Sometimes

We want to believe in people who have no desire for our faith.

We want to love people who do not want our love.

We want to embrace people who recoil from our touch.

We want to behold people that want to disappear from us.

And, when faced with that harsh reality, we can do little more than let go, accept it, and keep it moving.

I’ve been on the emotional roller coaster lately, partially because that letting go shit is hard as a muthafucka.  Especially when you feel that there was something at least based on the foundation of friendship.  When that slips from you, it kind of feels like you’re losing twice.

And it hurts.  It all fucking hurts.  The confusion hurts.  The silence hurts.  The unanswered questions hurt.

Sucks much, but, c’est la vie.

Pigtails, security blankets and…merciless beatings?

I’m a tough mom.  In this day and age, whether you’re a single parent or not, you have to be.  I make no bones about the fact that if Finge and Ladybug act a fool, I will get in that ass.  Yet, there is no doubt that I do what i do because I want them to be well mannered and successful.  My kids will be the first to tell you that I don’t play.  To be frank, if that keeps them out of trouble until they have reached the maturity to see the much bigger picture of the whys and wherefores, I’ll take it.  I’m not going to be one of those parents whose inaction leads to them seeing their child in a jail cell or worse.

HOWEVER, children were made to be loved.  Before a person makes the decision to be a parent, there are some questions they really must ask themselves.  Renee Bowman did not ask those questions.

Her seven year-old adopted daughter was found roaming her Lusby, Maryland neighborhood, after having escaped her home through a second floor window.  According to a neighbor, she was bruised from head to toe.  According the the authorities, Bowman herself admitted to beating her with a hard heeled shoe.  As though this were not horriffic enough, a search of Bowman’s home yielded the discovery of the bodies of two other children in a freezer.  Bowman said the bodies of the dead girls had been there since February.

Bowman adopted the girls from the District, then lived in Rockville before moving to Lusby, which is in Calvert County.  There was no record of the girls being enrolled in school in Rockville’s Montgomery County, or Calvert County.  A neighbor reported the girls as missing, and was given some variation timeless speech when one expresses concern about a child to an over-burdened system, “We’ll look into it.”

Now, two girls have to thaw before the coroner can even determine what happened to them.  The surviving girl will have to undergo YEARS of intense therapy, lest this cycle of violence be repeated.  I dare not mention her being at risk for the spectrum of self abuse that she may engage in because she did not receive the requisite nurturing desperately needed by a young girl her age.

Bowman wasn’t some hard luck story that suddenly found herself coping with three children.  She deliberately brought these children into her home, under the guise of providing a better life for them.  The young girl was found with lesions, restraint marks, and open sores all over her body.  This is not the action of a woman who snapped.  Not even the action of discipline gone too far.  (There is NO reason for restraints to be used when disciplining a child.)

I have a seven year-old daughter, and the horror that she would have to experience to get the gumption to jump from a second story window turns my stomach. I become sad when I even have to fuss at Bug.

I don’t know what people expect when they walk the road of parenting.  it is WORK.  HARD WORK.  There are days when being a mother, a sane mother, is one of the hardest things I have ever done.  But, people, that’s the job.  Parenting goes beyond creating a mini-you and putting them in cute clothes.  It goes beyond furthering your legacy.  It is incumbent upon every parent to mold someone who can be a powerful and positive force in this world.

Our future can’t be allowed to slip through the cracks.

Ugh

It’s 2:38, and I’m awake.  I hate when that happens.  Pretty much every night, around this time, I get up for some inexplicable reason.  Since writing has pretty much taken over all of my free time, I end up either blogging or writing in my journal.  I’ve tried watching porn, but it really doesn’t do it for me these days.  I’m sure this is only temporary, but you have no idea how irritating the ability to rub one out can be.  I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I’m thinking (hoping) that once I’m published, I’ll be a little less keyed up.  Being a surly xantippe is not the move.  I also don’t want some dude telling me how over the course of 90 minutes, he can solve all my problems with his penis.*

It’s Monday, and though last week was hellacious, it was so for the purpose of getting two of my bosses out of the country.  Mission accomplished, so I should be able to occasionally hear myself think.  The plan is to revamp my desk entirely, so that when i do have to pack up and move offices next year, it will be a smooth transition.  I plan on being out of the office during the big move.

I think I’m slipping into slumberland…finally.

just b

*I pray for those who don’t get this “Family Guy” reference.

Celebration of My Soup Coolers

Can I just say that my lips are pretty much, what we may refer to colloquially as, “the bomb.”  I remember being 13 (for some reason, this was my year as a teenage hottie), and one of my classmates opined exactly what my lips were meant for.  I was as uncomfortable with that as i was with the rest of my body (I did my best to hide my adolescent C cups until senior year).  I had somehow convinced myself that everything about me was vulgar, so I hid as much of myself as possible.  I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup until I was 16, and even then, if I wasn’t with my parents, I wore very pale shades.  It was as though i feared the power of my own (yet untapped) sexuality.

Then one day, I decided to get my face done at the makeup counter for shits and giggles.  When she went for the bold lipstick, I stopped her. I asked for something paler, softer.  “More, natural.”

“Well, honey, what kind of makeup artist would I be if I didn’t play up your best feature?”  I acquiesced and allowed her to apply the faintly scented creme to my lips, and looked in the mirror.  My lips looked like satin bed sheets, only twice as bold and inviting.  A few guys entered the mall as she applied the finishing touches, and one walked directly into a pole.  I stepped, nay floated, off the chair with an extra strut in my step, my head held high, fierce as hell.

it was no coincidence that i floated out of the mall that day with my first push-up bra and pair of daisy dukes.

The moral of this story?

Fuck what ya heard.  I’m the shit.

The keeper of shit and other stuff

I’m up eeeeeaaaaarrrrrlllllyyyyy on a Sunday morning after consuming good food and Coronas (Coronae?) – good times, good times. I’m taking a break from finishing this story.  It has to be postmarked by October 1st, and I do NOT want to leave anything to chance, So the goal is to have it in the mail tomorrow.

Finge got his mohawk yesterday.  He looks SOOOOOOO cute.  I’ve said that like 19 times, and I’ve been told that your mom gushing over your mohawk takes away from the cool factor.  Being a woman in the barber shop is always such a funny feeling.  I can’t explain it.  Everybody there is really nice, he’s geen going there for a while, so they know me.  I just feel as though I’m trespassing into “Man World.”

Birthdays are on the horizing.  Finge turns ten (jeez) and I turn 32 (wtf?).  I’ve got a lot of good qualities; cute and clever party planning is not exactly my forte.  I’ve pretty much settled on a venue for myself.  However, WHYYYYYYYYYYY will Finge’s party cost damn near the same as mine.

I also need to find a personal trainer, because I plan on dropping 15 pounds by my birthday and, ahem, a more by my reunion.  it’s one thing for classmates to see me, uh, plush, on the streets; reunion is different.  I’m already down four (if I didn’t undo my hard work)  Plus, I’m doing the breast cancer walk in a few weeks, and though I don’t expect to hear “Eye of the Tiger” playing whle I’m walking (not a run), but I don’t want to be four steps from death when I’m finished.

Yesterday was so comedic, from beginning to end, I’m convinced that my life is an elaborate practical joke, and there’s a cash prize at the end.  Honestly, if the cash prize is big enough, I can’t say I would be mad.  People around me are still sort of losing their shit, meaning that I can’t lose mine.  It’s actually gotten to the point that losing my shit doesn’t interest me, because it’s not at all profitable.  Nothing comes from me turning into an emotional pile of mush.  All the things that I thought I would never stop crying over (or thought I would begin to cry over) I really don’t have any tears left for any of that. There’s something serene about knowing that, come hell or high water, you are going to reach your goal.

2009, Imma be published bitches.

“For Colored Girls…”

Beat down.  That’s this chicktoday.  I don’t think I’ve heard my name at all today without a request chaser (B, would you mind…?)  When I walked through the door at 10 o-freakin-clock, I heard every singe song for down-trodden black family and/or woman.  It started with Oooh Child,” followed by “Baby Mama” and went on from there.  I thought it was cute that I called my younger sister, and she had Alicia Keys’ “Superwoman” as my ring and call tone.

When I finally sat down, my feet felt as though I had spent th entire day walking on glass.  It had me thinking about the last time I got a really good foot rub.  It’s been so long, I can’t remember.  it seems, however, that I’m getting sprinkled with some pixie dust.  There is a whole lot more for me to say, but my eyelids are too heavy. nite world.

just b