Invisible Mother

“I made sure…I’ve exposed him to…I have planned for…,” those are the comments that struck me as I read the publisher’s page in the latest edition of BE (Black Enterprise) written by the powerful and driven Earl Graves, Sr.

He has officially handed over his seat to his son, Butch, and like any father would be, he is beside himself with glee, pride and joy that his corporation will be run by a second generation.

I am completely angered by Earl Graves, Sr proclamations, “I made sure, I’ve exposed him to, I have planned for…” What was his wife of 41 years doing during all this exposing and planning, eating bon-bons?

Hmmm, I don’t think so.

While Earl Graves Sr. was building an empire, his wife was most likely building men.

Did Earl Graves Sr. take him to sports practice, or to school? Did he make breakfast, lunch and dinner, sit and listen to the endless, run on drivel that possesses boys from the age of 8 – 11? Did he get up with him, night after night, or worry about him when he was sick? Did he arrange for a babysitter when it came to attending all those important dinners?

Who made sure the homework was done to get Butch into Yale? In fact, who probably helped him with the application?

“I’ve exposed him…” Who exposed him? Who talked to Butch? Who explained things to him when his father was at work for all those long hours? Who soothed him after his first break up? Who explained to him what “nigger” meant?

Now, to be fair, I don’t know this family. Maybe he and his wife have some kind of arrangement. But I do know, in Mr. Earl Graves’ publisher’s notes, he took more credit than was due for raising his son.

Mrs. Earl Graves Sr. also raised Butch.

And, in my fury, I realize, it’s not about him or her really. It’s about the model that was just presented to the readers, a model of a strong man and his invisible wife. And suddenly I am fearful for mothers and feminism as a whole. This model was acceptable enough to print, acceptable enough for him to feel his readers will embrace, understand and support it. His view is acceptable enough to be seen as normal, and that leaves me bothered.

My Black History Month

“P is white like daddy and I am brown like you. What’s E?[the youngest member of our family]” asked L.

And so begins our discussion about race, I wish I didn’t have to go there. The simplicity of race is easy to explain, the ramifications of race are both painful and disheartening to repeat. Motherhood is hard enough.

I remember when my oldest, at the age of 5, came home from a neighbor’s house, crying. “----- said I couldn’t go on the trampoline because I was black.” I started to interrupt, angrily. “But I’m not black,” my son wailed, talking over me, “I’m brown!” I closed my mouth.

It was at that moment I understood that I was putting my experiences of my life on a child who can’t possibly fathom the issues behind the color of his skin. I let his description sit.

It came up again, months later. “I’m brown like you, and P is white like daddy.” Wanting to acknowledge both the blackness and whiteness in both kids, I fought to keep my mouth closed, to maintain his innocence.

Race hasn’t come up much in our house lately. Perhaps it’s because my kids are in schools where there are other kids that look like them. More likely, kids ages 3 – 8 don’t see the world the way us adults see the world. According to a book called “I’m Chocolate and You’re Vanilla” there are developmental stages to understanding race just like there are developmental stages to understanding that a square peg cannot go into a round hole. Kids use color, among other things, as a descriptor of people. “That brown person…” has no historical significance to my 5 year old. She’s just stating the obvious.

And ya’ know what? For once, this over-explaining, teach-my-kids-everything mother is relieved to know that this is one thing I don’t have to explain yet. The time is coming, though, when I will have to share with him a brutal past and a discouraging future…all because of the color of his skin.



A side note: I challenge all of us, myself included, to THINK differently about someone who is not like you, or me or the people you hang out with. Look at that person and say to yourself "Hello PERSON." If we think differently, then maybe your children and my children will not have to have these conversations.

Hero

I fed my kids ice cream for breakfast this morning. Yup…I have issues with that too. Lest you think complete ill of me, they did have pancakes, real maple syrup and orange juice. If I had had Lunchables in the refrigerator......

I am sure if they tell their teachers, I'll get reported the child services.

That’s ok…I liked being the hero this morning.

Training

“You’re going riding again? You spend more time on your bike than you do with me!” my son said and slammed the door.

He’s right.

I began training in January for an Olympic distance triathlon (swim, bike, run) and have been spending 2-3 hours on Saturday on my bike. I leave before the kids get up and return late morning. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better.

The thing is…I don’t feel guilty. I don’t want to do anything else. I do tight time-constrained training during the week, fitting a swim in before I drop them at school, or running immediately after I have dinner with them. My training is dictated by their schedules or lack thereof. If they’re up at 2:00 am, I’m still rising at 5:30 am to run. Like most of us, I give my children my mind, body, left arm and two thirds of my brain all week and now they want Saturday too? Mmmm, I don’t think so.

Some would call me mean, others just selfish. But why is it, as a mother, I am expected to give all of myself till there is nothing left, even for me? Why is it that when I take care of myself, soothe myself, I am suddenly not fit to parent?

Well ya’ know what? Too bad, kid. Training keeps me sane, and a sane mother is a good mother. I love you, I really, really, do. But I realize I love you that much more after a 2-hour bike ride, because I love myself that much more.

So, I’ll see ya’ around 11:00 on Saturday. Be nice to Dad, okay?