort of fairy tale and fun all the time. When they discover that isn’t the case, disillusionment sets in. But you would think that second and third marriages would involve older and wiser people.

I dug a little further, just to see if the first website was corroborated. I found that there are numerous websites dedicated to this topic and all of them agree that subsequent marriages do, indeed, have higher fail rates than first marriages. The psychology-based ones aver that after a failed marriage, most people do not seek solitude, but rather look immediately to enter into another relationship in order to validate their worth and attractiveness. They urge readers to instead study the first marriage and try to figure out what went wrong before committing to someone else. Other sites believe that, after failing the first time, partners are not as invested emotionally – they already know that “happily ever after” does not exist.

This all holds a lot of interest for me. You see, I was married to someone else before I married Big Bren. When I married my first husband, whom I shall call C, I did so for all the wrong reasons. C was my college sweetheart. He was a wonderful guy, but a wounded man. His life read like a novel. His father, who was married, had an affair with a young woman in his village. When she became pregnant, her family threatened to disown her unless she got rid of the child. As this was in the 1960’s and abortion was not readily available in Guatemala, his mother did the next best thing: she gave birth to him, then left him on his father’s doorstep. His stepmother, who was childless, took him in and raised him. But – perhaps out of anger at his father – she never let him forget that he was the product of adultery and that his birth mother had not wanted him. As a result, C had serious abandonment issues.

I started dating C when I was 19 and he was 22. By then, he had already gotten a girl pregnant, who had – ironically – left him with the child and fled to California. I was undaunted by the fact that he already had a kid; it made him more mature in my eyes. I was also unphased by the fact that his ailing stepmother lived with him.

By 21, though, I had decided that I was going to law school and that I was going to do so outside of New York City. C suffered a meltdown. The sweet guy whom I fell in love with turned into a passive aggressive a-hole. He would make dates and not show up. He didn’t return phone calls. In my desperation, I offered him the one thing that I knew he wanted: a commitment.

We got married secretly in the City Hall by my law school (until today, only 5 other people ever knew we were married). For a while, things were good. He would drive up to see me almost every weekend. We spent hours on the phone every night. Soon, though, I started to see that I was missing out on the whole experience of being away from home for the first time in my life. My friends were out clubbing every night. Although I have never been a drinker, I loved to dance, so, I started to go with them. And I started to meet other people. People who were in law school, like me. People who did not have children. Or sick parents who would, necessarily, have to move in with us.

I don’t know exactly what happened to us. I do know that what he’d always feared came to pass: I abandoned him. First, physically, by moving away and then, I began to pull away emotionally. He resorted to what he always did when things were not to his liking – he ran away. As soon as I graduated from law school, I filed for a divorce. I wanted an annulment, but I could not bring myself to say that he defrauded me into marrying him. I knew well enough what I was doing. I later learned, though, that while I was out dancing, my husband was cozying up to another woman and had had another child, so I would’ve had grounds after all.

One thing I can say with certainty is that the statistics and the psychologists are wrong in my case. I did not rush to marry the first man who asked after my divorce. In fact, I did not marry Big Bren until five years later. But it makes me wonder whether I “fixed” what was wrong the first go round. I honestly do not know. Was I just attracted to the walking wounded? Over the intervening years, I have learned that there is no cure for the wounded when they won’t admit they’re hurt. I’ve also learned that if you don’t face that which you fear, it will rear up and bite you at some point. Other than that, I guess only time will tell.

How may I be of service?

I am a Black woman. As such, I suffer a plight familiar to Black women the world over: no matter where I happen to be, people assume that I work there. At the supermarket, people ask in what aisle they can find things. At the courthouse, people mistake me for the judge’s clerk or the court reporter.

Until recently, I would respond with varying degrees of annoyance, irritation and sarcasm. Once at a department store, a lady stopped to ask how to get to the register. I gave her a withering look and said, “Of course, I work here. That’s why I am wearing my coat, carrying my purse and lugging 5 bags from other stores.” She scurried away; sarcasm has that effect on people.

But I have decided that other people’s ignorance, racism or obliviousness is not going to rob me of my peace. Once I made that decision, people seemed to stop asking me to point them to the mayonnaise. Until yesterday.

I walked into my gym in a very good mood. I had my new book under my arm and my earphones hooked up to my I-pod. My bottle of water was icy cold – just the way I like it. All was well with the world. I set my supplies down next to me and reached for disinfecting solution to spray down the parts of the treadmill that I was likely to touch. Gym equipment breeds bacteria – I know you’ve seen the guy who has so much sweat pouring off him that it’s dripping onto the machine – so most gyms put bleach solution by the machines.

As I wiped down my machine, a middle-aged White man on the treadmill next to mine motioned for me to spray his machine as well. I paused and looked at him. He motioned once again and, noticing my reticence, said “could you do mine as well?”

Of course I knew what he was thinking; how could I not know, it’s the story of my life. But instead of pointing to my stuff and giving him the finger (you all know I considered doing that), I smiled, stepped over to where he was, sprayed his machine and wiped it down. He gave me a cursory “thanks,” and pretended to focus on the television screen in front of him. I put the bleach solution back, put on my earphones and got on my treadmill. The expression on his face was absolutely priceless. No amount of sarcasm could’ve evoked the same expression. He quickly stopped his machine and came over. “I am so, so, so sorry,” he stammered. “I thought you worked here.” Of course you did. I smiled at him and said, “No problem.” Then I pretended to focus on the television screen in front of me.

He packed up his things and hurried out, red-faced and flustered. You want to know something? I bet that man is never again going to assume that every Black woman he sees is the help. Glad to be of service.

The Roar Within

No one likes to hear anything negative about him/herself. Who wants to hear that you're lazy? Or a slack-off? Or will amount to nothing? Yet, we often say these things, or worse, to ourselves.

I decided to sit and listen to my inner dialogue one day and, I must say, I was appalled at what I heard and felt. I found myself wishing for something, visualizing myself having it and then, almost immediately, clamming up in fear, internally shaking my head, saying "You'll never get that. Why should you, with all your issues, be so blessed? Do you know how many people want that?" It is as if even before my dreams can get off the ground, I cripple them by telling myself that I am unworthy or undeserving of having the things I truly want.

Armed with this realization, I now "erase" my last thought and say "well, why not me? Someone is going to get it, it might as well be me." It is an exhausting process, yet that seems to be the only way to interrupt my programming.

I don't know why I am programmed this way. It would be great if I could lay blame on someone else (my parents, perhaps), but, truth be told, I have always been saddled and ridden by fear. I wish there were places one could go for mental reprogramming. (And, no, I don't mean a psychotherapist). I mean an actual place where you walk in with all your psychologic bugs and mental viruses, frozen on one screen of your life, and come out with the slate wiped clean, your heart purring gently and your mind ready to take on the world. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

It's a Bird, It's a Plane

My child has entered the superhero phase.  He was Spiderman for Halloween.  He begged for the talking Hulk hands ("You're making me angry!  You won't like me when I'm angry!  Arrrggghhhh!").  He wants a Superman cape for Christmas.  So, as the doting parents that we are, Big Bren and I decided to strip Brendan's room of all the Thomas the Train paraphernalia and decorate it with the best superheroes of all time.  So why, oh why, is it that there are no superheroes of color?

Don't get me wrong.  I am not one of those super-ethnic people who only wear Kente cloth or anything like that, but I do want my child to be proud of who he is.  Just like I want him in a school that celebrates diversity, I want his role models (if we can call them that) to be of different shades.  And heroes do not just come in White.

I thought about scrapping the whole idea when I couldn't find one lousy mainstream Black or Brown superhero to stick to his walls.  But Big Bren prevailed when he said that Brendan would be shaped by the totality of his experiences, not just the images that are plastered to his walls.  That may be true, but, really, not a single one?  No one stopped to think that little brown boys may want a superhero to call their own?  Sometimes it's through the little things that we gauge our progress as a people.

Ghetto Fabulous

I just went to the public ladies’ room on the second floor in my office building and there she was: the walking definition of “ghetto fabulous.” She was wearing a Winter-white suit. Skin tight, of course. With a split up to the yang. A leopard-print bustier and leopard-print stilettos. Fake eyelashes. Hair slicked back into a phony tail.

I briefly wondered what kind of woman wakes up and says, “I think I’ll wear my leopard-print bustier to work today.” We are business casual, but I think “business” is the operative word. Unless it’s some other business that we’re talking about.

She seemed nice. Spoke with a slight Southern accent. But still, leopard-print …

Good Genes

I have a confession to make: I am a celebrity gossip junkie. I can spend hours on the internet just reading trash. My latest fascination is with celebrity moms. You know, the Heidi Klums, Nicole Richies, Angelina Jolies and Gwyneth Paltrows of the world. The ones who are back to a size 2 even before the afterbirth comes out. I understand that these women have to look a certain way for their jobs, but it still makes the rest of us look bad (literally) when Katie Holmes and Jennifer Lopez can run marathons within 3 months of giving birth. At 6 months post-partum, I was lucky just to get out of the house without a soggy Cheerio stuck to some part of my head.

So, how do they do it? I have read everything (I mean it -- I have read every celebrity rag out there). And the answers range from coy non-answers, to giving all the credit to breast-feeding, to good genes (yeah, I’m calling you out, J. Lo), to my all-time favorite “I already have a toddler. Keeping up with him/her is all the exercise I need!” Cough ** Bullshit ** Cough.

So imagine my surprise when I read an interview with Jessica Alba not too long ago where she answered the inevitable “how did you lose the baby weight?” question, with something like (I’m paraphrasing here): “It was hard. I worked out for several hours almost every day and went on a diet.” I almost fell out of my chair. An honest celebrity. What an oxymoron. That’s almost as rare as a truthful attorney. Of course, she had to ruin the lovefest I had going on with her when she then declared, “Everything about having a baby is fun! Even the explosive diarrhea!” Okay, Jessica, I would’ve sooner believed that you got your six-pack back by breast-feeding.

It’s tough being a woman in this society, what with the pressure to look a certain way, to have breasts of a certain size, and to have color and hair of a certain hue. But it is also getting increasingly difficult to be a mom as well. My mother’s generation was, I believe, the first generation to be pressured to not just be moms, but to be providers for their families. My mom was under no delusions about what she could and couldn’t do. She knew she had to work (sometimes she worked two jobs); she also knew that, as a result, quality time and real parenting would have to move to the back burner. Ask my mom today and she will tell you – very loudly – in no uncertain terms that she did what she had to do and has no regrets about it.

My generation thinks that we can do and be everything. We want to be great workers, great friends, great mothers and great wives and look great doing it, damn it. I will be honest and say that, on any given day, I drop one or more of the balls I am juggling. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes it’s home, but most times, it’s me. I don’t have the benefit of J.Lo-ian genes (I wonder where her “genes” were when she was a Fly Girl on In Living Color and very obviously a big girl – but I digress) or the money to hire a nanny, a trainer and a live-in cook. So, I, too, will do the best I can (albeit with saggy abs and a flabby bottom) and, hopefully, have no regrets about it.

The Power of Forgiveness

Until last year, my middle sister and I did not get along. We spent our childhood fighting – literally – like cats and dogs. Once we outgrew fistfights, we engaged in something more sinister: seething sibling rivalry and one-up-ness. Our dislike for each other permeated all family gatherings and get-togethers. I hated her so much that I could barely stand to look at her. Over the years, I thought about making peace with her, but would never follow through, thinking that perhaps that ship had sailed.

Just before Christmas last year, however, I got this feeling in my soul that it was time to bury the hatchet once and for all (and, hopefully, not in each other’s backs). And the more I tried to shake it off, the more the feeling persisted. I went to the bookstore and a book on forgiveness practically jumped in my hand. “I got it,” I whispered to God. “I will do this.”

I read the book and did the forgiveness exercises. I imagined myself speaking with my sister and magnanimously telling her that I forgave her for all her transgressions.

I would pick up the phone to call her and put it back down. Eventually, I settled on writing her a letter. In the letter, I spoke about all the things that bothered me about her: her nosiness, her loudness, her attitude. But then other things poured out: how I admired her work ethic, her take-no-crap stance in life, and how everyone respected her. Memories of our childhood in Honduras came flooding back. I remembered that we were inseparable. Then other thoughts started to creep in: how she was my grandmother’s favorite (no small feat, considering that my grandmother was caring for about 20 grandchildren at the time). And how, when we came to the States and my father was drinking himself into oblivion half the time, she was the only one who could make him smile. I recalled how my mother always said that she, my sister, was most like her: witty, sharp, a real firecracker.

And suddenly a realization dawned on me. My job was not to forgive my sister for everything she had done to me. She had done nothing but be herself. My job was to forgive myself! I had been petty and jealous. All these years, I had envied her for having the things that I felt I lacked: love from our grandmother when our parents weren’t around; a way around my father’s emotional unavailability; and approval from our mother.

I took the letter and put it in a drawer. Then I called my sister for the first time in my adult life. Things between us didn’t thaw immediately, but with practice we have learned to be sisters again. My sister now calls me just to chat. Sometimes, we spend two hours on the phone. We go out to eat and hang out with our kids at the park. She has learned to call on me for emotional support when she needs it. I call her to find out how to add features to my cell phone. You know what? It’s nice to have my sister back.

Wrong Side of the Bed

Brendan is, thankfully, a good kid.  He has his moments, but they pass quickly.  Today, however, he just could not get a handle on his emotions.  The day started with him crying in his sleep and went downhill from there.  He whined about breakfast (cereal) so much, that I had no choice but to make his breakfast of choice ("crema" - cream of wheat made with milk, sugar and cinnamon).  Then he didn't want to get dressed.  That was followed by an all-out temper tantrum because he wanted to bring in a box that was delivered in the morning, but we didn't let him (the box was twice his size and very heavy).  Every meal was objectionable to him; all he wanted to eat was pound cake.

After his 1,713th request for cake was answered with a resounding "no," he furrowed his unibrow at me, stomped his little feet and proclaimed, "today was a bad day."  Really?  I never would've noticed ...

Everything You Should Know About Kids, But No One Bothers to Tell You

Everything you should know about kids ...

• Whoever coined the term “sleeps like a baby” to mean deep, restful sleep probably never had children. Sleeping babies are the most unrestful beings you will ever witness. Not only do they wake up every few hours to eat, but while they are actually sleeping, they: flail their arms (sometimes hitting themselves in the face and waking themselves up); they twist and turn; they whimper cry; and they pee and poop.
• The “Terrible Twos” last from 18 months until 18 years.
• A two year old will refuse to eat anything you make, but if Grandma makes it, it’s going down without a fight.
• At some point in his life, your son will want to be a princess for Halloween.
• All young kids are fascinated by poop.
• A three-, and even a four, -year-old does not mind spending the day with a piece of crap stuck to his bottom.
• Speaking of which, before your child turns 3, make sure you buy stock in Fruit of the Loom. I cannot tell you the number of briefs that went straight from my son’s bottom into the trash can.
• You will understand every single word that comes out of your two-year-old’s mouth, even when it sounds like complete gobbly-gook to everyone else.
• "Home Decor" to children means figuring out where to stick the boogers: the wall or the ceiling. Bunk beds are perfect for ceiling-booger decor.
• Once the kid comes out, your body fat migrates to parts of your body where you didn’t think fat could exist. I have back fat now. Enough said.
• The skin literally falls off your nipples within three weeks of starting to breastfeed your bundle of joy. Oh, and by the way, that hurts. A lot.
• After feeding a child with your breasts, you will never look at them the same way again. (Your navel will be able to look directly at them, but you won’t. Never. Again.)
• Talking about breasts, you might want to refrain from telling a four-year-old what breasts are really for. That is unless you don’t mind him screaming in the middle of A&P, “Mommy, why can’t I drink milk from your breasts anymore???”

Despite all of the above, you will love your child(ren) more than life itself. You love them so much, it’s actually scary. So maybe, just maybe, it makes it all worthwhile. :-)

Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger .....

It was a beautiful Spring day. I was working at a firm on 55th and Madison at the time. It was lunch time and I had run out to pick up an order that I'd placed at Burger Heaven on Madison Avenue at 49th Street. I was doing mostly appeals by then, and the case I had left on my desk was weighing heavily on my mind: the documents had to be compiled; and our argument at the lower level hadn't been successful. How could I state our case differently this time around?

I got my food and started to walk back uptown on Madison, going with the flow of traffic. Madison Avenue is a busy street and it was taking a while for the light to turn. I kept walking, turning every now and again to see if there was a gap in traffic where I could dash across the street.

Unbeknownst to me, an older white woman was tracking my progress. And she had convinced herself that I was following her. She was nervous, expecting my every move to turn into an ambush. Oblivious to her fear, I walked and stopped, walked and stopped. Finally, a break in the traffic and I prepared to sprint. Her sudden movement stopped me; she twirled around and pointed a long bony finger at me.

"Stop following me!" She yelled as loudly as she could muster. (I'm sure she must've read that in a self-defense book somewhere.) I froze. A million thoughts zoomed through my head. Was she talking to me? I turned my head to see if there was anyone else close by. Nope, just me. She was most definitely talking to me. Alrighty, then. I figured she was a nut. This was New York City after all. I started to walk again -- I was simply going to ignore her.

"Why are you all always following me??! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!"

I lost count of the number of "niggers" that fell out of that woman's mouth. I was absolutely rooted to the spot. I couldn't make myself move. The anger coursed through my veins. I wanted nothing more than to back-slap the old hag. As soon as my self-imposed paralysis lifted, I think I actually took a step or two in her direction. But then I stopped myself. Whatever had happened to this woman, whatever she had been taught, that had brought about such an irrational hatred of Black people, was not going to be helped by my becoming violent with her or even by telling her a few choice words. So I did the only thing I could -- I walked away from her. Even knowing as I did, that she would think she had been "triumphant" in her face-down with a bonafide Negro who was trying to rob her.

In hindsight, I realize that my anger at that woman's outburst didn't arise because of her bigotry. I am Black and Hispanic; I have faced racism before. It was because, for that one moment in time, I felt like I fit in. There I was, working at a prominent firm, my kinky hair relaxed into submission, wearing my Brooks Brothers suit. And all that woman could see was a thieving nigger. Go figure.

Transparency

I created this blog for two reasons: (1) as someone who loves to write, I knew that committing to posting two or more times a week on the blog would help me to hone my craft; and (2) I wanted more transparency in my life.

Those who know me know that I am a stoic. I keep everything close to the vest. Whether I am ecstatic or miserable, I maintain pretty much the same demeanor. As such, I am difficult to read. In deciding to write about my life, I have opened a door that remained closed to most people I know.

Before writing, I spoke with my oldest sister -- my sage, whom I often consult with -- and her advice was to be true to myself. She said "no one ever accomplished anything great by playing it safe." Wiser words have never been spoken.

I realize that some may not like what I have to say, the conclusions I reach, or the memories I recall. The disclaimer is that I write my truth. Although those close to me may be reflected in the mirror of my writing, I seek to reveal me, no one else.

ruMIRNAtions is not meant to be confessional, but it will be personal, and always transparent.

The Love of Money

Many people have family karmas that they spend their lives working through.  Some have a history of abuse that plagues them throughout their lives.  Others have good karma like excellent business acumen.  My family karma has to do with its relationship to money.

My whole life, I've heard stories about my grandmothers (on both sides) struggling mightily to survive financially.  Both had been abandoned by their respective husbands with children to feed.  In her quest to find another breadwinner, my maternal grandmother fell indiscriminately into the arms of other men.  One of my aunts tells the story of being about 13 years old and having one of her putative stepfathers try to rape her.  My paternal grandmother, who fancied herself still in love with the bastard who left her, relied on the kindness of relatives to put food on her table.  In both of my parents' cases, they had to leave school while still at the elementary level in order to go to work.  Those early years left an indelible imprint on my parents' financial psyche.

There are two things I remember most about my own childhood:  (1) being encouraged to excel educationally so that I would never have to rely on a man financially; and (2) my parents having money, but refusing to spend it (sometimes, even on basic necessities). 

I know that my parents had money:  

• They both worked and they prided themselves on the amount of money they each had in the bank (in separate accounts).  
  
• Whenever a relative needed a visa to come from Honduras, the family looked to my parents to provide the Affidavit of Support and proof of money in the bank.  
  
• Every once in a while, my dad would take some of his cash and spend it on some electronic gadget.  We were the first family I knew who had a remote control television.  We were also the first to get a VCR and a large screen t.v.  
  
• My mother preferred to spend her days off shopping.  She hit all the bargain basements (back then Spring Street, in what is now known as SoHo, was a hot spot, as were 14th and 34th Streets).  For groceries, we would go to Washington Heights, where all the ethnic foods we ate were sold for cheap.  
• The four of us went to catholic school, whereas most of the kids in our neighborhood went to public school (that gave my parents bragging rights). 
• Every weekend, some relative or friend was over asking to borrow money.

Despite all this "abundance," my starkest memories arise out of what I can only describe as my parents' cheapness.  I remember walking for blocks in bitter cold without gloves and without a proper winter coat; the walking because my mother did not want to pay bus fare for all of us and the cold because she didn't think it a priority to provide us with gloves or thermal underwear or even sweatshirts.  We each had one pair of shoes that took us from Summer through Winter.  She did not believe in buying sneakers and rarely did we have Winter boots (unless she found them on sale).  I remember walking to school in the heart of Winter in a short jacket and my uniform jumper, my legs bumpy and ashy from the cold because I didn't have a single pair of tights.  The nuns, thinking that we couldn't afford to buy more appropriate clothing, would sometimes give us clothes that had been donated to charity.  My father gave/gives gifts only at Christmas -- birthdays come and go without so much as a token.  I also remember being short $1,000 for my last year's tuition at college and, with trembling knees and downcast eyes, asking my father for a loan.  ... And having him say "no" with a smug expression on his face and walking away from me.  Then giving the same $1,000 to my uncle so he could go on vacation to Honduras.  I recall my mother stuffing her wide feet into shoes many sizes too small and definitely too narrow, because that is what she said she could afford.  That effected me so much that the first thing I did upon collecting my first paycheck as a lawyer was to take her to Bloomingdales and buy her a pair of shoes that fit.  In my mind's eye, I can still see my father's station wagon, so old and worn that there were areas by the back seat where there was no floor.  You could never take a nap for fear that you would accidentally fall into the hole.

Yet, whenever we went someplace where any of my parents' family or friends would see us, they took care to dress us to the nines.  We had matching outfits for just such occasions; we looked like members of a musical group.  

Over the years, I have struggled with the dichotomy of my family karma.  I love money and loathe it all at the same time.  I work hard to be financially successful, but do not want my family to base my "worth" as a person on my net worth.  I love my mother, but I hate it when she gives me kisses after I've handed her a wad of cash, where she doesn't bestow kisses for any other reason.  It bothers me that every outing with my family is marred by discussions about how much money they gave this relative or that relative to assist in some financial crisis; or more likely, it is usually how much such relative needed or asked for and my family refused to give.  It annoys me when our family gets together and the only thing my relatives can talk about is how much I make or that sibling makes -- the implication being that we, as "professionals," are somehow better than those who may not command our salaries.  I am but a lawyer, not Donald Trump.  I still have bills to pay and a family to support.

So I keep reading books.  I keep meditating and praying.  And I keep hoping, hoping, hoping that one day I will break free -- once and for all -- of the financial drama, the scarcity mentality, and the family karma that has shadowed me until now.

  

The Stepmom Diaries

I was never the type of person who liked kids.  Even as a child, I preferred the company of adults.  So imagine my surprise when I found myself in love with someone who already had children.  When I met Big Bren at 28, the most experience I'd had with children was babysitting my nephews.  Although I adored them, I literally threw up every time I had to change a poopy diaper (yes, every single time).  I often couldn't wait to deposit the noisy, pooping, snot-nosed little buggers back in their mother's arms.

When Big Bren and I were dating, my exposure to his children was limited.  He had them on weekends, but being a successful modern woman, I often had other things to do and seldomly shared the same space with them for a prolonged period of time.  Whether by design or coincidence, any time I spent with the kids was crammed full of activity and all meals were taken outside.  

Somehow, in the excitement of being in love, I never actually realized that the children were part and parcel of the Big Bren package.  Oh, it sounds silly now, but it's true.  It seemed that as soon as we got married, the children were around all the time.  For someone who had been living the single life for so long, it came as a culture shock to suddenly have no privacy, no time for myself and -- most importantly -- no peace and quiet.  And although some children are fairly self-sufficient, my step-children had to be waited on hand and foot.  They didn't (and still don't) feed themselves; whatever room they inhabit, they leave a mess in their wake.  They pour huge glasses of juice/water/milk, take a sip and leave it there.  At the end of the weekend, every room is riddled with half-empty glasses.  I thought I'd be smart and buy juice boxes. Now, it's the juice boxes that appear under the bed, on the dressers, on the counters and in the hampers.  Although they are good children, they are horribly undisciplined.  No matter what activity Big Bren had planned for them, they'd head straight for the television and stay there until they fell asleep -- with the lights on and still in their street clothes.  Weekdays were/are devoted to work and on weekends, the children commanded (and got) most of Big Bren's attention.  I felt like I was getting the dregs of my husband's time and love; not to mention the fact that I had been relegated to not just stepmother status, but to servitude.  Add to the mix the children's psychotic, money-hungry mother and, needless to say, I was not a happy camper. 

Big Bren and I have been together for almost 10 years now.  I would love to say that everything worked itself out and that we are now one big happy family; but I'd be lying to you.  Some things are easier now, but every day is still a challenge.  

The children's mother is still psychotic; she is the only woman I know who will leave crying, screaming, angry voicemails if you treat her children well.  Yes, you read that correctly.  She gets more upset if I take the children to the mall or to the movies and we have a good time, than if I am nagging at them the whole weekend.

For Big Bren, one of the biggest difficulties has been balancing the relationship he has with Brendan -- who has him day in and day out -- with the relationship he has with his other children.  Another difficulty has been realizing that although I am his wife, I am not his children's mother.  I do not have the infinite well of patience that their mother would.  Yet another thing he cannot comprehend is that I am not the maid; I have other things to do beside wash dishes the whole day or cook or pick up half-empty glasses or do laundry or clean the bathroom.

As for me, I still struggle.  I struggle with territoriality and allowing them into my personal space.  I value time alone and get cranky when I feel like people are crowding me.  Space, time and quiet are precious commodities that are hard to come by around here.  I value my own sense of order.  I put things in particular places so I can find them when I look for them -- a lost cause with three children.  I value equality; I don't understand why the Psycho gets so much in child support, which, in essence, takes away from Brendan and puts a hefty burden on me.  

I admire Big Bren for doing what he's doing.  There are so many absentee fathers out there; it would be easy for him to send a check and check out emotionally.  Yet, he makes a conscious decision every day to be a part of his children's lives.  Regardless of how things turn out on the relationship front, that is something he can be proud of.