You Are My Friend

I haven't posted in this space in quite a while. I'm here to share feelings about the death of a friend, HM.

This is just me writing through my emotions because I'm really in unfamiliar emotional territory. I found out the other day and I haven't been sad, just numb and unsure of how best to express my feelings. So I am here doing what I have done so often in place of talking it out with someone, which is to write to see if in that process I come to any resolutions or maybe find a little peace.

In high school, we had been great friends. Close. More than friends, but not in that way (almost though). But I've had a lot of weird, undefined just-friends (male) over the years. He was the first. We lost touch after I graduated and went away to college, but Facebook allowed us to reconnect some 20 years later. We may have been connected via email before social media. And for a time, we had that as a superficial means to stay in touch; however, he stopped using the platform so our interactions became the once a year kind--birthday postings from me, and maybe the occasional like of something I posted.

Even though we hadn't spoken directly in years, I thought of him recently in connection to the big High School Farewell celebrations that took place a month ago. A friend posted some pictures of him from the last school play he starred in, Hello Dolly, which was the year after I graduated. I never knew about this production, but I was away at college, making more just-friends. I had been meaning to discuss the play with the woman who posted the pictures, so I definitely will in the coming days. For whatever reason, I didn't even consider to message him because I assumed he no longer used the platform. And now I can't.

That is how we met, in a school play. When I met him he was a freshman and I was a sophomore, and the play was West Side Story. But now I can't remember which part he had. I wasn't in the play that year, but I helped out on the technical side. I don't even recall how we became friends, but we did. He went on to star in Dreamgirls, which is the play we performed my junior year. He stole the show as Jimmy Early, and then the following year as Conway Twitty in Bye, Bye Birdie. 

Even though we were just-friends, when he began dating one of my friends I got jealous. This was to be the first of many times I would repeat this pattern with a just-friend, but not always with me being jealous, but me feeling possessive and proprietary (because he was my friend first, bitch). I did it again with the next girlfriend...so maybe now I understand how we lost touch. 

I loved him though. At one point I thought it was more than platonic, but because I had other romantic interests, I moved on and there is another reason why we might have lost touch. Feelings complicate things, and adolescent feelings are by their nature complicated. And since he wasn't the only fish in the pond, I'm sure I was doing the most and unconsciously leaning into what I would call my that bitch Ayanna persona...and, whew was I ever! (I will need to explain her one day.)

One of those other romantic interests from my high school days passed away almost year ago and I had these same weird feelings of not knowing how to respond. We dated briefly and remained friendly, just not in constant contact. His Mom worked with mine and his sister went to Spelman (and we've interacted professionally through the years), but I only connected with him on Facebook. So when I learned of his death, I didn't really know how to describe our past friendship either. Yet, I cared about him and mourned his passing.

Such is the nature of friendship. It ebbs and flows like the tide. In the virtual space, we are connected, but unless we actually interact in some substantive real world way, then most of those people are just folks we know. Or folks we once knew enough to care about their present lives, even in a fleeting way. I care when I see updates, good and bad, from people that I used to know. For example, one acquaintance from high school is on a reality TV show, and having just spoken to her at that last tour of the school, I am actually tuning in to watch the show. Another just-friend from high school was tagged in some news that appears to warrant condolences, and I have been debating whether I should personally reach out, or just post a note on his page.

Even as I lament the hollow nature of friendship in virtual space, having that virtual connection meant that his sister saw that I had posted on his page back in January. And it meant enough to her to do me the courtesy of personally informing me of his passing. So to the extent that connections online can be tangible, I won't denounce them. Because in this same virtual world, I have renewed or established relationships. Some folks that I merely knew in passing once upon a time are real friends now. Perhaps it is the algorithm, but it has been a blessing in this phase of my life to find kindred spirits. It is hard to make friends, especially at this midlife phase of adulting that has all of us spinning in every direction. 

I wish I had been more attuned to the signs that the Spirit was sending me. HM had been on my mind, not heavily, but as a passing thought and in fond recollections. I thought of him as I toured the high school last month, in the familiar places that looked exactly as they had 30 years ago. I should have reached out, but I had assumed that it would have dissipated into cyberspace. Not because we had fallen out, but I figured that instead of documenting his life on Facebook, he was out living it. Now that he is gone, I do hope that his life was full. I hope that he knew how much he was loved, and how much he will be missed. 

I hope that I get a chance to let his sister know how much her brother meant to me all of those years ago. He befriended an awkward, insecure girl and inspired her to be her authentic self. He encouraged me to write, mostly poetry and he claimed to liked it. I am sure that if I dig through some stuff, I might find some of what I wrote back then and it might not be too brooding or cringey. 

So if I could tell him anything about my life now, it would be that I kept writing. And through that, I have found some measure of peace, past the regrets of having been that bitch Ayanna when we lost touch. It is a truism that people are in our lives for a season and a reason. True friendship doesn't end, it fades like a picture exposed to sunlight, but the outlines are still visible. Things happen as they are meant, and even if we weren't meant to be lifelong ride or die friends, his presence had a profound impact on my life. I have another reason to give to his (and now our) alma mater, in his memory. I can look back on high school and not be so bitter and angry. He was my friend, and I will be forever grateful for that.

One Week in September

I just received a very public shout out from one of my line sisters on Facebook that has me blushing. She thanked me for some remarks I gave at a high school retreat, based her recommendation to her sister to invite me. And my very broad smile isn't just over what she said (which was truly overwhelming), but it is based on what it meant to me in the context of everything that has been going on of late.

Remember how I spent time this summer contemplating the meaning of life and trying to write my way towards the 42? How I had been rambling on to myself about fear and doubt and whether the choices I had been making with respect to my business were making any difference? How I declared that I am writing a book (something akin to an opus)?

Well, that brings me to this random week in September that began with my participation in a video and ended with the speech I gave to those high school students. At least that is one set of doubts that have been silenced.

I have unconsciously begun to say yes to things that take me outside of my comfort zone. Earlier this year it was accepting an invitation to take a whirlwind solo trip to New York City. This summer it was deciding to rent a bike while on vacation with a baby seat attached. It has also meant stepping up to take on responsibilities other than caregiving and mothering, such as fundraising and jumping back into community work. It has meant taking risks with uncertain outcomes, and accepting in advance that everything will work out in the end.

I volunteered to participate in this video on maternal health. I am certain that I didn't truly think through all of the consequences of sharing such personal details of my life, and after the fact, I have been rather gun shy about broadcasting it. Yet, I am proud to have offered my perspective and hope that someone will be inspired by my experience.

I attended my first Congressional Black Caucus Annual Legislative Conference in years, which was notable for just allowing me an opportunity to leave the house for "work". Then came the big invitation to be a high school retreat speaker, which was quite a big deal. I responded to a Facebook message from my line sister that asked me for assistance. I naturally assumed that I was being asked for legal advice, so when I received her sister's call, I was completely caught off guard by her request to offer a message of hope to her students. While she was explaining the idea to me, my mind vacillated between why me and how do I politely decline...not for any particular reason, but just because. I asked her why and she offered up her reasons, and I ignored my doubts and said yes.

The choice to say yes was surprising because I wouldn't have imagined that I had anything of value or consequence to say to high school students. I thought about experiences that might relate to where they are and wrote those thoughts down. I worried about over-thinking, about talking too long, and about boring them, and I included all of that in my presentation. Since I am not a natural public speaker, I figured that it would be better to be honest and to use what I would think of as deficits as my strengths. And apparently, it worked.

That is the same philosophy I am bringing to writing this book--just putting what I have to offer on the page. I am already over-thinking, rambling on for too long, and not as exciting or riveting as I would like, but I am writing anyway. I have grand ideas and hope that maybe a few of those come together, but I am also going to ground myself by just doing my best. I am going to keep stepping out on faith alone because staying safe and dry in the boat has kept me safe and dry...and adrift. It's okay to get wet every now and then.

Just Go With It

I've done some crazy out-of-my-comfort-zone stuff lately, and I'm about to keep it going with even more outrageousness. Because dreams aren't always built with blueprints.

I have been restless since the last full week of July when I felt a sense of uneasiness and agitation about my future. I can't say whether these are symptoms of a mid-life crisis, or if I am really taking stock of my life and trying something new, but I had an epiphany of sorts after I wrote about my fear of success. It feels kind of corny to suggest that the stars aligned for me in that moment, but yeah, maybe that is exactly what happened.

That week I decided to stage a photo shoot to promote the new tees for my Busy Black Woman Vote Campaign. I believe my inspiration began with the election results in the Alabama Senate race because all of the post-election analysis suggested that it was the organizing and turnout of black women in the state that helped to elect Doug Jones over the pedophile (and I will never understand why that was even a close contest). Then it was a series of stories about how more women were becoming involved in the political process in response to what happened in 2016, so I designed a new shirt. I ordered a prototype of the shirt and wore it to a rally in February. Then I left it to hang in my bathroom for several weeks to collect dust.

Fast forward to May when I hosted a voter engagement panel at my church. It was poorly attended and I was discouraged by the amount of work I put into planning that went unacknowledged (another issue for another time). But somehow that motivated me to proceed with the shirt, so I placed a limited order. After I wore that shirt to my local primary, I decided to place another order for the full range of sizes, of which there are 18 unsold shirts...

I forgot to mention that I want to donate a portion of the sales to the National Voter Registration Day effort. And I made that donation last week even though I still have 18 unsold shirts.

I also have unsold coffee/tea mugs, shoe bags, and the remainders from the original order of shirts I made several years ago when I had the bright idea to design a shirt to accompany the Busy Black Woman blog. So far this year, I have sold a few, including the one I sold last week.

It was a random decision on a Thursday morning that resulted in this:

(Oh, and by the way, that is another shirt prototype in the photo.) There was also this unexpected turn of events on Twitter the following day. And now I've decided to write a book.

I used to think that the great book I would write would be a work of fiction, but I don't write fiction. I read fiction. And I am such a snob about the types of fiction that I prefer that I believe I would be an even worse perfectionist about any attempt and never get the damn thing written. Because I actually started to write a fictional story several years ago about a well-to-do church family in a southern city and I swear Greenleaf is probably what it could have been if I had just kept at it. (Yes, I believe that).

So I am going to write a book about my life that is not really a memoir or autobiography, but one that maybe folks will read. And I decided to write this declaration out so that I can have it bug me whenever I don't spend enough time working on it. I probably won't be telling too many people about it, but it is my hope that once the effort is complete, I will be in a space where I am no longer afraid of success. Which means for now, I only have to succeed at finishing the manuscript.

Step It Up

So here I am again, using this space to write out my confessions because I still haven't summoned the courage to confide in anyone else about my anxieties.

Straight to the point, the crux of my dilemma is that I am buying into other people's dreams without knowing quite how to get the same kind of investment in mine. Not even from my friends.

Especially not from my friends. I guess I need to specifically ask people to support my efforts, like the high school classmate who asked me to support her book party. Or the teacher whose self-published book I just purchased without knowing if it would actually be useful to my kid. Or the classmate whose granddaughter wants to sell me some makeup (but I haven't called her back yet). Or all of the random stuff I've been buying for the past few days because I am obsessed with buying black-themed images for the children in my life.

I gave away a box of stuff from a subscription service that has been sending out duds lately...I should just cancel, but I keep thinking that I will get something interesting and worthwhile. I decided to give away the two books that I bought as gifts, but forgot that I had ordered a boy-themed puzzle to give away as a gift. So I guess we're keeping that one for a bit until the next wave of birthday parties begins. My brother thinks that the backpack I bought my niece was too expensive since she could just have a plain one from Costco. I bought custom note cards for two friends for their birthdays. I probably have more stuff coming, most of these items purchased to support other black businesses.

And I am proud to be in this mode and to have the means to do so. I just wish I could get myself together to see the same success.

I keep thinking that I am afraid of failure, but that isn't it since I have halfway put myself out there. Failure wouldn't even be the worst thing, since I am still obscure enough to simply fade away (and I've done that). I am afraid to succeed.

And I am in tears because I can't believe that. I won't believe it. Because that voice inside of me keeps telling me to move forward, take the chance. And it is getting louder and more persistent than the other one that's telling me to stay where I am.

The devil is a liar. The devil is a liar. The devil is a liar.

Stay tuned (and pray for me)...

Talking to Myself

I haven't written in this space in quite a while, but that's because I've been "building" over at Busy Black Woman. And I can't say for sure what that means.

I have 128 followers on the FB page. I get on average 20 reads of anything I write on that blog. I'm up to 18 followers on Instagram. Every now and then, I post something that reaches more than 25 people on Facebook (today I reached more than 120 people by posting an article about Pat McGrath). Little by little; bird by bird.

I am still very restless and anxious and unsure about the future. I know that this is the precise moment when someone should send me one of those memes about a person just about to have a breakthrough, but they quit and so it never happens. But since that hasn't happened (I checked), I will share that Ann Taylor Loft is having a sale and so is Nordstrom.

But then I found this:

But I have several dilemmas. I don't have a clue what my breakthrough is supposed to be. Do I want to sell some tee shirts? Yes. I have a few good reasons: (1) I don't want to monetize my blog with third party ads; (2) I think I have something clever to say; and (3) I'm making an investment in my work and I can't afford to give everything away. Do I want to be a tee shirt vendor? Not really, because I am a writer. But, I am trying to build a following, and I heard a voice that told me to do this. And I am not kidding. I listened to a voice that told me to invest in myself in this way.

Of course, in writing this, I am admitting that I have doubts. I am beginning to think that I was just telling myself to try something different and bold. And maybe this will be a disaster that finds me giving away free tee shirts to my handful of followers at some point in the future.

I needed to write that out--to admit that I am having big time anxiety because I am too proud to tell anyone. I don't have any safe havens for sharing my feelings anymore. This has been true for a long time, which is how and why I write as much as I do, because in any given 24 hour period, the only other person in my orbit is a three year old who doesn't really talk to me either. And while I am convinced she understands me very well, her unwillingness to express herself is just another example of how lonely and pathetic I feel.

Despite my doubts and anxieties, I am serious about investing in myself. I will keep the faith, even though it is smaller than a mustard seed right now because what choice do I have? What do I have to lose other than what I already don't have? And I could gain something...

Because I am a writer. And that is why I am still writing even if I haven't sold anything. I may not be a tee shirt/mug/shoe bag vendor, but I have a message that I want people to receive, even if I have to give some of it away for free. You might get blessed with a tee or a mug, or you might be blessed by something you read. And maybe that will spur you to buy a tee that you might remember to wear to some event where someone sees you. And that person might inquire about the shirt and you will tell them about the blog and it happens to be a day that I have been particularly poignant about some random topic. And maybe that person can change my life. Or maybe you might take your free mug to work and leave it unwashed in the common area where someone comes along and wonders who left behind this cool mug. And maybe that coworker swipes it, so you have to order another one (or you threaten to issue an inter-office beat-down). Either way, another new person discovers the blog.

And so on, and so on...

Struggle Bus

I had a rough week.

I know that it happens, and I guess I was hoping that the wave I was riding after my impromptu Momcation in the city a couple of weeks ago was going to take a little longer to crash. But it did and it feels like everything is upended.

My kid is going through pacifier withdrawal, which looks and feels a lot like crack withdrawal (as if I know anything about that). It is really, really one of the more challenging phases of development we've faced so far. We had been trying to phase it out for at least a year, but we hit a patch where she was depending on it more and more so finally, we just stopped cold turkey. I looked at the calendar and noticed how close we've come to her third birthday and then made a choice--either we make progress on potty training or we dump the pacifier.

I assure you that those choices are on the same level. Of course that means I have a child who I'm still trying to potty train after a full year and have yet to make any real progress.

I have had other issues, and since I'm in a confessional mood, I keep having the same argument with the Hub that keeps ending in the same stalemate. This has gone on for far too long. And despite my hope that he finally got me this week when he finally made a statement that sounded every bit like he has been paying attention...he backslid.

I am feeling very unappreciated by my friends. VERY. And so much so that it triggered a lot of anger that dredged up all of the same emotions I dealt with last year with my brother. So I am angry and sad and depressed (but this time around, I have no appetite for anything other that coffee or soda). And writing about being depressed and sad and angry again.

So I'm not quite sure if I am riding at the back of the struggle bus, driving it, or running after it. But I am still going. And oddly enough I feel a little more in control by having written this all down. Even if I stay on this course, and things stay the same it feels better to admit that things suck right now.

Do It Anyway

I started this post at the BBW blog, but quickly had to conquer my anxiety to post based on a personal deadline I had set. I am re-launching the #HBCUJustGive campaign and got some new promotional ideas to assist in that effort. The big plunge was recording and then posting a companion video.

I am standing at the water's edge with a toe skimming the foam of the crashing waves. I sometimes venture in to the point where the water reaches my calves, but most of the time I am content to walk along the shore line. But tomorrow I plan to dive in.

(I am not sure flowery writing is my thing...)

I have been planning to do something big, but I have been stymied by the familiar doubts that always seem to erect a barrier between my visions and reality. The same thing happened the other night when I spent half the day stressing about whether to wear my new BBW tee prototype (I wore it). The same thing happened back in November after I ordered a box full of mugs that I was reluctant to advertise. The same thing happened a few years ago when I debuted the initial BBW tee and got dissatisfied with the printing on a few of the shirts. Let's not even address my writing process...

I always get in my own way. Perfection is the enemy of the good.

I even designed a shirt for this specific issue, which says to go for it, to do it anyway, to take the plunge, go the extra mile, put your best foot forward, and whatever other maxims are supposed to be encouraging in moments like this. DO IT (with no infringement on Nike's trademark, I might add).

Because you only live once. Because someone else will do it. Because that other person's effort won't even come close to your vision. Because you will always wonder what if. Because if not you, then who and if not now, then when?

A friend asked me to articulate an objective for what I am doing and to be honest with her and myself, I have no idea. I believe I just want to feel like I am doing something other than just watching life go by. After nearly ten years of being a caregiver, and then more than 15 years of working but never making any real professional progress (or enough money), I know that it is time for me to take the extreme risk of speaking for myself and walking on my own. I have had this dream of being a writer for a long time, probably much longer than I even realized but laboring in obscurity or as a ghost writer isn't enough. For all intents and purposes, I am a writer. I write all of the time. And I am a recognized writer. I am just not acknowledged as such in any formal fashion.

So instead of trying to stumble into recognition by random twists of fate, I am trying to build a brand, which is something that I would not have said back in 2005 when I first formally began to blog. Yet, I hope that I can build a following and create some recognition for my voice. I look around and I see that there are plenty of people in the world who can do what I do for better or for worse. I am not in competition with them though, because I am simply looking for my tribe. Looking for others who can relate to my struggles, my ideas, and who are willing to support my dreams.

As I have been on this journey, I have learned to adjust my expectations, which is why after recording several takes and then encountering computer issues that made it difficult for me get the perfect take, I did something that I am learning to become more comfortable doing. I went in with the best take I had and even if only a few people see it, I posted it. But I plan to try again, so perhaps I have other opportunities to hit my own very high bar.

My final point is that by taking this risk (which is not nearly as great as it felt in the build up), I am investing in myself. That is something I haven't really done in a LONG time. I have often taken small sure steps towards a particular goal, but rarely have I ever just jumped without knowing what would happen next. Even when I had my daughter, I feel like the risks were manageable (because until recently, I thought my greater challenge had been in caring for my Mom). And that is exactly why this was such a big deal--I usually have an eagle eye for the road ahead. I have NO IDEA what will become of this, but for the first time, I am okay with not knowing.

So here I go!

Salted Wounds

As this holiday season starts, I think I will be writing a lot more. Because I will be frustrated and lonely and tired and have insomnia and be depressed a lot.

I know I can try to avoid those feelings, just like I know we can avoid certain types of accidents and mishaps. We can try to put things out of reach, we can try to label things as dangerous, we can try but sometimes shit happens.

A few hours ago, my daughter might have drank some liquid soap. And in response to what she might have done, I asked her to tell me which is futile. So I smelled her and immediately took off the clothing that she was wearing that smelled of the soap. Then I took her up to the bathroom to wash the residue from her hands and face. While she was playing in the bathroom sink, I googled the product to determine its danger and then called poison control. I was reassured that she would survive and that no trip to the ER was necessary.

That's my version of what happened. And I think all of those steps were rational and non-panicky and non-judgmental. But according to the Hub, this was my fault. Even though she was downstairs with him when this happened. And I didn't overreact by threatening to pour the liquid soap down the drain or out of the window.

As he was about to lash out at me by pointing the finger at my negligence for leaving the product within her reach, I got mad because I felt that this wasn't the moment to blame either one of us for what could have happened. It was a moment for addressing the crisis at hand, talking to our child about danger, taking care of her immediate needs, and then addressing how we would avoid situations like this in the future. What seemed very straight-forward to me became yet another example of how he has become the most irrationally over-protective father on the planet.

And so I threatened to walk out if he ever tried to accuse me of being a bad or neglectful parent again. And I mean that shit. I will walk the fuck out. Because I'm at the point where it seems clear that would be the only way to get through to him.

Despite how pissed I am, I did not blame him for what happened. As always, I acknowledged that I might have left the product out (if I did, because I used it recently to clean up her vomit that he half cleaned up the other day). But I didn't say anything about the fact that he wasn't watching her at the precise moment she got into the soap. I never say anything about how whenever he is "watching" her, she always finds a way to get into mischief or how his way of "watching" her involves sitting on the sofa reading through his social media. I didn't imply that he was at all culpable for what happened because I didn't feel that way at all. I was just relieved that our daughter was okay.

I am tired of feeling like this is a parenting competition between us instead of us being in this together. Every time we face a challenge like this, his instinct is to become the histrionic, finger-pointing, deflective parent, which is supposed to be his way of resolving the issue. Because chastising me is doing something constructive? If she trips over something, he moves the item and then complains about my carelessness or about how I've given her too much stuff.

How is everything that happens my fucking fault? And how are we teaching her to face the world if he prefers to change the world instead of teaching her to deal? Who is the parent with the real problem here?

I'm just venting at 3am. I went to sleep but I woke up and needed to get some of this off my chest. I don't have anyone to talk to about anything anymore. I pray, and I know God hears me. But I am often unsure if I'm praying for the right things if I'm essentially saying and feeling the same thing.

Mom Ashamed

I am just going to admit that yes, I write a lot about my struggles as a mother, which might suggest that yes, this is pretty much a Mommy blog...which is consistent with most things about my life, totally the opposite of what I want.

I had a meltdown today in response to my daughter's meltdown. I threw her pacifier out of the moving car when it failed to keep her from screaming at me about whatever it was she wanted. I yelled. I cursed. I cried. I detoured to a nearby playground to get her to walk out her frustration (and to do the same for myself) and she refused. So I walked off and paced the tennis courts. When I decided that my "walk it off" idea wouldn't work, I drove us home.

I am so tired. She's only two. I am not going to make it if things continue the way they have.

I felt this way a few years ago when I reached a similar frustrated boiling point with my Mom. I had tried everything I could think of to interact and engage her, and everything was met with her treating me like she hated me. The worst period of her treating me like shit were during my pregnancy. She was so mean-spirited, and it seemed like no noticed or cared. Until the day I stormed out of the house after a particularly nasty exchange when I asked her to allow me to do something and she refused. My brother must have overheard, and finally came upstairs, but as far as I'm concerned, his concern was for my Mom and not much for me.

That's pretty much how I feel all the time during this Toddlersaurus phase (and honestly, since I was six months pregnant). No one gives much of a shit about me.

I do all of the heavy lifting, but if she has an unusual bruise on her leg, the entire world has to come to a stop to determine if we need to spend the night in the ER. When I was swollen and retaining fluid during her first month (steadily pumping myself with vitamins and bleeding and everything else to breastfeed and just adjust to everything), I was sent to the doctor (not taken, but sent on my own). Her discomfort is met with concern. Mine is met with indifference.

I fucking hate everybody right now. EVERYBODY.

I hate my Mother for being sick. I hate my Dad for being helpless. I hate my brothers for being men. I hate my sister in law for being so distant. I hate my other in-laws for living in New York. I hate my friends for never offering to do anything for me or my daughter. I hate how motherhood has isolated me. I hate my husband, period.

And I hate myself for not being the person I had hoped to be. I hate that the only way I can express myself is through writing that no one ever reads. I hate that I won't publish this (on BBW where I started writing this) because I am chicken shit and am more nervous of people judging me. I hate that the anxiety of not wanting to be judged has made it nearly impossible for me to ask for help.

Sh** Storm

I lost it a couple of hours ago with the Hub and the Toddlersaurus. I was in the living room (cleaning up, as usual), when I found the pages of one of her books covered in crayon scribble.

Earlier this afternoon, I had to practically bathe this child in a restaurant bathroom sink because she had an accident and sat all in it, without even gesturing that things were squishy and runny in her diaper. Hours earlier than that, she tore down the lower bar in her closet because I wanted to change her diaper and get her dressed before we needed to leave for my dentist appointment.

I also wasted a good part of the morning/evening in search of a shoe bag. In the course of that search, I found the doll that typically travels in my ginormous Mom bag that had been missing for the past week. I'm sure that if I keep digging, I will find other things I've misplaced.

The Facebook crowd advises me to place the kid in day care to give her regular interaction with other children. And that is definitely something that I believe is necessary, but as long as I am not working and not actively looking for a job, I can't justify the expense. We need new bedroom furniture and updated plumbing. I prefer that she returns to the Montessori program that she attended this summer, but it is pricey. Yet, I might be willing to sell coffee at Starbucks to pay them because I thought it was just that great for her (small class, very diverse, close to home).

While she's gone during the day, I could attempt to take back control of this house...

I'm mad at the Hub for being so damn inattentive. To everything. Except her wants. Today, after I used half a pack of wipes to clean her up, he gave her candy. After I confronted him about the scribbling in the book, he read her two bedtime stories. TWO.

I'm mad that I don't have a physical Mom Squad. I have a community online, which is great, but it would be nice to physically talk to another parent with a toddler in my orbit. Otherwise, I am flying blind. (Actually, I am flying blind and have flown into all kinds of isht along the way.)

I'm mad at my family for not offering to help me EVER. No one ever calls me out of the blue to say "Hey, can I take the Toddlersaurus to wherever?" Not a one. And I don't expect that to change, so that frustrates me.

I'm mad that I am always doing unto others, but yeah *crickets*

I'm mad because when I think that others tried to do unto me, they might have been told that Mr. Inattentive had everything under control. And they believed him.

I'm mad because I read that Harvey Weinstein story in the New Yorker and wow. Phuck him! I'm also still mad that it was a year ago that we were still digesting the shock of this Clown's election to the White House. I'm mad that Roy Moore could win this Senate seat in Alabama, and despite all the haranguing, he will provide a solid vote to repeal Obamacare so all will be forgotten and forgiven. I'm mad because we've had 52 weeks of insanity all because we made some progress.

We're Chumped...but Not Out

If the past few months (weeks, days, hours) have anything to teach us, we can expect that the guy in the White House will do something outrageous and offensive before the end of the month. My guess is that it will either happen by Saturday, Aug. 26 (Women's Equality Day), but definitely no later than Monday, Aug. 28 (which is the March on Washington commemoration). It is his nature to be offensive, especially if we expect him to be otherwise.

Quick pause: I began writing this earlier in the day, BEFORE the pardon (mentioned in the next paragraph) was issued. This guy trolls us even in the midst of a natural disaster bearing down in the form of a Category 4 Hurricane! SMH

So it's way past time for us to collectively adjust our expectations so that we can stop acting alarmed when he baits an overreaction by his ridiculous behavior. Of course he looked up at the eclipse without those special glasses. Of course he went forward with an ill-timed rally in Arizona and flirted with the possibility that he will pardon the racist sheriff. Of course he defended the white nationalists, neo-Nazis, and the Confederacy. Of course he is feuding with Congress. Of course he has bankrupted the Secret Service. Of course he thinks it will be perfectly fine to shut down the government over a stupid wall.

And this was all the nonsense of just this week!!!

It will never stop. Because some of our fellow Americans thought he would be their man in Washington who would drain the swamp, or just stick it to the man (who was Obama, I think), there is no stopping this guy from making a giant ass of himself every chance he gets. So all of our FB haranguing about all of the damage he has done to our country, all of the defriending and blocking of your high school classmates, all of the counter-trolling, etc...I mean, keep doing it if it makes you happy. However, just know that it will make not an iota of difference.

His supporters love him and will continue to love him. They will send their teenage daughters out into the world to defend him like these young ladies here:

Or they will arm their sons and nephews with tiki torches and pretend that their outrage is really about old forgotten statues that no one cared about in communities where they don't live (and most of them don't even know why they're still standing):

Or they will send out their religious hacks to condemn your faith/patriotism/humanity:

Or they will huddle up in their posh owner's box to hatch a plan to discredit a modern-day John the Baptist for taking a knee during the anthem (you know, since football is like a religion for some of you, I thought I would analogize):

I could keep going, but I don't wish to post a picture of him on my blog, especially not the most recent one from the rally this week that prominently featured a legitimately unhinged black supporter. In a classic product placement move worthy of a Clio, "Mike" was intended to dispel the notion the Trumpets are racist/sexist/stupid. Or whatever.

I'm just putting it all out here to illustrate the point that he is here to stay. Remember when he said that he could shoot someone in Times Square and not lose any support? Well...??? Sure, he hasn't done that yet, but give him time.

Nothing will rid us of this troublesome honey badger. He don't care and we are definitely stuck with him until January 21, 2021. Now that is not a statement of resignation, but it is the truth because there won't be an impeachment. Believe me. There is no infrastructure in place to make that happen. This Russian probe is totally going to be the Iran-Contra hearings all over again. The fall guy might be someone expendable, like Don Jr., but that's why his Dad floated out the prospect of pardons. His congressional opposition consists of disorganized Democrats and Paul Ryan supporters. Mitch McConnell is his bitch. He's surrounded himself with military generals. He's been making friends with every authoritarian on the planet. And he has the nuclear codes.

I am not arguing that we give up, but I am just suggesting that we face the facts. Our energy is better spent counting down the 1,245 days until he boards that helicopter for the last time on our dime. Which means we do EVERYTHING to remind him of our disdain and odium. We use the same grassroots organizing tactics that have resulted in every other major social advancement in our country. We organize. We march. We rally. We keep making cool protest signs. We light candles for the Notorious RBG. We educate ourselves and our children. We protect our prophets (like Kaepernick); we mourn our martyrs (like Heather Heyer).  We raise our voices. We VOTE in 2018, and again in 2020, and every subsequent election. We find the folks who erected this chicken on the ellipse and mass produce miniature inflatable duplicates to pass around at his rallies like beach balls. We RESIST!

Gods and Generals

I think I want to go back to teaching American Government and History at the precise moment when Donald J. Trump boards Marine One and they take him to Andrews AFB so that he can fly back to his tower in New York City. Or wherever, so long as he is headed out of town NEVER to return as the Commander in Chief.

I know that I might end up teaching a few students who were supporters of his, and that we may or may not debate the disaster that was his Presidency. I know my position on him will be easy to discern from the absolute glee that might emanate from me, but there is another reason: I want students to truly understand how our government and system are supposed to work without the distraction of "alternative facts" and false equivalencies.

I wrote a screed on my FB page the other day in which I invoked the concerns I have about the current President's misleading interpretations of our government functions. How if he were a student of mine, he would fail...but not because I wouldn't have tried my best to impart knowledge, but because I'm convinced he would try his best not to receive it. For only a person who resists sound instruction would believe that there is ultimate power invested in the President despite the fact that our government consists of three co-equal branches. And then continue to act as if his executive powers are not subject to judicial review or congressional veto. Despite the fact that he, as a private citizen, spent the better part of the last four years cheering on the very checks and balances of power as exercised by his co-equal partners.

In addition, I need him to learn a more comprehensive version of American History--the story that offers a more in-depth understanding of both our country's founding after the Revolution and its near destruction during the Civil War. Because if the President understood those two crucial points in our history, he would not have casually and recklessly thrown out the suggestion that once statues of Confederate generals come down, so too would statues of our slave-holding Founding Fathers.

So let's unpack the difference, in anyone needs a tutorial--the Founders established this country, the Confederates tried to destroy this country. And to offer a little more nuance, in case there are more questions, slavery was bad. The Founders who owned slaves have that cloud hovering over their legacies, that stain permanently set in their expensive linens. And there is no denying that the Confederate generals who fought to maintain the southern economic engine fueled by the free labor of slaves also share that same permanent stain. Yet more than a clouded legacy or permanently blood-stained clothing, they also bear the responsibility for the death of every life lost in that struggle. The Confederate generals who took up arms in rebellion against the nation founded by those slave-holding Founders do not deserve an elevation of status on par with the Founding Fathers. In fact they shouldn't even have a proper adjective capitalized with the letter "C"...

But that is where I stray into opinion, so let me pivot back to facts. As difficult as it might be for me to separate the ownership of slaves in the 18th Century from owning slaves and defending that practice to the death in the 19th Century, that is not the point of comparison that distinguishes the two groups of men. And I know this because of my recent trip to Mount Vernon.

My Niece, who loves all things George Washington (thanks to the clever marketing genius of the Nationals' Racing Presidents), my daughter and I visited Mt. Vernon this week. I had tried to take them back in July, but I misread the hours of operation, so when I had a chance to take them on Monday, we took the drive down and had a chance to see most of the property. She loved it, I appreciated being able to see it through her eyes, and my hope is that she will continue to learn more about the founding of this country.

When George Washington decided to seek a second term as President of the entire nation, it was at a moment when it could have fractured along the very same regional lines that divided the nation 69 years later. In contrast, Robert E. Lee (ironically both a distant cousin of Washington and also his great-grandson in-law), chose exploit that rupture in 1861 when he opted to serve the Confederacy against the Union with his home state of Virginia.

Could it be argued that Washington, a traitor to England, should be remembered for that as a permanent sin? Well, the British people have opted to honor Washington in Trafalgar Square with a bronze statue presented to them by the Commonwealth of Virginia! So far, I can't say whether he is honored similarly in Canada, but that is none of my business...

The point is that not all monuments deserve public veneration. These confederate statues of generals might deserve a place of honor in communities where they did more than lead a rebellion against their country. So for example, Washington and Lee University, named for both generals and their contributions to that institution, can and should honor General Lee in whatever manner they deem appropriate. It is a private institution, and as such, the students who choose to matriculate there do so with the understanding that it has a specific history. But that does not mean that Lee deserves to have statues dedicated to his memory maintained at public expense in every city across the Commonwealth, so if some communities decide that he should retired to greener pastures, then that isn't erasing his memory insomuch as it is relocating it to a more appropriate venue.

Our country's history is very complicated, which is the other reason why we need a better understanding of those complexities. We need to agree that there are facts, and various opinions, and that what we teach are the facts and not the opinions. We don't need history taught by pundits who have a vested interest in promoting a certain perspective instead of uncomfortable truths. And we certainly don't need history reduced to 140-word character tweets dispatched by a leader desperate to prove his legitimacy. And as great as it is that most young people develop an interest in history because of interpretations in popular culture, this isn't actually a history lesson either:

But it is funny.

The Last of the Rebel Yells

This piece evolved from an initial intent to post an article on the Busy Black Woman FB page featuring the faces of the "Unite the Right" protestors from Charlottesville. When the article and my commentary failed to post on my FB page (very unusual), I began writing the piece below in response, also in reflection from having attended my family reunion in Fredericksburg, VA. Here is part of what I wrote:

Unfortunately, the article I tried to post yesterday with the photo of the Unite the Right protestors did not post, nor did my message. But today, after all of the chaos, terror, destruction, and the unfortunate deaths, I have another opportunity to express my utter despair at what happened in Charlottesville yesterday.

As all of that nonsense was going on, I was in Fredericksburg for my family reunion. As a child, we would travel to "the country", at least once a year the second weekend in August to reunite those family members who had remained in Fredericksburg with those who had migrated to DC and Philadelphia. I hadn't been to one of these events since my grandmother passed away more than 20 years ago, for a variety of reasons I may share later. On the drive down I-95, we passed an enormous confederate flag that has been erected just past Quantico and right before Warrenton, VA.

So, just over an hour's drive away from the Nation's Capitol, the confederacy has resurrected itself on the side of a major interstate. I saw it the last time I drove down to Fredericksburg for my Aunt's funeral last fall; this time I asked my niece to take a photo so that we could post it online. She didn't get the picture, and now that I have had a chance to digest what occurred yesterday, I believe it was the hand of God maneuvering things so that we would not continue to spread the hate that flag represents. Of course, my reason for wanting to post a picture was to highlight that very sentiment, but it doesn't need to be broadcast by me.

I don't know all of the details of what happened yesterday in Charlottesville because we were absorbed in our bubble of reacquainting ourselves with distant relatives. But I was reminded of the very powerful reason why my grandmother and her favorite cousin left the "county" for DC and Philly so many decades ago--they wanted a better life for their children. They understood the limitations of opportunity for black Southerners, so they joined that Great Migration as young women and later established branches of our family tree in northern communities like so many of their peers. I can only imagine that some incident or mindset, similar to what was on display in Charlottesville yesterday, is what spurred them to leave.

I posted it here because in the days since the protests, I have been reflecting a LOT about what this all means today in 2017. Not that I had no expectations that the backlash to the Obama era had begun and ended with the last election (because, sadly this is only the beginning of the counter-revolution), but it builds on a theme that I felt compelled to express a few weeks back on July 4th. I framed that piece about being woke enough to cautiously appreciate that holiday, but now I want to stake out an even bolder position--that our celebrations of this country serve to appreciate our evolution, and then to demand that we continue to strive towards becoming a more perfect union.

Because these grand American ideals are for everyone.

If your ancestors died to preserve ideals that did not expand rights or that were meant to exclude people, then that is a reason to mourn, not celebrate. Your pride is rooted in something that is the very antithesis of liberty and the pursuit of happiness, the ideals of our Founders--not the Confederate generals whose cause you defend. When you choose to stand for racial segregation, gender inequality, religious intolerance, and any other form of systematic oppression, it betrays them and every person who has ever shed blood for this country.

And of course, as I was writing this piece, the Trumpet sounded off again...and so I'm convinced that whenever I think I've missed the window to respond to his nonsense, I just need to give him six hours to say or do something else outrageous.

Too much has happened to unpack everything in one piece. So here are some themes I hope to address as I continue to examine my counter position to MAGA--America is for all of us:

1. We all hear your dog whistle, Mr. President, so no need trying to conceal it by deliberately changing the subject and getting angry. No more fake nuclear crises or hollow threats to fire members of your Cabinet.
2. Ironic that no one thought to be this overt during the tenure of the first black President. The worst you could muster up against Obama were racist cartoons, but this angry white mob thing is really quite a step forward. Feel free to march through the hood on your way back to the suburbs.
3. My Grandma Viola and her Cousin Ruth, and my other Grandmother Amanda and the many other thousands of black folks who migrated out of the South clearly understood why you march to preserve your old confederate monuments. And they aren't spinning in their graves over any of this because Barack Obama was the real shock...this backlash was to be expected.
4. There is no slippery slope when it comes to venerating Founding Fathers and Confederate generals. While many people have issues with our slave-owning Framers, most of us can see the difference between honoring the first President of the United States and honoring the President of the Confederacy. They are not equals.
5. This title of this piece comes from the name of a roller coaster at King's Dominion, an amusement park located in Virginia, north of Richmond. For years, I never knew to associate the name of the coaster with anything connected to the confederacy, but I had a doh moment a few years ago when I was teaching. That's how embedded certain colloquialisms are...yet, we need to be mindful as we evolve as a society. If these truly are harmless symbols, then moving them should not evoke such emotion.
6. Finally, thank you for leaving your bed sheets at home so that the world could really see your faces. Like many people, I was expecting to see more rowdies from the MAGA crowd because they are easier to ridicule. But color me shocked to see the IT guy at work, the guy who sells life insurance, the guy who manages the electronics store, and the kid's soccer coach. All clad in your Ralph Lauren polo shirts (he's a Jew, btw). 

Woke on the Fourth of July

This was initially published on the Busy Black Woman blog on Bastille Day (yeah I know), and I was just going to let that be until I saw this fuckery on Facebook. I have an updated message for folks like him, read on:

My Dad was woke back before we knew that would be the thing to be...because when we were growing up, his woke-ness was uncool. It was the 80s and as a proud, yet jaded veteran of the Civil Rights Movement, he restricted us from participating in anything he deemed to be counter-revolutionary. So we didn't watch the Dukes of Hazzard or any classic cartoons with racial caricatures (at least, not when he was around). He always belonged to a black bank. Our African names, black dolls, and annual observance of African Liberation/Malcolm X Day were nods to his embrace of pan-Africanism before everyone else caught on in the 90s. And my Dad hates Ronald Reagan, John Wayne, Elvis Pressley, and Gone With the Wind.

Of course, like most people, his woke-ness could be inconsistent whenever he hit the snooze button. We couldn't play "Cowboys and Indians" although we were avid Washington football fans (even before Doug Williams). He won't celebrate Kwanzaa. For years he thought OJ was framed. And while we could happily spend the day at the beach, eat barbecue, and shoot off our little fireworks on July Fourth, it was never in celebration of America's birthday. So it made me beam with pride upon seeing how so many of my friends posted Frederick Douglass's powerful speech, "The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro" last week since Daddy had made me read it years ago as part of his stance against celebrating American Independence.

For the record, my take on July Fourth falls somewhere between my Dad's outright hostility and other folks' unbounded enthusiasm. Which means I have no opposition to celebrating the day for what it commemorates, but I reserve the right to remind folks that the struggle for freedom continues. So no, you probably will not catch me wearing my patriotism on my ass like a cheap pair of American flag leggings (made in China). However, I am happy to wave a few sparklers (also made in China) while I recite the words to Langston Hughes' "I, Too" or Claude McKay's "America" or Maya Angelou's "These Yet to be United States". Or even better, as the Toddlersaurus, my Niece, and I belt out our favorite songs from the musical Hamilton.

Just as my Dad and others were disillusioned by the post-Civil Rights era backlash, I can appreciate how disheartening it is to confront the realities of this post-Obama era. From that race-baiting NRA video to the retreat by the Justice Department from protecting the rights of citizens to outright religious intolerance and hostility, it is easy to understand why folks have lost faith. Unfortunately, hypocrisy is as American as pumpkin pie--literally, ever since those eloquent words of equality and liberty were penned by a slaveowner whose "slave mistress" was his wife's half sister.

Despite the wide gulf between our ideals and reality, we too can celebrate America. We can believe in the hope expressed by both the Declaration of Independence and the Frederick Douglass speech because this is our country too. If we can celebrate both men for their greatness while acknowledging their very human weaknesses (Douglass' extracurricular activities), then we must learn to reconcile our disappointments with American shortcomings to our pride in American progress.

Since I mentioned it earlier, it is the genius of Hamilton that reminded me how we are all inheritors of the American legacy. Only in America could a Puerto Rican rapper write a Tony Award-winning musical on the life of an undocumented Caribbean immigrant who ascends from obscurity to notoriety by aligning with a black/brown George Washington. American History is our story too, so marginalizing or othering us doesn't negate that fact.

And in case you might be wondering, I can celebrate America and stay woke. In the words of the prophet known as James Baldwin, "I can love America more than any country in this world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually."

Here's what I added for that idiot in Florida:
I was born here. And since you aren't a Native American, nor did your family come over on the Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria, Mayflower, or on a slave ship, try again. Check your family tree to see if its roots are as deep as mine, because I assure you that your white skin is the only advantage you have. So you can keep your "Go Back to Africa" foolishness.

You can also keep those historical commemorations that have been purposefully sanitized, such as folks' misplaced nostalgia for the Confederacy. Let's be clear that if you insist on dedicating public space to venerate Confederate generals, then it should be okay if we drape those hallowed monuments in white bed sheets...because that is your history too. Or if we install colored water fountain signs nearby, because that is also your history.

And one more thing, now that I'm on a roll, let's address the anti-PC campaigns that want to graft Confederate history onto MLK Day, but don't want to acknowledge Native Americans during Columbus Day...yeah, stop. Ditto for White History Month. Get over yourselves and stop conflating freedom of speech with a license to offend.

It is our history, all of it--the good, the bad, and the shameful. The triumphs and the tragedies. George Washington and George W. Bush. Thomas Jefferson to Barack Obama, and even the current President. Hopefully he'll be history soon enough.

Screaming at the Top of My Lungs

I promised myself that I would not use my BBW blog to air my dirty laundry, and for the most part I have kept that promise. That's why I keep this blog, and why I am grateful that I decided not to continue writing this post over there. Because I am feeling kinda crappy right now.

WHEN AM I EVER GOING TO BE HEARD?

In an argument. By my toddler. By my family when I have a legitimate point of contention. By my friends? By anybody?

Do you know how frustrating it is to feel like NO ONE gives half a crap about you unless you are fucking up? How it feels to think that nothing you do ever matters because to some folks it is just your job? That you aren't even remotely special?

I feel like that right now. Right now, just as I want to eat my feelings (which was something I never did before this year). Right now as I am really thinking about running the fuck away and not telling anyone where I'm headed. Right now when I want to reach out, but don't think anyone has the time to understand why I am just feeling hopeless and useless and perennially frustrated by life.

When is it my turn to be first? Why can't I make demands and someone feel obligated to meet them just because? Why am I being high maintenance when I want something done a certain way? Why can't I have expectations? Why don't I ever feel appreciated? Can I get some flowers that someone actually took the time to look at to make sure that they weren't dying (instead of buying the cheap ones because they were cheap)? Can I not be given the lecture that I ought to be grateful for being an afterthought instead of not being thought of at all (which is the definition of afterthought, n'est pas)? Can someone call me and reach out to check in on me from time to time, instead of reaching out to ask for a favor? Why can't I be needy? Why does my loneliness feel more like normal the older I get?

Why so many questions, you might ask because from your perspective, I should be happy. And I get the green grass theory, which is true when you realize the reason why their grass is greener--someone waters and cares about that other lawn. If I am not watering my grass, it should be brought to my attention so that I can do a better job. I don't have a problem being told that I am doing something wrong. I have a problem with always being told that I am doing something wrong in response to telling someone else to modify their behavior.

I have a few other issues, but I will get to my laundry instead.

More Than Enough

I need to write to remind myself of an important point, lest I drift backwards into self-doubt and depression: I am okay. I am doing my best, and on some days, I need to take comfort in the fact that my best is much better than those who do nothing but complain. And I'm giving myself this pep talk because I got flustered one evening last week in a true Charlie Foxtrot moment. By the end of the night, I had let a lot of that anxiety go, but I decided to write about it anyway so that I can have this to reread whenever I want to crawl back into a shell of self-loathing.

I am doing more than enough.

Instead of providing a turn-by-turn account of the events of the evening prior to that moment when I was running back and forth between answering the front door, helping my Mom in the bathroom, and giving my kid a bath...I will simply say there was a lot going on. And I was by myself with my 70 year old mother and my 2 year old daughter. Even if my choices at any given moment are questionable, at the end of the night I can at least say that I did something other than complain.

I hit the wall at the beginning of this year with my emotions, and I know that the stress of my mother's illness has been difficult for everyone. Chronic illness can devastate lives in so many ways. It ruins relationships and it can have reverberations for years. I have been stressed to the breaking point trying to manage caregiving and parenting, so much so that I essentially dropped out of a lot of activities and commitments. I don't lament the need to take such a drastic step, but I have been frustrated that it came to this point.

Attempts to address some of our issues as a family of caregivers unearthed a lot of resentment and unexpressed feelings. It also made things worse...but perhaps the only way to address an issue is to expose its ugliness. I am still open to the possibility of making peace, but I have accepted that it might not happen. Therefore, for anyone else who might be going through a similar situation or who might have to face the unforeseen chaos of chronic illness, here is a quick list of some of what I have learned these past eight years:

1. Communication is everything. Communication is everything. Communication is everything. And communication is not just about telling folks your positions or how you feel about the situation. It is also about how you listen. I spent a great deal of time communicating information that was not being processed or that was being ignored, or perhaps most importantly was not what folks wanted to know. I honestly do not have any tips about how to get others to listen, but if folks are not speaking to each other, listening to what is being said, or accepting the truth of what is being expressed, then you will have misunderstandings and chaos.

2. Caregiving is a 24-hour job and it involves everyone in the family. Everyone can contribute and no contribution is too small. However, if there is no contribution then that is a problem. When there is a need for an outside caregiver, it does not absolve anyone else of having to take part. It might diminish certain duties, but family care is still vital.

3. Offering criticism is not the same as offering assistance. As far as I am concerned, it is the same as doing nothing. Opinions are assholes...everybody has one.

4. Most non-immediate family and friends have no idea how to offer help or to even express support. So I don't hold that against them. I actually appreciate the benign gestures of just checking in because it helps to know that folks are thinking about us even when they can't do anything specific.

5. Caregivers often will not ask for help. Although that statement applies specifically to my family, I suspect it is true of most families. The vast majority of the time I will not tell outsiders what is really going on with my Mom, for any number of reasons. Thus, whenever people tell me to let them know if I need anything, I file that away with point #4 in mind. It isn't personal nor is it pride, but it is usually a case of not wanting to include too many people in our inner circle. Too many cooks spoil the broth. However, whenever we do ask for assistance, it is because we truly need something.

6. Caregivers have been thrust into an unexpected scenario, which ultimately becomes a perpetual series of unexpected scenarios. Thus, mistakes are bound to happen, and I have felt guilty about every single one. Yet, I rarely have time to lick my wounds, so yes, I am ultra-sensitive to criticism (#3) especially when I am the person who has to make the hard choices. If you would do the job better, then by all means...

7. Compromise. No caregiving situation is ideal. And when there are several people involved in the process, there are that many opinions and ways of doing things. Each person means well, and choosing not to take every suggestion is not personal--often it is a matter of feasibility. You do not lose if you don't get everything you want, but you get nothing if you walk away.

8. Children should not be shielded from the scenario. I decided that if my daughter was going to  know her only living grandparents, she will know them as they are at every stage of her life. She also needs to be prepared for the future. I was exposed to the illness of my grandparents and had to actively participate in their care, which I believe prepared me for dealing with this very situation. God forbid if my daughter has to care for me or her father, but at the very least she will have had a blueprint.

9. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Not just a song, but a reality, especially when dealing with your adult siblings, your even older parents and their siblings, and the outside paid caregivers. All of your family dynamics will be impacted by the illness, and all of your family issues will resurface as well. Respect is making the choice to put the needs of others above your need to be right.

10. Caregivers need support. We need friends. We need family. We need breaks. We need someone to recognize when the situation has gotten too overwhelming and we're in too deep to notice. We need someone to make that benign statement about showing up whenever needed and actually doing so without being asked. We need someone else to remind us that we have to live as well because the last thing anyone needs is an additional chronic illness to manage.