Karen's Journey

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

On the way home from swimming lessons, T mentioned he'd seen someone on the playground who used to go to his old daycare. I asked him if it was Walking on Tables, and he said no. He then asked me, "Is Walking on Tables older than me?" "No," I said, unaware of the trap that was being set for me. "You two are the same age." "But Walking on Tables's birthday is January 5th!" he responded, clearly pleased with having "caught" me giving a "wrong" answer. I explained that the two of them are in the same grade, are both seven years old, and therefore are the same age. And that now I understood that his question was not a real question.  Brain drain has indeed made its return in this house. Sometimes he doesn't even finish asking one question before starting in on the next -- he is so intent on just asking questions for asking's sake. We've taken to announcing, "No more questions until we a