From Teacher to Parents...These Are OUR Kids

These Kids, Your kids, Our kids

These kids want to be grown up, 

Do-it-yourself, but don't realize how much they need you know-it-alls,

While really needing to be 

Guided, nurtured and heard.

These kids will grow to be their best 

With the right combination of “supportilizer” that 

Each of us has patented our own brand of.

Your kids will fight, argue, swear they’re “done,” and have “done” their best,

Will become door slamming, 

Lawyer worthy case pleaders 

Who cry in your lap one minute 

And swear they are grown-up enough to handle everything the next. 

Your kids need to know you’re still there,

Through the mistakes, 

The tears, 

The successes, 

The failures, 

The dreaded questions

And answers they sometimes do not want to hear. 

Our kids will forget we were once in their shoes, 

Forget we have survived many bumps and scrapes they have yet to experience, 

And forget we truly want what’s best for them. 

In all of that, 

Our kids will know, 

That under our protective partnership of loving understanding, 

And letting them make and learn from their mistakes kind of care, 

We are united, 

We have the best intentions and 

We will do whatever it takes to 

Push, 

Pull, 

Drag and 

Glide them to the next level. 

We are we. 

We are united. 

Because they are all 

Our kids.

A "Feel Good" Challenge...

A sweet, former student of mine, that I've grown to admire, respect and look forward to witnessing her oozing awesomeness, recently including me on a social media "Challenge" to post photos of some feel-good moments. 

Sadly, my immediate reaction was, "Oh, heck no," "I don't have any good pictures, " "I look too ----------" (fill in the blank,) "in all my pictures." 

What happened to the girl who used to photobomb before that was en vogue? What happened to the cheesy grins, jumping over shoulders and pushing people out of the way to be seen? When did the camera become the enemy and perfection seem like a realistic option? The quest for the perfect photo to make me look (fill in the blank) or no photo at all. You know what that means, no photo at all. No birthdays, goofy moments with the kids, and only tolerated momentous occasion like a graduation or wedding. 

So what does this accomplish? Stolen moments from the big and little people that actually love the me I'm not so sure about? God forbid, I leave the earth in what most consider a premature fashion...what will they have then? How will I learn to love the bad hair days, smile lines, chunk factor here and there, if I hide from myself? How does my journey continue when something as simple as a camera makes me cringe, duck and dodge. 

Mommas, what are we doing to ourselves? Is it a crime not to look like we did 20 years ago? And a real truth, we are still rock stars and "that girl" is still in there. No matter the hairstyle, clothing or poundage. The sparkle in our eye, warmth of our smile and glow is still there. You, we, she are beautiful inside and out. 

So ladies, take that photo. Pose, toast, cheese, strut and show these little girls what being a proud, strong, sexy women is truly all about. TAKE THE DAMN PICTURE without hesitation or reluctance. Tell that inner doubtful bitch to sit down and sling that crap at a truly worthy cause, like someone interfering with your rights or your babies. 

And truth is, to everyone that loves us, everyone that matters, the picture is perfect (with the exception of closed eyes, hair blown cock-eyed, blur and the weird look on your face...those are legit vetoes and auto-retakes). Truth is, those that matter are awed by you simply being you. Even when you think it's bad. To those that matter, you are Goddess, beauty, class and sass intertwined. Work it, girl! 

"Re-Birthdays"

Birthdays.

While you're only born of a woman once, and can be born again, in the religious sense, birthdays are an opportunity, a reminder, that you can rebirth yourself as often as you set your mind to do so. Rebirth as frequently as each first opening of the eyes upon waking, but at a minimum, it should occur on your yearly anniversary of simply being you.

Each birthday is an opportunity to reflect on everything from your annual contribution of carbon emissions, to what your internal energy focus has been the past year. Was it spent in the service of others? Was it solely focused on what you feel life is short changing you? Did you make random acts of kindness a priority and face challenges with ferocity and grace? Or did you crumble into particles when yet another proverbial monkey wrench blazed a course toward your head and your heart? 

Why not use each birthday as a reminder to reflect, reconnect and recommit yourself to those deep down, soul stirring values that keep you on the path toward personal enlightenment and fulfillment? Use that particular day on the calendar to clear your lenses of cloudy expectations and hone in on what your heart is calling you to do. Live your best life, love those around you whether they have earned it or not and let laughter resound throughout your spirit. 

My birthday wish for you...and a reminder for me. Happy "Rebirth"Day!

If you really knew me…

If you really knew me, you’d know I live with my soul on my sleeve, for better or for worse, for richer which I’ve never been, or poorer, and until death does my spirit part.

If you really knew me, you’d know I have a pair of flip-flops for every occasion sharing coveted closet space with 6 inch platforms and knee high boots, all equally a part of who I am.

If you really knew me, you’d know black people do not only swim, but love the beach, hike like Robinson Crusoe, come in all colors, dialects and get sunburned.

If you really knew me, you’d know I live to get lost in a book, write like my life depends upon me moving my fingers along a keyboard or gently gripping a smooth ballpoint gel pen or watching heroines look good while healing the world on the small or mighty screen.

If you only knew me, you’d know I love to have my nails done as much as I love hiking through a dust ridden trail that approximates a desolate paradise.

If you only knew me, you’d know I’m still rebelling from the overarching childhood restrictions governing an already perfectionistic and overly conservative only child.

If you only knew me, you’d know I miss my daddy and close my eyes to hear his voice, feel his presence, and go the way he would tell me to.

If you only knew me, you’d know I regret being so cautious, safe and planned and wish I had not embraced the belief that hard work pays off and celebrated the moment because it would never return.

If you only knew me, you’d know I am afraid of being alone, being rejected, wallowing in stress and depression in spite of the smile that plasters my face like a mask alluding to inner strength and confidence.  

If you only knew me, you’d know the phone call, message, hug and encouraging words are what allow me to take the next breath to continue in service.

If you only knew.

A Homecoming for SHE...Finding the Fierce that Once Was

Where is that Girl?

Because she held her head high, sounded more like a valley girl and actually loved any body of water, she was called a “stuck up, Oreo,” by the girls who looked like her and was treated like a question mark by those who didn't. Heads turned as she almost glided through the halls, dressed either to the nines, in sweats, uniform or anything that made her different from the others. It was the way she carried herself that set her, what those of the male persuasion called, above the rest. Some said it was her smile and for others, it was her eyes and the way they looked straight into your soul.

For her, it was deciding nothing and no one would keep her from being anything short of unique and incredible all wrapped into one. The best or nothing with fierceness, class, sass and fire. For her it was about futures with no room for error.

Her workable plan came to fruition with the the expected highlights of hard work. A budding career, the proverbial two children and two of America's favorite canines, as close to a picket fence as suburbia would allow; the American dream personified until she stopped to think about what really mattered. 

A hole in her heart. A void where friendships, laughter, and bliss should have been was filled with grief, loneliness and questions about all those sassy sacrifices in addition to all the, “No, I must waits,” “I can’ts,” and “I don’t deserve it’s,” took hold instead. A place where the woes of unemployment, loss of loved ones and the unimaginable pain that comes with that along with impossible expectations clogged what should have been an abundance of vacation memories, empty bottles of wine with girlfriends that she never nurtured relationships with, which left her entering her forties asking, “What did I do wrong?”

Where had the passion and fire gone?  In what was supposed to be the best of times, pain and regret pervaded and “get through” and “serve others” became the mantra. And she did that, for a bit. But the pain reared it’s ugly head with a vengeance as life continued its barrage of gems.

A few from her past resurfaced to remind her of who she was while a spark inside continued to flicker with a gradual increase in presence. Trying to remind herself SHE is still there and that SHE wants out. That SHE is still a fighter and that SHE has not let the fire die completely, in spite of the thunderstorms both internally and worldly inflicted. SHE wants to come home.

Welcome home, my true love, my first love, my SHE. Look out. SHE is no joke if I remember correctly.

The Kind Of “Love” I Wish for You

Real Love is Mary J’s someone to set your heart free.

A partner in crime, not Bonnie and Clyde, but through good and bad. Triumph and death bond you closer. No room for just physically taking up space or playing a part or co-existing.

Someone who will talk to you, listen to you, question and challenge you and make you a better person.

Someone who wants to show you off and be proud that you are theirs.

Someone who is always asking themselves, what can I do to make my love smile today? To make my shared soul feel valued?

Someone who desires you. Like their hands are in pain if not on your body. Someone to look into your eyes like they give strength derived from no other source.

Someone who wants you like they must have you as nourishment to keep living.

Someone who sees your strength, but knows even strong people need encouragement and a system of scaffolding to keep you up when the elements are almost too harsh to bare.

A playmate to run into the ocean with your fingers intertwined, roll down a grassy hill, scream like kindergarten girls at a scary movie.

Someone whose smoldering gaze can make you lick your  lips in anticipation of a sweet kiss to come from across the room.

For this is love. This is living. This is what it should be.

Is it too much to ask?

Is it too much to ask...

That I catch a break or even a breath?

That my winning number is drawn and I get the concert tickets or have my photo taken on the red carpet?

That I get the invite to meet the girls for dinner at that new, posh spot where half the fun is spying who wore what, said what and did what?

Or the call to see the movie everyone is anticipating and discuss it over wine and an outdoor fire pit later?

Maybe even to share a hotel room in paradise and have the vacation I never got to when I was supposed to be young and carefree?

That I am on someone’s “A” list and not the afterthought and, “Oh, I should have invited you,” list?

That I be the love interest, center of attention, Tiara-Wearing Goddess, even if only for one night instead of just inside my own consciousness?

That I be the one who’s treasured, envied, emblazoned upon the hearts and minds of others enough to be actively remembered?

That I be happy with the freckles, grays and extra pounds stress and life’s lovely way of choosing some of us more heartily for challenges have inflicted upon me?

Is it too much to ask of you, the universe, and of every cell in my body?

Am I asking too much?

It’s Time - A Celebration of all My Wonder Women

Wonderful Wonder Women who work with what’s left of their souls to ensure others are well.

Wondrous Women roaring against social pressures while mothering the planet with wisdom, words of kindness and praise.

Wounded Women who've been beaten by standards of beauty so unattainable that only computer generated good enough is “good enough.”

Warrior Women who've faced the blazing eyes of poverty, cancer, violence and won.

Women, you survive in-spite of, to spite and with inspiration.

To the Queens, Goddesses, Mothers, Lovers - I salute my Wonder Women. It’s time to honor you when no one else seems to notice. I do. A regal bow and gift of continued enchanted energy is my homage to all you do.

In Honor of Women's History Month...

We roll with superhero status on the daily.

Yet, we are thought to be the weaker of the sexes.

Let a car run over our child and see how easily we toss that car off our or anyone else’s baby.

Let someone invade our home and watch us defend it like Special Ops.

Let someone hurt our feelings and they will never forget the sting of our retaliating words.

The belly stretch marks the media tells us must be hidden in shame

are really tiger stripes showing that we brought another human into this earth.

ANOTHER human being,

That we nurse and raise and fiercely protect with every breath we have until we have no more.

We learn, we work, we teach,  we toil, we stay quiet.

We are so strong that sometimes we let you believe we are weak in order to nurture your little ego.

We are queens,

We are mothers,

We are lovers,

We are she.

So don’t tell me what I am supposed to look like,

That I am or am not beautiful in or outside,

Don’t tell me I’m not thin enough, tall enough, blonde enough.

Don’t tell me I’m in the wrong clothes, that my heels aren’t high enough,

That I am not enough.

A little piece of Gaia thrives within each of us female types,

HERstory shall be told,

Because we are SHE that rules the world.

Girls of all ages...Womanhood welcomes you and the world needs you.

To learn more about our lovely sisters, please visit http://womenshistorymonth.gov/.

Celebrating 16 Years of MotherService

Today, my boychild who politely and indirectly asked me not to name or tag him in any social media-type arena, has reached the coveted milestone of officially turning 16. High school is well underway, college is an attainable and not so far away target, specialized sports and skills have risen and claimed a place in his heart, and of course, driving is now within reach. My first born, is indeed, 16.

Some days that means, “My little baby is 16,” as in, “Where has the time gone?” While other days, it’s more like, “My eldest is 16,” and, “Thank, God! That means I only have to deal with his shenanigans for two more years!” Knowing both emotions are completely acceptable and also knowing he said not to name or tag him - and that he didn’t say anything about blogging - are what 16 years of Motherhood have taught me.

This kid has always been a teacher to me and I have truly been in his service. In utero, I learned that music would always be part of his life as I had to crank classic jazz while driving in the car so he wouldn’t dent the steering wheel with his “indoor” soccer kicks. The wide-eyed, inquisitive, “Hello, world!” look given to us in the delivery room were a clear harbinger of the ball of energy that would be happiest with any type of ball to play with as soon as he realized they were more fun to grasp than an adult’s finger. Sleep? “Your kid sleeps through the night?” “Your kid eats what?” “Your kid…???” Not my spitfire who got into trouble in his first daycare for dancing on the table in the playroom or gave himself a black eye by launching himself off a recliner for rocking in a little too animated of a manner. My kid, who learned to scale his crib using his TOES and learned those same TOES could help him climb to the top of the door jam! My kid who rode a two wheeler without training wheels at 3, jumped said bike off the curb at four and participated in the X-Games by jumping his plastic trike OFF MY BED!

This kid has never been the best student, has never sat still long enough to enjoy a book no matter how many voices his mama made. This kid had to learn spelling words while bouncing a ball or riding a scooter around the house (yes, inside and around the house).

Mothering this type of kid has taught me motherhood, done right and in service of the little spirit entrusted temporarily in your care, needs to be handled on a case by case basis. Mothering this type of kid takes more patience, imagination and stock in Band-Aids. Being in service to this kid, means really focusing on what he is on this earth to accomplish, not what momma wants, not what society wants. Daily, I must ask myself to seek out his light and help it illuminate his little part of the world. Though I do believe, his will be a monster slice of our world. I pray for more patience, more understanding, more creativity, and more gear to help him reach his destination.

Somewhere along the way, amongst the gazillion mother-to-be books I once used to covet, I saw a theory that our little one’s actually choose us as their vessel in which to enter the world. That would mean, this boy-human chose me. 16 years as this kid’s mother have made me better and I am truly a Motherservant to humanity. I am an improved being for all that he has taught me. And I am grateful that HE CHOSE ME! Happy 16th, kid.

K.I.S.S. Me CATE (A Thank you letter to the California Association of Teachers of English)

K.I.S.S. Me, CATE!

After some well deserved down time, a.k.a.  naptime, I’ve had a chance to process and reflect upon the 3-day experience that was my first foray into CATE, the congregation of English teachers from elementary, secondary and college campuses across California.  From “Paying It Forward,” in the eyes of the retired heroes of the profession to the shimmer in the eyes of the “baby-teachers” in my presence, and all of those in between, these three professional days reminded me of the need for professional connection in addition to professional growth. From Richard Lederer’s language faux-pas that English teachers communally sigh and chuckle about to Sharon Draper’s authentic advice and encouraging and inspiring words that urge us to reach every child, no matter where they come from or who else is in their lives: I was inspired. Whether it be T.A. Barron insisting we glorify everyday heroes in the hope of changing the world or Zoreh Ghahremani showing us what “guru” and “heartfelt” feel like in pindrop silence and awe among each spirit who was in the ballroom: I was enamored. Or Ellen Hopkins and turning not-so-nice life experiences into poetic words that reach what some believe to be the unreachable or ending with Taylor Mali and being reminded that “Teachers Make” so much more than anyone could put a price tag on: I was on fire. Free books (and stuff and you know the word “free” to teachers = WIN!), good conversation, meeting real life heroes and those doing things you dream of yourself: I would not trade the experience for anything. To all of those things, I say, “K.I.S.S. Me, CATE!” A trifecta of days that gave Knowledge, sponsored Inquiry, filled our hearts with Sentiment and passion for our chosen vocation while bringing forth genuine Soul-filled-Smiles. Not only did I leave with an armful of author signed books, ideas to use in the classroom TOMORROW, inspiration from my “elders” and a sense that my goals and ideals are on track and in line with many others, I felt like a true professional and am charged to reach back and grab others to join the throngs of educators working toward an educational ideal. I am ready to “Pay It Forward” and live to teach, survive and thrive another day. Thank you, CATE.

My Kind of Beauty isn't the New, Shiny, Pretty

There are countless posters to posts with slogans touting true beauty to be from within: that it is what we do and how we fulfill our purpose and not, or should not be, measured in terms of outward qualities. However, somewhere, at sometime, a whomever decided "the new, shiny, pretty" had to include extensions and acrylics, lashes, bronzers, toners, padding, injectibles, toe-crinkling high heels, waxing and "landscaping" to shape wear and fillers were a necessary process of what it takes to be beautiful. I'm sure mine was not the last generation to hear, "Beauty is pain, darling."

I'm struck with an incredible sadness at how much bravery it takes to be the non-commercial beauty. While there are some who are ridiculously close to the "new, shiny, pretty-standard" of beauty, or can afford to buy what they don't have to supplement their look and get them to the head of the line, there are others of us who will never approach that standard.

We work to embrace whatever the best in us might be only to look to the next and place ourselves back at the end of the line. How do we truly learn that we are to be more than just OK in our own skin? How do we learn to move forward? For some, it's finding that companion and the look in their eye that lets you know there's at least one person on earth who can see your beauty. But, for those that don't have that, or for those in which that is not enough because the plastic beauty slathered around us has convinced us we can't/won't/will never measure BECAUSE THEY ARENT REAL and we are, what do we do?

How do we teach our young men that the really, truly beautiful ones aren't the brightest shining stars that first catch their eye? How do we teach them to look deeper? How do we validate the good in ourselves and in others and remember that is what is beautiful? How do we teach that hugs don't have to have a nice tan and big boobs? That laughter lights up faces even without wrinkle free baby blues? That all shades of skin, hair types, heights and healthy bodies are capable of love and a reflection of what real women, real beauty is?

Everyone deserves to feel loved and free to be...just be. That is what makes a woman beautiful. But sadly, often it also leaves her alone. Well, at least she's genuinely, glowingly beautiful. Their loss.

Mothering the Mamma

Why is it that we think it’s ok to degrade, berate and criticize ourselves in a way that we would kill someone over if they were to speak to our children that way? Why do we call ourselves fat and ugly and say we will never have those things or people in our lives we dream of? Why is the “not-good-enough” soundtrack on autoplay? Who said that was ok? The sad thing is that this often extends beyond ourselves and we trash other women for their looks, their personalities and god-forbid, their mothering skills. In criticizing them, we are externalizing the criticism we’ve bombarded ourselves with. Sadly, sometimes, it is our own mother’s voices we hear as those words from childhood, “There’s always room for improvement,” “Honey, are you really going to wear that,” and, “You need to do something with your hair,” after you’ve worked on it a solid 30 minutes and just mustered up enough strength to walk out of your room.

In resolving not to make unrealistic New Year’s goals, but rather to focus on how I want to FEEL in 2014, I’ve decided to mother myself in that Fairy Godmother voice of unwavering faith and kindness that is the antithesis of the recordings that have been playing in my head longer than they haven’t been. Lots of “Sweethearts,” “Loves,” “That’s ok baby’s,” and “Good jobs.” Lots of, “Stop thinking that right nows,” and more, “You got this, girl. You’re fierce, now fight ons,” coming from that inner voice that has turned from evil stepmother to Glenda the Good Witch (Lena Horne from the Wiz).

If we don’t speak to ourselves in kind and loving ways, how can we expect anyone else to?

You deserve that fiercely protective, always supportive, honest, life-giving, hugging force and you must start from within you. Breathe kind, wholeness into your spirit so you can be and do what you were put on the planet to do.

For me, that’s changing the soundtrack, being comforted by my own company and being my own biggest cheerleader. I’m searching for my red, sparkly ruby slippers that I can click three times to not go home, but go to a place of kindness, comfort and love.