1-800-ABCDEFG

So I'm sitting at my computer yesterday when my daughter thrusts her ABC book into my stomach cavity and produces a series of grunts and velociraptor sounds which, in her language, means, Read this before I throw this Elmo phone through the flat screen TV!

So I proceed to open the book and she quickly flips through the pages, not letting me read any, so that she can get to the alphabet chart in the back. She points to the letter A and says, Ay! I almost had a damn heart attack. It's like the lottery, every parent hopes they win a genius child. Not just a smart kid, anybody can have one of those, but to actually have a fourteen month old who can read...I can just see people holding banquets in my honor, like...how did you do it?

I must've scared the poor baby half to death yelling out, YES, YES that is an A. What's this one? She jumped back, dropped the book and her eyes started watering up. While I'm trying to calm her down and reassure that she didn't do anything wrong, I'm also breaking out my phone so that I can record it and put it on Youtube. (Good Morning America, here we come!)

So, the camera's rolling, I pick up the book and we go at it again. She points at the first letter and says, Ay!
(My baby's a genius).

Then she points to the H and says, Ay!
(Phonetically, H starts off sounding just like A. As in Ay-CH. She's one, so maybe she just says it like that.)

Then she points to the N and says, Ay!
(...)

She looks up at me with so much hope, like all of her future self esteem is riding on me reacting the same way as I did the first time. The little people who live in my head and tell me what to do called an emergency meeting. Do I correct her and inadvertently crush her self esteem setting in motion a chain reaction that ends with her at "The Pole?" If I don't correct her will I be setting her up for a false sense of accomplishment that will eventually be stripped away on the first day of preschool when the kids laugh at her for not knowing her ABCs and thus leading to a life of crime and drugs that inevitably end at "The Pole?"

(I now know what it must feel like to be the President.)

I clapped, picked her up and gave her a big kiss.

You're so smart! How'd you get to be so smart? That is Ay...letter called N!

No One Man Should Have All That Power

Rumble, young man, rumble.
Life is a trip, so sometimes we gon' stumble
You gotta go through pain in order to become you
But once the world numbs you, you'll feel like it's only one you...
Do you have the power to get up out from up under you?

I've been listening to this song a lot lately. My childhood is unique in the sense that I was given a lot of freedom very early. As unbelievable as this sounds, my grandmother used to give me the choice of whether or not to go school each day...starting in kindergarten. I was basically the Black Little Man Tate. I filled out my own permission slips, signed my mother's name on those school registration forms each year and used to go through my grandmother's bills for her back in elementary school.

Now I'm not saying I had my finger on a nuclear button like the president, but that kind of freedom and power in the hands of a kid is a double edged sword. On the one hand, I became an adult around thirteen. On the other hand, I don't have the luxury of blaming any of my problems on anyone. I'm responsible for my successes and my failures. The latter is why I've been listening to Power (Remix) so much.

Do I have the power to get from up under myself?

I've never had to listen to anyone. There's never been a real authority figure. If I didn't like something, I just stopped associating myself with it. That went for friends, extracurricular activities, jobs and college. In a lot of ways, I'm a success story--at least for my demographic: No jail, no kids out of wedlock, went to school, you get the point. But that's not enough for me, at least not anymore.

I look in the mirror. My only opponent. (From another song

Some of my failures are the result of my not having to do anything I didn't like. I realize that sometimes you have to get out of your own way. I could sit and quote rap lyrics all day, but I'll just use one more to drive home my point.

Do you have the power to let power go?

Cheers!

Here's what I'm looking for:

[caption id="attachment_1143" align="aligncenter" width="483" caption="Technically, I'm not lying"][/caption]

Would it be wrong for me to buy a set of AA keychains off Ebay and carry them around? I'm 29 and I don't drink. That makes me a social leper to just about everyone I know. One of two things happen:

A) I'm not invited to any event because everyone assumes that just because I don't enjoy drinking, then I must have a moral problem with the concept of people drinking. (I don't)

B) I'm invited to stuff but introduced as the person who doesn't drink at which point The Church of Alcoholism sends out missionaries to explain to me that I just haven't found the right church home (drink). After turning down multiple requests to just try what I'm drinking, people secretly gather to discuss how they won't invite me to anything else because I'm no fun.

Sooooo... I propose something totally different. How about I get some AA keychains and show up to these parties, invited or not, and the minute someone asks me what I'm drinking I'll pull out my keys and tell them how I'm taking it one day at a time. That's not wrong, is it?

Is Marriage Outdated?

A friend of mine wrote a blog post questioning the Doing Me attitude of our generation. She referenced her grandparents 50-year marriage and how people no longer court or even seem to try to have any semblance of a monogamous relationship. To that I ask, Is marriage outdated?

Forget what you learn as a little kid about people reaching a point of love so intense that it explodes into the desire to change last names and buy matching rings. The origin of marriage is more deeply rooted in business than in amorous expression. Fathers set up marriages between their kids in exchange for dowries (money), treaties and to build relationships with other territories and nations. Now poor people got in on the act to stay afloat. Back then women were treated like shit so they fell under the authority of their new husband. Basically you kept his name going by having kids and you raised the kids.

Now, women go to college, they get real jobs and they put their nose to the grind everyday fighting to prove themselves equal with the men in their office who get paid more. That doesn't leave a lot of time for a family. I've been married eight years, take it from me, you put yourself second when you have a family. I think that this is why a lot of people have the Doing Me attitude. Basically, you still want sex and companionship, but none of the restrictions that come with it. I gotta say, I can't hate you for that. I was always the marrying type. I wanted a big family and I wanted to marry young. But not everyone is cut from the same cloth.

I think that if you can find someone who shares your ideals then go for it. What I do have an issue with is stringing someone along as if you reciprocate their desire for commitment. Also, I take issue with people who ignore the clear warning signs of such people. Perhaps before sex you should get together and write a mission statement, sign a promissory note or do something other than fall for the, He/She is a great person and after one date I just knew I'd found the one.

No, dumb ass!

I think I'll write a beginner's guide to avoiding being played. I don't have the time right now, but it's coming.

Sleep Is Forbidden

Days Since Last Full Night's Sleep:  675
Days Until Next Full Night's Sleep: Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number, hang up and try again.

The last time I got a good night's sleep was in 2009. It's sad when you think about it, especially considering that the baby wasn't born until summer of 2010. What can I tell you, pregnancy sucks. I'm sure it sucks for women, but if you're a halfway decent man then it sucks for you too. I went from sleeping in a queen bed to sleeping on the edge of the queen's bed, to trying not to get scoliosis laying on the couch.

What happens after reading that Dollar Store pregnancy test is different for each man. When I saw that dollar sign and sad face pop up on the test, I was elated. Still, I didn't sleep after that. That test is the beginning of a countdown timer.

Nine Months To Get Your Shit Together

I spent most waking moments either at doctor visits, work, tilling the land and picking cotton for my pregnant master or just up on the internet trying to learn whatever I didn't know: Crib recalls, ergonomic strollers, which car seat could survive a plane crash. Then of course the mommy websites introduced fear that would send me into a state of panic: Lead paint in toys, the government's sinister plot to vaccinate children, Al-Qaeda's plan to use Froot Loops and Frosted Flakes to make our kids fat. It was too much.

You're having a baby girl!

Any possibility of sleep died once the doctor told us that.

Matrix mode (activated):      Learn Kung-Fu and how to use various firearms.
Lawyer mode (activated):     What state and federal laws allow me to assault a teenage boy on my property?
Therapist mode (activated): How many hugs will your daughter need to avoid becoming the girls you met in college?

And all of that was just the pregnancy. Once the baby got here, it was like living out the movie Inception. Am I asleep or awake? I never had to get up in the middle of the night because my daughter never went to sleep. If she did then it was just a quick power nap for ten or fifteen minutes. That gave us, the stagehands, just enough time to wash out bottles, empty the Diaper Genie and set everything back up for her next show. You're not officially a parent until you've fallen asleep and had a dream that you were still awake (watching the baby) and then woke up scared wondering where you put the baby.

Happy Birthday to you...you're one years old!

You still don't sleep. You used to wake up to make sure the baby was still breathing and that no stuffed animal climbed back into the crib to block her airway. Now you wake up because the baby's jumping up and down in the crib, running wind sprints from one end to the other and throwing projectiles at you trying to wake you up at three in the morning because she wants to play.

Even on those lazy Sunday afternoons where I catch a quick nap on the couch, I find myself defibrillated back to life by an Elmo Cell Phone cracked across my forehead or eight little gremlin teeth biting my nose.

Just lay there and she'll go way. Don't move, don't flinch. The T-Rex can't see you if you don't move.

That's when she takes her little finger and lifts my eyelid up. This won't last forever. I probably won't sleep during the high school years. I can't. Someone's gotta sit on the porch with the shotgun when the little boys come knocking. But eventually she'll go to college and start her own life. But even then I'll probably wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, hoping to God that I gave her enough hugs.

Confetti

September 11, 2001

What can I possibly say about 9/11 that hasn't been said already? The TV keeps showing programs about it, the bumpers in between commercials say America Remembers as if any of us can forget, and almost every day for last ten years politicians have used it as a talking point for some agenda--good or bad.

I watched something yesterday where one of the survivors of the World Trade Center said that, when people at work complain about their jobs, and then ask him why he smiles so much, he tells them, Any day that I come to work and a plane isn't flying into my building is a good day.

That's what I want to write about.

I've watched the footage from that day a million times since then. When the first plane hits, you see the explosion and then a bunch of papers falling to the ground. The same goes for the second plane: Explosion, papers raining down. When both towers collapsed, amid the dust and ash was a lot of papers--completely intact--raining down like confetti. I'm sure some of them were faxes. Some were memos. Others were employee records. Time cards. Legal documents. Termination letters.

Not to get overly poetic here, but something tragic happened to cause all of those papers to go flying. Each time a piece of paper left a desk or a file cabinet or a briefcase to begin its descent toward the ground, it was set in motion by the same force that ended the lives of the very people who probably dedicated so much of their time and energy to the contents on those pieces of paper. Faxes. Memos. Employee records. Time cards. Legal documents. Termination letters.

Every year since 9/11 there have been stories published about how the country has changed, how the people's opinions on foreign affairs have changed and how the world, in general, has changed, but I haven't seen anything that asks how our views towards life itself have changed. I want to read that story.

Community Service

[caption id="attachment_1081" align="aligncenter" width="620" caption="Just what Dr. King would've wanted, a mani-pedi"][/caption]

Now I'm not one to knock anybody's hustle but...

GIVING BACK TO THE COMMUNITY SPECIAL


Really?

I know this neighborhood pretty well. I didn't live too far from here. I remember back when I was in high school, a guy shot a girl in the face because she gave him a fake number at the bus stop. The area is a little bit better. Now imagine that kind of neighborhood and tell me where a $15 manicure fits into your idea of helping out the community.

You know what? I'm gonna stand up out of my hatin' chair and try to see this from a different perspective. Maybe somebody has a job interview coming up. I'm sure there's a gentleman's club still hiring in this recession. I think an eyelash extension and maybe a resume printed on some scented bond paper might go a long way in getting someone a job.

And wait, is that a Cricket Mobile banner in the far right? The job's gonna need a way to reach you, right?

Power to the people!

 

 

Highlight Reel

I took my daughter to Story Time at the local library. Basically a bunch of toddlers sit in a room and the poor indentured servant (librarian) attempts to read them stories. Eventually she gives up and resorts to singing songs. My daughter showed her ass.

She ran out the room about fifteen times. When she wasn't doing that, she was walking around the room playing duck, duck, goose by herself and when it was time to go home she capped off the morning by throwing a tantrum and falling out on the floor.

I just stood there dumbfounded because she'd never done that before. Being the only Black person in there, I felt torn because so many people joke about White parents being too lenient. I felt like it was my duty to go Roots on my daughter, but that's not really my style. Usually a good bass-filled STOP gets her back in line, but I was kind of concerned that I'd be viewed as just another loud angry Black person yelling at their poor neglected child.

I could see the anticipation in everyone's eyes as they eagerly awaited my next move. I let my daughter win that round. I played to my audience and, in my most sell-out voice, I told her that she was so sleepy, and shouldn't yell so loudly in the library. I gave her a big hug and kiss to which my daughter took a quick break from her performance to stare at me confused like, Who the hell are you? Capitalizing on the moment, she went into an even bigger tantrum as we left the library.

On the walk home, I found myself preparing for the ass-whooping that was to come. It was like a quarterback reviewing the tape of his upcoming opponent's previous game. Last time the spanking wasn't as effective because I went left with it, when I should've gone right. She's gonna utilize the couch to get away from me and I have to shut down that lane.

By the time we got home, she was asleep and I was too tired. I'll get you next time Gadget, next time!

Come and Play, Everything's A-Okay

Going into Toys R Us with a child is a stupid decision in and of itself, but when you're a stay at home parent and you need something, what are you gonna do? I tried my best to zip through aisles with the stroller shade down so my daughter couldn't see anything. I found what I was looking for and went on a quest to find a price scanner.

I honestly thought I was in the clear when I lifted the shade up. Normally the markdown seasonal stuff is in the section with the price scanner. It's the end of summer. There was supposed to be snorkels and water wings and blow-up pool toys...any of that stuff that my one year old is too young to recognize and go bat-shit crazy for.

But the devil's hands are always busy and some things were moved that should not have been there. I scanned the price and heard my daughter make that "oooh" sound. The one that usually comes right before she tries to grab a knife, electrical socket or drain cleaner. Basically, the sound that translates in my head as, "Oh shit, what do you see?" I turned around and saw...

[caption id="attachment_1071" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="This is what hell looks like"][/caption]

It was like looking over and seeing a velociraptor or something. It just crept up on me and by the time I saw it, it was too late. The next fifteen minutes were spent standing in line eyeballing every employee searching for the one who wouldn't make eye contact, because I knew that he was the asshole responsible for what was now the official soundtrack of Toys R Us: my daughter screaming at the top of her lungs because Elmo, Abby, Big Bird, Grover, Oscar and the rest of the Sesame Street residents cost too damn much.

Mission Failed.