Karen's Journey

I should be writing a post about Trayvon Martin or about how people tell me I should stop seeing the color of my child's skin or maybe about the relative who freely admits to using the N-word, claiming it can't possibly hurt anyone because it's just a word and words are that whole sticks and stones thing. But I'm kind of busy right now. I'm training for another triathlon. A sprint triathlon, but it's got an 18-mile bike ride in it, and that stretches the boundaries of "sprint" in my opinion. I know someone doing a middle distance tri, and that bike ride is only six miles longer. I did a triathlon two years ago, then couldn't last summer because of my knee injuries -- took out both knees by gardening -- that's how it goes post-50. And I think when I signed up for this tri, there was some amnesia about the amount of time that goes into training for one of these things. Baby Sis and me sporting our finisher medals two years ago.   I...

I'm processing facts and emotions around the fact that there was no justice for Trayvon Martin. I've been having Facebook conversations with people and have decided I need to take it off Facebook and put it all down here. With a child recuperating from the double whammy of a sprained ankle (icing three times a day) and bronchial pneumonia (nebulizing three times a day), and the fact that my clients will all be back at work tomorrow -- wanting their stuff delivered NOW -- after a week at an industry conference, I don't know when I will have time to put coherent thoughts to cyberspace. But in the meantime,  here is an important link  for white Moms of black children. We should not have to teach our sons how to survive black maleness in America -- those days should be long over. But the sad reality is that they are not and we do. So many thoughts swirling around. But now I have to remember what meds T needs now for which condition. And then cuddle with him and tell him h...

Yesterday when I picked T up at daycare, he was limping. He said he had fallen on his field trip to the lake and he seemed mostly concerned about some seemingly invisible scratches on his knee. And oh, as an aside, his ankle hurt. He had told no child care workers about the accident -- shocker -- and they didn't notice until I was commenting on it. So my presumption was that the limping started when I showed up. He has limped for effect in the past, so I pretty much ignored it, thinking once he forgot about it, it would go away. There's a history. When he was still limping when Hubs got home, I decided it was maybe more serious than I had initially thought. I pulled off both shoes and socks and compared ankles. And headed straight for the ice. Note to others: the most effective method of icing an ankle, it turns out, is a bucket of ice water. Twenty minutes on, two hours off. Repeat. Live and learn. I used a soft ice pack, 10 minutes on, 10 minutes off. Better than nothing...

T has been out of daycare for three days due to a bad cold. He returned today. Trust me, I was ready for him to go back. He spent the entire day yesterday trying to pick fights with me. Mostly he didn't succeed, but he's so singularly focused on it, that yes, sometimes he does get to me. It's like nails on a chalkboard. Eventually you crack. Today I left home at 4:15 to pick him up. Here are our interactions: 4:20 -- arrive at daycare. T unpacks both backpacks and proceeds to attempt to carry all contents home. I tell him to put everything that needs to travel home in one backpack and leave all that can stay at daycare in the "stay at daycare backpack." He fusses and whines. That is a completely unreasonable request as far as he's concerned. I step in and just do it for him. I don't want to spend the next half  hour there arguing with him about how he can accomplish this should-be-easy-for-a-second-grader task. Argument #1 4:30 -- Leaving daycare....

I am the mother of a black child. A child who some people in our larger culture describe with a term that dates back to the slave days. I was off-grid when this Paula Deen thing broke, so I haven't heard or read everything about the story. But this I know. She used an inappropriate term to refer to a person of color and then initially appeared unapologetic, stating something along the lines of "it's not up to me to determine what might or might not offend someone." Let's be clear. The N-word is offensive. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to determine or not determine that. Her comments and celebrity keep racism alive. The only way to eliminate the culture of privilege that Paula Deen seems to be so clueless about is to bring it into the light and name it, even at the risk of alienating others. I owe this to my son. So here goes: She is NOT deserving of "support." Our circle of friends and family, nuclear and extended, should be a safe space ...

Dysregulation is: Walking in repetitive circles (it used to be spinning in place). The Popeye face. That Look in his eyes. No one else sees it, but it screams "Brain out of control," to me. Running away from Mommy hugs. Deliberately showing affection appropriate for Mommy to the bigger-than-Mommy sisters. Refusing to say "I love you" as he leaves for school and then asking when he gets home if that hurt my feelings. Disrespectful talk -- such as placing three (count 'em, three) water bottles on the counter and saying, "Happy washing," as he walks away. Calling me by my given name instead of "Mom" or "Mommy." Wanting to write Daddy's given name on his Father's Day card instead of "Dad" or "Daddy." Asking nonsense questions like, "Can I go wading in that swamp?" and then following up my "No" answer with an even more nonsensical, "Why?" Note: he's not really looki...

I try to give T affirmations every night. It's the one therapeutic parenting technique I'm pretty good at. "You are a very good boy." Or, "You're a great kid!" Or, "You are my best heart." I stole that one from him. Last night I said, "You are my best boy." "You are my best mommy," he whispered back. Words like those make me cringe inside. "What about your mommy in Ethiopia?" I think. "How can I be your best mommy when I am your Plan B? When you have a mommy in Ethiopia (we think) who loves you and cared for you and did the best she could for you and screamed when they took you away? "I am the mommy you got stuck with, not the mommy who gave you life and who you loved with all your heart for your first four years, but you don't think much about now because when you do it makes you sad and angry -- and sad and angry makes you scared and scared means you might not survive -- so you just ...