It's a struggle to get these thoughts out. I convinced myself I needed to write to get me going again. Since Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I've been feeling as if I've been in a daze. As if my body and mind has reached it's highest level of excitement and activity that it can't do anymore...at least not at this time. Still I have four more papers to complete before the close the of the semester, plus some editing and writing duties for the publication that is officially launching.. err ummm this week!!! (EEK!)

I didn't realize how busy and how truly drained I have been since August. From writing two to three papers just about every week, to writing creatively for Medina's class and even throwing in some journalism duties PLUS coming home to take care of whatever issues there, I should be half out my mind. Still I'm in tact. A long time ago this would have drowned me. I would have given in to defeat and sat on the sidelines, again prolonging my "college career." But a force stronger than me has kept me afloat. I've just lived up to my end as far as the work goes.

This year I didn't formulate any real thoughts on Thanksgiving. I was just thankful for the second year in a row that the "Ides of November" wasn't looming - death, depression, sickness, over blown drama - and I was able to spend Thanksgiving with the ones I love. The day after met me with an incredible body crash. I managed to get up early with the Snickerdoodle and give her breakfast and watch her favorite shows with her. However, for the most part I stayed on the couch with one eye on the Snickerdoodle as she played and another trying to talk me into a full fledge sleep. Stayed away from my computer and for the most part my Blackberry; though I did send and received a couple of text messages. I did get a couple of cat naps in, but once the Snickerdoodle was in bed for the night, I wasn't far behind.

I slept a deep, dreamless sleep. The best.

Saturday met me with such energy. I knew I still had work to complete, but the computer just didn't appeal to me. I didn't fret over it at all. I spent the day helping my father dig out Christmas decorations and few other items from the storage shed. I did find a few goodies that once belonged to me as a kid that I'm now giving to the Snickerdoodle.

Vintage c. 1980

So this red chair was wrapped up and towards the back of the storage shed. Apparently my grandfather gave this to me when I was about 2 or 3 years old. Of course I looked it and said the Snickerdoodle had to have this. She saw it and couldn't wait to sit in it.

Vintage c. 1980s

Then there was my "Dressy Bessy" doll; the doll that helps you understand how to zip, button, snap and tie. I think this was my favorite find for the Snickerdoodle. After I gave Bessy a good spin around the washing machine, to brighten her up, the Snickerdoodle hasn't been able to put her down. She loves this, which is a bit of shock to me. Usually the Snickerdoodle doesn't play with dolls at her. She's more for toys with actions and that makes noise. Then again, with Bessy there is action as you zip, snap, tie and button.

By the end of the day I was tired. My whole body ached. Energy was gone. I took a bubble bath and headed straight for the bed. I was nearing my deep sleep when the Snickerdoodle awoke in the middle of the night. For whatever reason she wasn't  trying to go back to sleep. She wasn't ill, but I knew she too was tired having a long day playing outside. Still she fought sleep and made space in my bed for her, her blankie, and Bessy. I made several attempts for her to go back to sleep, but none was working.

Sesame Street Presents - Follow that Bird

Soooooo.

We had an impromptu slumber party as we watched a couple of movies on OnDemand Shrek and Sesame Street's Follow That Bird (a classic from my generation when I was like... 5) The Snickerdoodle stayed up and watched both movies and still fought to go back to sleep. Nevertheless by 4:30 am she was too tired to fight and my body felt like it wanted to slap the crap out of me for not sleeping. Once I knew for sure the Snickerdoodle was sleep (in her own bed), I collapsed back into my bed, falling into a deep repose until the house phone rang around 8 am. Then my cell phone rang no later than that.

I hit ignore for both calls and went back to sleep.

My body and mind had grown just that tired. Even now.. as it's only inching towards 3:30 in the afternoon, my bed seems to be calling. Just one more day of sleep and I'll be ready to finish out the last week of classes and the next week of a final exam, plus the last two papers that are due. 

I'm in an artistic mood but not sure where to start. Ok... maybe I have an idea. I'm working on a creative writing project for my class with Medina. It's our Mid-term. The project is to take about 20 shots (pictures) and create a narrative from the pictures taken. I had so many ideas for this project, but each one foiled. Mainly I wanted to shoot pictures of my grandmother's move. Her life has been my muse lately. Unfortunately, the house she is moving to isn't quite ready yet. The move is postponed.

I pulled out my old (late 80's) Nikon 35mm. Not an automatic, but the professional kind. Back in the day I use to take shots, mainly in black and white, and developed the prints myself. I dabbled in and out of it as I attended different workshops and even on my own. I even went back into it in high school as I spent one school year taking pictures for the yearbook.  I looooove that Nikon better than any digital. For that I'm truly an "Analog Girl In a Digital World."

When my original idea foiled I pondered the idea of another upcoming event. My cousin "T's" fashion line debut. She held a private fashion show and party at the Studio Gallery in Dupont Circle, with invited family, guests and few press folks. It was a hit!! I have never been so proud of my cousin as I was Saturday. Literally, I was moved to tears (which I choked back - I couldn't let my eye makeup give me away).

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I managed to take much needed black and white shots and had them developed the next day. I'm shocked how interesting and nice they turned out; considering I'm still an amature at this and hadn't touched the Nikon in light years. I'm not even gonna get into how it took me a moment or two to figure out how to load the camera. Once I finished a roll I had to remember where the release button was located to allow me to roll the film back in the film canister before opening the back. After one wasted roll of film, a few out of focus pictures and a few pictures with off balance lighting, I forgot how the whole process gives me a rush! I went out and bought more black and white film for more pictures to take - for my own leisure, projects.

Aside from the picture taking A LOT has been placed on my plate and I'm still trying to find a balance in all of the madness. On one hand I love it, because I'm immersing myself in work that I love doing, but the flip side is.. trying my damn hardest not to succomb to my distractions and not neglecting those in my life who are very important and dear to me. Of course the biggest one of all...my daughter. 

I probably shouldn't worry too much about my Snickerdoodle, since she is in good hands while I'm drowning in reading material for classes, writing papers, writing and editing articles and whatever else I have going on. I get a sense that at two years old, my Snickerdoodle has some of my streak of independence. On one hand she's attached to me -she'll crawl in my bed in the middle of the night. However, she is quick to tell me "Buh Bye" - such as Sunday in church when I dropped her off in the in the children's Sunday school and she told me "bye" before I could rush back upstairs to the sanctuary.

So again.. I need not worry too much about the Snickerdoodle.  

But getting back to this artistic aura that has been around me lately.... It's funny. I had been crying about lack of inspiration and motivation and in the last month or so an abundance of what I've been lacking and crying out for has hit me.

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A couple of weeks ago Medina asked us to write a Creed, based on why do we write. I took some time to think about why do I write and tried to form it into a creed. Here's what I came up with.

"There's the gift, there's the spirit & there's the work. All three have to come together. If one of those things are off, it can stop you from becoming who you were meant to be" - Jay-Z Oct. 2009 issue of O Magazine

The Gift:

For it was bestowed upon me to carry a tradition. It’s by divine touch to have such a legacy flow through the blood line; from grandparents to grandchildren. This inheritance is rich with vivid imagery, a plush vocabulary and a background harmony singing lullabies helping to see and feel. For the mission is bigger than me and beyond my understanding. For the words entertain, heal, soothe, inspire, liberate, anger, teach, help and captivate.  The art of writing is one of power. I shall not take this lightly journalistically or creatively.

The Spirit:

The spirits of pure and evil are there. Yet it’s the pure that I seek and long to keep. For evil uses my voice, the gift, as a weapon sharper than any known to man. For I pray and pledge not to be led astray, to find friend or foe slain or arrested by my hidden weapon. May nothing but positive influence and true conviction bleed ink.

The Work:

It is understood that nothing is handed to me freely and without consequence. For I have received this gift and must make use of idle hands and idle time. For it takes more than just having the gift and letting the passion fester. Passion must be allowed to be the driver. For once it is allowed to drive falling in love with the craft and the tools are comprehensive. The work will deliver unto itself when passion is allowed to live aloud and able to drive.

Today I received an interesting surprise.

Upon logging onto Twitter, one of my follows posted a link to the online magazine Clutch. The article talks about turning 30, from a woman's point of view. I found it to be fitting or right on time for me this morning. Since Howard's graduation on Mother's Day weekend, I've been feeling a bit weird. Aside from what has been going with my grandmother, I have also had time to think about graduation and how pratically I'm at the point where I can say "This is it!."

Granted I'm not really a graduate just yet. I still have one more semester to go. However, this year I avoided graduation again, but saw the aftermath in lew of pictures online from classmates.

(side note: I did learn that my name was called during a graduation exercise for the school of communications. However, it is believed that was a mix up and really another person with my name that was called but spelled differently)

In the past, graduations have always brought feelings of depression. I felt like I had failed, simply because I let another year go by without finishing my undergrad. Actually the year that Oprah spoke (2006?) was the first time I didn't avoid graduation since attending the school. Her message spoke volumns (as if she should be a minister) as she talked about being motivated and staying motivated in doing what God has called you to do. Basically.. act on your calling, don't just sit on it. 

I didn't feel depressed this year. The end of the semester felt bittersweet. I felt sad because I actually was going to miss the bonds I created in such a short time over the semester. Granted this class is younger than me, but when we all worked together and shared that same passion for journalism I truly felt at home.. at peace. So as I looked at their pictures as they were dressed in smiles and in their cap and gown I got to wondering about my own fate... destiny... my life.

So in a matter of months I will be 30. One of the things I'm most anxious about is finally finishing something that I set out to do many moons ago; school. By my advisor's calculations I can either finish in December and walk in May with the class of 2010, for finish completely (internship and all) by May and be a 2010 graduate. Either way, by or AT 30 I will be done with undergrad.  I try my best not to look back on the "what ifs," but that's a hard thing to do. I can sit here and say I was suppose to be this, this and that by 30, but I honestly believe there is a reason or a hidden agenda behind me being 29, a single mom, still in school and even still living at home with my parents for right now.

I love how the Clutch article was written, because it seems that it was me; a female struggling to gain her peice of the "pie" while living out her dreams and God's plan for her. As in her article she mentions that she isn't going to act as if she is all "zen-like-at-peace" with her struggles, but she understands that there is a reason for it and that 30, is the time to tighten up, take hold, walk through and deal. No excuses. 

Funny thing is, I use to feel like I'm such ahead of my time, especially age wise, but I think it has finally caught up with me.

I am 29 going on 30.

Yet I'm still wondering what's next for me.

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Via Clutch Magazine.....

30 Rocks?

A thought came to me today that almost made me cry. But I sucked it up.

The thought: I need to take care of myself. No.. I need to take BETTER care of myself.

I'm not sure when I actually let the ball drop and just let it roll down the hill and out of sight. I know it was before motherhood. I suspect it was during my time of stress, when I couldn't deal and felt overwhelmed by a lot of things. True I can manage to pick myself up and polish myself off and step out looking grand, but it's only a temporary fix. Eventually I fall apart all over again.

I'm trying my best not to overspend or blow away what I've budgeted myself for since gaining the extra financial padding. Yet, something keeps nagging at me to treat myself to something nice, beyond the simple manicure and pedicure. I mean I did all the MAJOR stuff I wanted to do with the money. I got Snickerdoodle's furniture that is being delivered on Wednesday. I'm so psyched about it!

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Then just yesterday, I ordered my bed from Crate and Barrel. The bed I've been drooling over for the past FIVE years, but had no where to put it in my old bedroom. The good news with the bed; it was listed as an outlet price which was nearly $300 less than the original price. I ordered one of the last remaining three. It was actually taken off the website because it is being discontinued and I called to inquired about it.  Plus, originally I thought I qualified for free shipping, because of a special promo Crate and Barrel is having on furniture. I mentioned this to the sales rep and she gave me the free shipping. However, after the order was closed and I hung up the phone, I went back and re-read. The free shipping is only for those who order over $1500. Clearly my order is waaaaaaaaaaay below $1500. Nevertheless I just smiled, said "opps" and kept right on stepping.

The not so good news is, once the bed delivered I would have to set it up and not the delivery guys. Also, I still have to get a mattress and box spring for it. I wouldn't dare order one from Crate and Barrel. Still the good thing is, I'm not quite ready for it to be put together anyways, since my new/current bedroom is the last to be finished in this renovation mess. We're still transitioning to the different rooms and a lot of my mother's clothes and furniture is still in the room I am currently in. It's still unclear when her new furniture will be delivered for her bedroom.

So...a little more than half of the biggies are out the way. I figured I can worry about a dresser, nightstand and bookcase (all for my room) a bit later. My main concern was naturally to make sure the Snickerdoodle's room is complete. With that, a nagging voice in the back of my head is whispering and pushing me.. spoil yourself just a little bit. It's the same voice that's been forcing me to look at my hair. My natural real hair.

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My hair....

I avoid it like the plague. I hate to look at it. I hide it underneath wigs. My hair was once healthy. Thick and bit long. It's still thick but it looks tragic. I haven't had any chemicals in my hair in over seven years. Just before my stress levels hit a high I had lost some hair at the very crown of my head. Not bald, but two steps away from being a bald area. My stress and depression made the area worse and for a time hair didn't grow back. Somehow with the help of a combination of inconsistent beauty shop visits and my own two to three week regimine of washing and conditioning with a once in a blue moon hotcomb check to make the hair managable to comb, the area of lost hair grew back. I'm not too sure, but I have a feeling my pregnancy helped as well. Being pregnant just does all kinds of wonders to and for the body.

Then came today. Two years after baby and eight years after my major wave of stress and depression. I slipped off the head scarf and looked into the mirror. I felt around that central crown area at the top of my head. It's has if my hair is a forest, an endangered forest. Thick precious strands of hair are the rare and endangered trees. Trees that can stand tall and proud with the proper maintience. But my forest is missing a few trees. A few vital trees. The central crown area...flat. Nothing but crab grass (hair that equals to one inch or less) and earth (my scalp.)

 A lump formed in my throat, but I pushed it back down. No tears. What are they gonna do? I gotta be pro-active right?

Greendream

So for a few moments today I looked into a few hair options and styles. I even watched an episode of Tim Gunn's makeover and style show on Bravo. For a few moments I found myself browsing online stores for a new dress. Maybe new shoes? Sometime later it hit me that I'm actually in a fashion slump right now.

Nothing in the stores (on or offline) appeal to me. Everything is either too basic, already done and over played or too OVER everything (over the top, over priced, over sized, etc) for me that it seems unrealistic right now for me to even achieve the look. Even my usual "plus size" finds on the internet don't appeal to me right now. Well, I did find ONE dress I LOOOOOVE, (not the dress pictured) but it's sold out in my size and it's not on back order. Goes to show how many of us size 14/16 and even size 18 women are walking this earth.

But back to my hair. My problem has always been that I never know exactly what to do with it, because I don't want to have the same hairstyle week after week. I mean it's different when I wear braids and maybe even twists, but a regualr hairstyle... like with most things in life.. I get easily bored. It's a wonder I've clung to wigs for so long with a couple being nearly the same style.

Where do I go from here?

I have a feeling that little voice isn't going to shut up until I actually do something for myself. Right now my hair does seem it's in critical need. I'm killing my hair and I must be stopped. Maybe I should focus on nursing my hair back to health...back to life so I can dump those wigs and let it breathe. I actually hate wigs, but it's such a comfortable alternative for the "bad hair days" when I don't and can't (in some cases) rock a hat.

Later for the shoes and clothes. They will be around. My hair... that's a life line.

Though I'm trying really hard not to let it bother me, this summer is making me a bit nervous.

I've spent much of the semester hustling for internship prospects for this summer. The scheme of things is "suppose" to work out like this; complete spring semester, internship this summer, complete last semester of school this fall, be declared "graduate" in December and walk/participate in graduation in May (2010). That's how my advisor and I had things worked out at the beginning of the semester.

Now it seems that world of internships, at least in the realm of magazines, is highly competitive. If not before, it's gotten extremely tight, allowing only a very small selective few in. My heart.. my heart... was set on the Washingtonian Magazine. It's one of my favorite reads. I practically study it. The internship boasts of writing small articles, research concentration and it pays. Though I revamped my resume, became creative with the cover letter, had my feature writing professor (editor of a national magazine) look it over and sent in my BEST clips displaying feature writing I was turned down via a generic email response.

"Thanks for your interest......overwhelming response.....unfortunately...."

I showed it to my feature writing professor who asked me to give her everything I mailed to them. She would send it to the editor personally. That was merely a month ago and still no (second) response. Since that time I've been applying to other publications, beating their deadline only to be served with the same response concerning overwhelming applicants and "unfortunately..."

I've been mulling over the option of writing a letter of interest to an editor with the Washington Post. Last summer I applied for a job with the Style section. The editor and I sent a couple of correspondence to each other when I didn't get the job. I asked what exactly was she looking for and she told me. Since then I've kept her email and lately I've been contemplating (a bit too hard) on what to say in regards to seeking an internship or even and apprenticeship under her.

Frustrating to say the least.

Of course what's making me a bit nervous is money. I would like to keep my reserves up while I have the chance. However freelancing seems a bit scary nowadays in this economy. I've been reading up on other freelancers via their blogs or published articles on the matter. So far it seems to be a 50/50 chance of survival. You either have it or you don't. It seems that well established freelancers can deal with this tight(er) economy than say.. someone like me... still starting out (or an inch or two above a starting point) and feeling their way.

I've been toying with the idea of even doing a part-time temp gig during the summer, to keep me busy (so I won't going totally insane as a stay-at-home-mom) and to help a bit financially.  

Either way, I feel something is out there for me this summer. I just don't know what. That's what is making me nervous and bit fustrated.

Gotta go feed the kid then.. on to Jill Scott's detective series on HBO.......

Being a mother is so amazing. It's a constant learning experience.

Today is the Snickerdoodle's (second) birthday.

The original plan was to go and have my second writing session with my group of sixth grade boys, come home and change, grab bags and head out of town.  Yet, the Snickerdoodle's body had other plans.

She woke up a lil sluggish this morning. She did her usual of whimpering to let me know she was up and it was time for me to roll over and either place her in bed with me or really get up and start fixing breakfast. Usually her whimper is pretty faux or fake and a loud "MA!" is followed. Today it was the real whimper. I slid out the bed and over to her portable crib (her new furniture is actually arriving next week!) I placed her in bed next to me as it was still kind of early and I needed a couple more winks before starting the day. However, I couldn't go back. I noticed she did, which was unusual. Normally she's sitting up looking at Golden Girls or cartoons until I can get myself together to head downstairs for breakfast.

Hmmm.

I checked her for fever, but she didn't feel warm. So I figured she must have been really tired. After all, getting her to bed before 9 pm is a fight. She likes to stay up. It's a pain on the nights just before I have class, but I manage. She has the night owl thing honestly, so I can't be but so mad. Still something about her this morning didn't seem right. I let her lay for a few, but I so anxious to sing happy birthday I rolled her over. She looked at me with sleepy eyes as I sung happy birthday in her ear.  I asked her if she was feeling ok. She just looked at me very sleepy like. I checked her again. Slighly warm.

Hmmm.

She tried to perk up a bit as we got up and I bushed both of our teeths. I took her in her grandmother's room and announced she wasn't feeling so well and I was calling the doc to see if he could see her today. I made arrangements with the doc's office to come in at 12:30. I later called Ms. "S" who is working with me on the volunteer project and tell her that I may have to meet her at the school later. She wasn't stressing too much. She had a presentation she wanted to give. She told me if I couldn't make it today it was fine. She would give her presentation and I would take the date that she originally had to do her's to finish up mine. I really wanted to be with those boys today. I love working with them. Yet, I couldn't stress it. Babygirl is sick. 

I headed downstairs with the Snickerdoodle. It was at the top of the steps she announced "My stomach." My mother and I both looked her, as if we had under estimated this (now) two year-old's knowledge of her own anatomy. I mean mostly every night before bed or at random moments the Snickerdoodle would point to her own or my face and start calling out the parts; mouth, eyes, ears, NOSE. She loves the word "nose". I don't think we covered the stomach.. or did we?

I asked her did she feel like eating. She just placed her head on my shoulder as we walked downstairs. In the new kitchen we now have an island. On one of the stools sat her birthday gifts and cards. I walked over to show them to her. The Snickerdoodle wasn't interested. She just stared, even as the happy, bouncing musical Easter bunny flapped his ears as he sang and bopped. Normally something like this would make her curious and laugh. This morning it just made her vomit. Literally.

In a flash I had her out the door, still in her pjs and wrapped up in blankets. I headed to the pediatrician, who thankfully is only a hop skip and jump from the house. My old pediatrician. One of the best this city has. Even before I knew I was with child, I said that if I have a child I wouldn't, couldn't trust anyone but him. He's been around for years. Treated plenty of chidlren, even some of my friends and family. Known throughout. I would hate to see what it would be like when he retires.. if he retires.

The doc saw the Snickerdoodle right away. Called it a mild stomach virus. Figured. We've been down this road before. A year ago in January. Right after my cousin's funeral, when the WHOLE family got sick (cousins and all), because someone walked into the place with the flu virus. *hmph*

So here I am. At home. After a run to the doc and the drug store to pick up more Tylenol to keep fever and pain away, Pedialyte to keep her hydrated and diapers just in case the virus comes out THAT end. She's already had her teaspoon of Tylenol, along with a warm bath. She even began to perk up some. Talking more wanting to do her norm of "rolling" around the house, but still a bit tired or out of it. Now the Snickerdoodle is just resting. We're still leaving to go out of town in a few hours. We'll only be on the road for about two to three hours. Not far, but far enough.

I need to go get ready.

Being a mom is amazing. It's funny, as a child I use to tell my mother to stop under estimating me sometimes. "Give me some credit" is what I would tell her. After today, I learned that I'm doing the same. under estimating. The Snickerdoodle knew her stomach was bothering her. She said it. Yet, I was ready to turn a blind eye, thinking it was just a cold coming on, until she threw up.

I'm sure the day will come when she will tell me the same.

"Give me some credit ma. Please?"

I'll just look at her and smile. My child indeed.

The wave has hit me again.  I know what it is and what causes. It’s mother nature during her work. Still somehow I feel grateful when the wave hits. The wave of emotions that cause me to pull into myself and dive deep into an abyss of introspective thinking.  My truths are revealed, but what I do with them in the end varies.

This time I see a lot of things.  For starters a few people have reminded me that no one is perfect. Flaws and scars are mixed in with the make up that makes up so “great”  A homogenous mix.  The thought or reminder came has two people I’ve had several conversations with shared their break down. One flashed a melancholy status line on her internet page, a far cry from the confident and fiery chic I had gotten to know. The other, a model/single, shared her weight story in the current issue of Heart & Soul Magazine.  Later I told her I appreciated her honesty in her article.

From this I thought how just about everyone has some kind of judgment about everyone and/or everything. Though I try not to judge, I’m sure I do. I hate being judged or even judging.  With the two persons from my above paragraph, it’s pretty safe to say I did have some kind of judgment about them. It wasn’t negative.  I just saw them a certain way based on the conversations I have had with them and knowing what I already knew about them. Yet, in the past couple of days my judgments didn’t matter.

Instead I wanted to shed a tear or two, because I realized they struggled with something in their life just like me.  They aren’t perfect.  Who was I to judge them as if they were?  One of the things that I’m glad LAF opened up about was the fact that during our friendship she placed me on a pedestal, causing her to be judgmental towards me.  That was such a relief to hear because for most of our friendship I as if I were being judged, which made it hard for me to be real with her.  Just like me, nobody is perfect….

Just like me….

Since Jill Scott has opened up about her pregnancy I’ve been feeling weird. Like kismet weird. Maybe it’s because most people that know me have always compared me to her on so many levels that it just stuck. So it’s not unnatural that when I listen to her or read her poetry that I find myself in the “amen corner.” Yet reading her pregnancy story makes me want to shed more tears.  I cry because it’s me all over again. Mainly the whole being told that I may never conceive or if I wanted to I would have to try fertility drugs and “out of the blue” a seed is planted…that’s me.

I know I wrote about Jill’s pregnancy before, but this time, after reading her cover article in Heart & Soul, I ended up flashing back.  I began to feel shame, because the one thing I was trying to get rid of in the heat of desperation, anger and confusion, many women (and men) desperately want. I knew I was thinking selfishly at the time, only seeing how MY life would be ruined, and failing to realize that the Snickerdoodle is basically the ultimate blessing.

Towards the end of the article, Jill offers advice to women struggling to have a baby.

“Until God grants you the blessing of a child, be grateful for what you have, remain open for what you want and be thankful for the blessings when they flow.”

Monday, March 30 will be exactly two years since the Snickerdoodle made her earthly appearance. It’s been a rough ride.  There have been plenty of smiles, but just as many tears (for both happy and sad).  Having a kid brings on so much, especially when you are being the parent alone. It’s rewarding, it’s think less (if you are responsible enough) but it’s challenging.  Again, I’m not the perfect mom with a good list of first-time mommy faux pas under my belt, but I can’t even begin to imagine life without the Snickerdoodle.

The letters. When I go back and read the letters I had written to her, then as an unborn with sex unknown, I tear up. My pain was very real. Deep down I didn’t want to let her go, but I felt I had to.  Thought then it was more selfish to keep her around in the midst of a loveless god forbidden relationship. But of course her existence was bigger than me, bigger than her dad.  She has a purpose.

Purpose…

Push: A Novel

Sapphire

I started reading Push by Sapphire. I committed myself to reading the book before the movie comes out later this year (the name of the movie was changed from Push to Precious).  I knew what the plot was about before reading, so I went in knowing what to expect. Still my heart got heavy a few times.  I want to look up the back story on the book and find out more about Sapphire. Was the plot based from a true story? Was some elements her?  Even if it is fictionalized it speaks to so many truths for young girls everywhere.

Push is about an illiterate teenage girl, Precious, who has endured sexual and verbal abuse from her mother and father. She ends up pregnant, twice, by her father. During the birth of her first child (a girl born with down syndrome)  Precious encounters a “Spanish” man who is one of the EMS crew that helps her deliver. He is the one constantly telling her to push during her delivery, and this has been Precious’ motivation. She “pushes” pass her limitations to seek a better life for herself and children. She slowly begins to see that she isn’t stupid and invisible as she thinks. She does have a purpose.

 In reading about her abuse, especially from her father, lumps have been forming in my throat. It’s a fear that (perhaps) may never go away. It’s something that I’ve mentioned in my blog before, that I’ve told Brandon about, JM and even Papi. It’s a fear I have for the Snickerdoodle. It’s something that I just can’t even let my guard down about, especially as a single mom with a daughter.

It takes a certain evil kind to do something so horrific to a child. My closest friends that have gone through, I grew to hate their mothers more than the (step) father that did it, because the mothers lived in denial and refused to accept the truth (in one instance the mother stayed married to the guy.. still is) and didn’t protect their child/my friend(s).  Still, I made a vow that I would not be that naïve mother. I would not be the mother crying on the news because some man looked that damn good so good that it is beyond belief that he would touch my child.

Papi I trust. He was once married and raised two step children. He was their father more than their biological. They still call him for everything. Though he wants to cut ties because he is no longer with their mother, he doesn’t.  Honestly, I don’t think he can. Probably feel as if he is neglecting is own children.

Still being a protective mother I can’t help but to have some kind of caution when it comes to him and the Snickerdoodle. I hate that I have even an inkling, because it is a matter of trust.  We’ve been going “on” for two years and some months. He was there before the Snickerdoodle and after. So why do I fight?

I’m a fighter.

I fight life hard. Funny thing is, things or maybe even people I don’t want, still come after me. More like a magnetic pull.  A couple of folks have hinted that I’ve met my husband. I reject it. I fight the notion. I pull out my mental dry erase board and begin the pros and cons of life, formulate a hypothesis, create formulas and theorems to make it make sense to me, when it reality it doesn’t.

Because the reality is, when I wake up in the morning for class, I see that red light to my blackberry blinking. I know it’s him. I know it’s him leaving a message to say “good morning, have a good day at school. Can’t wait to see you.”  My heart will feel heavy because I refuse to release, accept or admit that this is real and my eyes will form tears for they won’t fall because I’m too much in denial to let them.

Yet I don’t see all of this when mother nature is not around. Like the confrontation bitch she is, she shows me when she is on the horizon of arriving.

In all honesty I should be working on some things. However I thought I'd interrupt my regularly off schedule self to give some sort of public service announcement or observation. The last 24 hours have been very reflective for me, starting with the good news about my tuition being paid in full this time around. No sooner after my moment of joyous praise I logged onto the website for Essence Magazine. I was really there looking for an update or follow up to something specific when I came across their online article on Jill Scott.

It's official. Jill Scott has finally confirmed her pregnancy. In reading the article she's really around six or seven months pregnant as she is due sometime in April. Also in reading the article I can appreciate why she waited so long to reveal to the world her wonderful news. It was more of a health concern, especially since she was once told that she couldn't conceive.

It's odd that I don't know Jill Scott on a personal level, but I feel connected to her - based on what I know, read, etc. Aside from folks comparing my physical, personal and writing style or persona to that of Jill's (flattered but I would like to think I have my own) I feel connected through her music, poems and even in reading about the various volunteer work that she does (I'm hoping to up the ante on my end with this). Have you been to one of her shows or a show with her in it some kind of way? The woman is amazing. She'll go from spoken word, to soul singing to a jazzy tune to opera in a heartbeat.

Even more, as I read further into her article I almost wanted to cry. Her pregnancy journey pretty much parallels mine. Only difference is, she is about to marry the father, the drummer of her band, [Lil] Jon Roberts. However, her emotional wave that she is riding...that was me all the way. I too was told that I couldn't conceive. Correction - my OBGYN at the time told me that if and when I decided to have children more than likely I would need the help of a fertility drug/method. My hormones were inbalanced and a large part as to why my menstrual cycles were practically non-existent after a time. Bascally, it was looking as if it would be very difficult for me to conceive. Not that this gave me an excuse to have [unprotected sex] with my mate at the time, but really pregnancy was really the last thing on my mind.

When I found out that I was pregnant the shock of it hit me more than a ton of bricks ever could. Slowly I revealed to my circle of family and friends what was going on; relying more on my older sister and my aunt for added support. For a while things seemed crazy, out of control as to where do I go from here. Eventually I pulled back, not totally, but enough to have my space to think, plan, talk to God and my baby.

There were highs and some lows with my pregnancy, but as each day passed the experience always put in awe of what was going on with my body.. of what was inside of me. As it sounds like with Jill, it was a day to day process with me.. of me claiming the role as "mother." Obviously the excellent thing about Jill's pregnancy is that Jon is there going through the same thing with her. They are hand in hand in this experience. Me? A lot of times I felt really alone. Though I had/have a few friends with children, they had gone through this slightly different than what I was going through. The other portions of my friends were like how I once was... single and child free. So in a lot of ways I felt like the odd girl out.

The Prisoner's Wife : A Memoir

asha bandele

No sooner had I finished reading the online article of Jill Scott, I was flipping through my copy of the current print edition of Essence. I came across a short interview with Journalist/Author Ashe Bandele. Long time ago I read her book, The Prisoner's Wife, her memoir of falling in love with an inmate to a prison she regularly visited with a poetry group, marrying him and eventually conceiving a daughter from the union. Unfortunately I didn't finish the book to the end and didn't have a chance to pick other works by Bandele. However, in her short interview she speaks on her latest memoir which is on her experiences of being a single mother(the marriage between her and the inmate eventually dissolved.).

One quote in particular arrested me. For it captured in essence all that I have been feeling about being a single mother.

"Single motherhood is not to be defended or excoriated; it just is. I don't think most people grow up saying 'I want to raise a baby by myself.' I grew up with a 1950's ideal...I'm offended by notions that everyone should get married, but I don't disagree that having a supportive, loving partner makes it easier." (Bandele. Essence February 2009 p. 68)

I was grossly offended when I told my parents I was pregnant and the first thing from my father's mouth was I should consider marriage to the father. During my pregnancy I paid close attention to parenting and pregnancy publications. I loathed them at the time because none of the advertising campaigns, articles or even photos to go with the articles represented me. The single mother. Everything celebrated family, which is fine and dandy, but the reality was.. is and probably will continue to be, not everyone is in the nuclear family mindset or actually living it.  

Of course when the Snickerdoodle actually made her entrance into the world, things changed. I too had to take that same "Big Girl" pill that Jill took and others before us did. Priorities and responsiblities changed instantly. Every life altering decision I had to make and continue to always figures in the Snickerdoodle.. especially in the realm of meeting new people, establishing relations. Not everyone will be priviledge to meet my daughter. It's strange. In reading about the "Big Girl Pill" it almost seems like a bitter pill to swallow. Yet, literally and metaphorically speaking it is the most selfless act and perhaps easy for the go-zillion of us who have. Call it nature, but it seems stronger than nature or instinct. It has to be, because unfortunately there are those aren't equipped (ready) to take care of their children (for whatever reason).

In terms of my own experience in being a mother, I think in a lot of ways what happened was fate.  In retrospect, considering everything I had went through before the Snickerdoodle, in a way it feels that her presence was right on cue. As I said in previous entries, I find it funny that God really was listening and I must be careful of what I ask for. For a long time I figured it would take a child to bring stability to my life. Lo and behold, my life is geling. Sometimes it's easy to try and wonder where would I be if she hadn't been here? Would I even be back in school now? Would I'd be so far down and out and wallowed out in my own pity that I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel? Would I even be on the tippy top of the world right now with no real peronsal growth, just the same ol'?

Either way, it wouldn't matter. What matters is the here and now and how much growth I've experienced and continue to embrace. Motherhood has definately forced me to grow up more..along with age. Granted it has tried my patience, even to the point where I did have a flash of the thought "Am I really cut of this?" but when I look at those brown eyes that stare back at me on the daily, it's all the motivation to keep going and making a way for her.

Granted, more than likely I have it easier than the average single mother, but it's still no simple task. Yet in almost the two years that the Snickerdoodle has been in my life, everything feels like a breeze. Like I'm floating. Even if I'm down to my last dime, I make sure the Snickerdoodle gets what she needs from that dime and I wouldn't have any regrets about it.

I'm so drained from today, but I feel I have to write this out more for me and to keep my motivation level high more than anything. Today (Tuesday) kicked off my second week of school. Actually it was my first full day of classes, since at the start of last week one professor that I have for two classes was out. My schedule isn't bad with classes only on Tuesdays and Thursdays; Four classes with Tuesday starting around 9:40 am and ending at 3:30 with three courses and Thursday starting at 9:40 am and ending at 7 pm. One class only meets once a week (Thurs.) and I do have an hour and thirty-five minutes window in the afternoon.

This semester I happen to be taking the last of my major (journalism) courses. Though not hard, the expectations are high and the concentration is pretty intense. I consider it my journalism boot camp as I'll be back in the field.. hands on. Pitching, writing and editing articles for local publications and a school run website that services ALL of DC. For the website I was assigned a beat. Each student was asked to pick a ward of the city for their beat. Naturally I chose my own, Ward 7, since I pretty much know the who's who and obviously in a good standing relationship with YA. So there is no excuse why I shouldn't be able to deliver when it comes to this.

All of us (journalism students) are bracing ourselves for next week. The inauguration. It's a big possiblity that we will dispatched at various locations covering the various events. We were given the opportunity to submit our names as volunteers for WashingtonPost.com; to produce stories and reaction pieces for them. Yet there are mixed emotions about covering this event. Folks are worried about the cold, but really in the realm of journalism... it's almost like the postman's creed. Rain, Sleet or snow, he delivers. Faculty is having a hard time smoothing over the logistics, especially with security measure being taken to a whole other level. Even as I sat in on an ANC (neighborhood meeting) tonight, YA was there explaining procedures for tickets and security for those interested in attending.

It's enough to make my head form a dull headache. Actually it did. As I listened to council hearings about all of the events taking place for Martin Luther King's birthday, the demonstration that's coming to town on Monday AND the inauguration... there was just this overwhelment in the council members voices. A lot of the District residents and those living just outside of DC are feeling like "Just get it over with." I'm overhearing conversations on campus of various students are still excited, but ready for action. More like skip the pomps and circumstances, just swear Obama in, move the family in and move on.

Road closures, free/highways will be closed (I395, I66). With the swell of people expected secret service and homeland security are asking folks to be in place to their desired event (parade or swear in) no later than 7 am. That's just to be in line to go through security. What's a bit disturbing is the fact that secret service/homeland security will turn away people from an area; i.e. bleacher seats, if they are filled to capacity, no matter if the person bought a ticket to sit in the bleachers or not.

Craziness.

YA is offering me tickets to the parade. More than likely I will have to accept in order to get "the job" done. I will have to let her know by Thursday on what I plan to do. If I go, I will be stationed at The Wilson Building, which is a DC government building literally next door to the White House. The city council is housed in the building and YA's office has a beautiful wide view of Pennsylvannia Ave.

Aside from the journalism boot camp I'm under this semester, I'm also taking one of my minor courses as well. Sometimes I wonder what was I thinking in picking African-American studies as a minor, knowing it's a concentration that will encourage research papers or something of the like. I think in the past this is part of why a lot of times I felt tremendously overwhelmed. Doing too much. Writing here. Writing there. Writing everywhere, if I wanted to or not. Then pulse fades until it's no more.

Every time I regrouped and attempted to get back to life I would vow to myself that I won't get overwhelmed. The semester is only four short months. I can do this. Yet each time I would slip and fall back down.  Funny, I spent much of this past weekend thinking about the last three years in which I was out of school. I think the time was needed, but it also caught me with my gaurd down. Eventually I fell into some kind of methphoric repose.. my runt. I got a bit tickled today as one of my professors asked returning students how was their break.. as in holiday break. I kinda laughed and thought about my three year break.

"Oh it was fine Professor_______. Picked up a few gigs. Had a baby. Wild out a bit. But I'm back now."

As crazy as it may seem and even as frustrating it has been for me I actually LOVE what happened to me. As the old folks say, "no test. no testimony." The more I think or reflect on my depression, my breakdown, my relapses, the gains and loses of my life I'm loving it. It's molding me in ways that I never thought I could or would be. It has opened my eyes a bit more about who I am.

The more I think about this semester the more I'm beginning to think.. this beaten and worn path was made for me. NOW is the time I show what I'm really made of. A single mom of a daughter that is in a stage where she is demanding your attention, taking on a course load in a field where much is demanded of her to be called here and there....wow.

Granted, mothers in my position have practically been doing this since the dawn of time. Still when it comes to the nitty gritty.. it's time to step up and show that resilance.. be the resilance.

A couple times today I caught myself thinking and praying over and over. Hoping that this was it. That I wasn't and wouldn't be in over my head this semester. Being a journalist is like riding a bike to me, but now it's really time to take off the training wheels. If I want to be taken seriously I have to step up the game, match and exceed those expectations coming from the professionals who are teaching me.

I've always taken pride in the professors that I had to guide me along the way. Well known journalists from major publications and networks. Yet I managed to only have wanderlust moments with them when I take their class and never try to make a strong connection. Hoenstly, I wasn't ready...for real life. This time it's different. I've already started to create a working relationship with one editor of a magazine and working on others.

More importantly, my completion of my degree has nothing to do with me anymore. True I want to finish a task I started many moons ago. However, my daughter is my focus. My only hope is that I build upon an empire.. a legacy that she can be heir to.

Fuck.. just started to cry.......................

It's after one. I need to go to bed. Though I don't have class tomorrow I still need to get up early. Contractors are coming back. We're in the real final phase of the renovations. Aside from that I still have an early morning appointment to make.

In the end of this entry.. all I can do is brace myself. This is gonna be "drive" of my life....so far.

Apparently I had a blood transfusion in 2007.

Backing up a bit.

Since returning to school I had to submit my most recent medical records. All in all I received copies of my record from when I delivered my daughter in 2007. I requested copies of all blood work that was done during my pregnancy and after. 

The copies were finally delivered to my home today. Naturally I looked through the package just to see if everything was in order. Of course a lot of it I didn't understand as I browsed through all of the medical jargon. However, one page stopped me dead in my tracks.

A Blood Bank Consultation Form.

Again more medical lingo, but one paragraph was perfectly clear. I was transfused with one unit of blood while undergoing my cesarean. I read the paragraph over and over to make sure I wasn't misreading. The more I read the more I was arrested under shock.  I mentioned it to my mother, who was with me during my delivery. She didn't know I was transfused neither, but then again she claims she doesn't remember all that took place that day except that she was glad I went into labor very early that morning so we wouldn't be caught in any rush hour traffic traveling across town.

Underneath the paragraph was an "interpretation" section. This section gave a "clear-cut" reason why I needed the unit of blood.

Exactly how much is a unit of blood?

After reading the interpretation I began to develop my conclusions as to the why and perhaps when. I remember the day that I delivered the Snickerdoodle truly as if it were yesterday. I understand now why a lot of mothers say they never forget the day they deliver their children. Not that a lot of medical drama took place during my delivery, but seriously bringing another life into this world is no joke especially the delivery process.

I went in at 5 a.m. having dilated 4 cm. According to the medical staff I was dilating right on a "normal" schedule for a first time mother, which is 1 cm every 1 to 2 hours. It was midday when things kind of went awry. I assumed that I would have a vaginal birth, but the Snickerdoodle didn't want to do such a thing. This is where my temperature went up and the Snickerdoodle's heart rate either sped up or slowed down at a considerable rate. 

Even though the medical staff through out the word "c-section" as if it were an option, honestly it really wasn't. I began to cry because I was nervous and unsure of what was going on. I even protested for a minute or two that I didn't want a c-section. Of course my mother and the doctor calmed my fears and told me it was the best route to have the surgery.

As I lay in the delivery operation room, I remember reality hitting me pretty hard, but I remained calm. My mother was off somewhere getting then garb you are suppose to wear over your clothing and the medical staff was buzzing all around me. An Asian who cracked jokes administered all of the drugs that would numb me from the waist down. He was pretty funny. I managed to laugh through the minor pain I was feeling. That was a gooooooooooood epidural I was given until I actually felt movements in my birth canal. That feeling was strange.

Another nurse kept checking to make sure I was numb from the waist down by asking me a series of questions of what I felt and where I felt it.  Somewhere in between receiving numb shots and being asked questions I remember feeling cold. My teeth chattered and I began to shiver. The nurse ran out and back with a blanket to drape around my chest and shoulders. The nurse kept asking me how I felt. I kept saying I felt cold.

Based on what I read in the "interpretation" concerning my red blood cells at the time of giving birth and my recollection of being utterly cold at the time I (kinda) understand the why, but obviously I know the when.

I don't have a problem being given blood, especially if it is for the benefit of my health. What is highly disturbing is the fact that this wasn't even mentioned to me nor my family that was present at the time of my delivery. I'm pretty sure that blood transfusions are part of a routine with some, if not all, deliveries. Even if this is part of standard procedures or if this is a normal occurrence during labor, the patient and their family still has a right to know.

I don't have a grudge against the hospital. They really did take care of me and my child while we were there. Aside from the late night invasion of nurse after nurse to check my vitals, I was pretty comfortable.  I just wish I knew about the transfusion, so the next time I check a medical chart/questionnaire that ask about it I won't say no when clearly my records say the opposite.