It happened once more, just a year or so ago.
I was at the doctor’s, complaining of low energy. He looked at my chart and saw that I have two small children, at the time ages three and four, and I saw his answer to me in his eyes before he even said it.
Dude, no, I thought, please don’t go there. Don’t say it.
He said it: “Well I mean, you’re a mom. Of course you’re tired.”
I sighed. This again.
Submitted for your approval: your friend walks into the cafe where you’re supposed to be meeting for a cup of coffee together. I know you probably don’t remember what meeting for a cup of coffee is like, but let’s pretend the COVID problem is now well-contained and life is back to some semblance of normal.
To your surprise, your friend walks in, towing some dude behind them. You thought the coffee date was supposed to be just the two of you.
“Hi!” Your friend says. “Hi, hi! Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t decide what to wear.” Your friend notices that…
I’ve been in my share of mom friend groups over the last few years, and for some reason the types in each group stay constant. I mean, sure, we’re all different and special and unique and blahblahblah, but it still seems to happen, no matter what. Here are the types I’ve stumbled upon (I’ve even been all of these at one time or another):
You turn to this friend with your problems all the time. Like, ALL. THE. TIME. To be fair, she always seems to be ready and happy to listen. She always has coffee, tea, and time to…
I’m going to be clear that I am not a relationship expert; I’ve merely made this exact mistake too many times. Learning by Doing, that’s the life for me apparently.
So listen: I get it. I know the scenario: You’re sitting at the end of a long day. Or maybe you’re standing, just staring at a wall and wishing you were allowed to fall asleep where you stand. Your kids have been super needy all day, and you’ve been steadily breaking up fights. You haven’t had much time to think, and your brain is fuzzy as all hell. Maybe you’re…
If you’re like me, you probably still feel like there’s a stubborn spirit somewhere underneath the dirty t-shirt and the stomach full of dinosaur chicken nuggets. You probably wouldn’t call yourself a “rebel” or a “badass” out loud even though you’d kind of like to, because the last rebellious thing you did was return a shirt you bought without the receipt.
I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve got good news for you: the fact that you continue to be yourself every single day is, in itself, an act of rebellion. Being true to yourself is both incredibly easy and…
That’s right, I’m coming out of the gate hot on this one. I’m doing this, because I really wish that this wasn’t an issue. By the way, I’m not talking about anything having to do with kids; no, I’m talking about parental isolation. Fear of judgment. Exacerbated Postpartum Depression. Y’know, things like that. …
I moved around a lot as a kid, but ultimately, I came to settle in a tiny suburb in central Florida. We weren’t anywhere near the only family of color in town, but I can’t say the same for our neighborhood: save for one East Indian family who eventually moved out, I was the only chocolate chip in that cookie for years.
On the outside, things were fine. I had friends, I played regularly with White classmates, and my White teachers adored me and fostered my love for writing as they would in any other child. I was always either…
Far be it from me to ever pretend that I have all of the answers. Just like anyone else I think, I’m finding that every move, every thought, every planned Pinterest activity comes with a reminder of just how little I know about parenting in general.
That being said, I think I can say with absolute certainty, that some of you aren’t giving your children — or yourself — enough credit.
But let’s back up a second. This article comes on the tail of some fallout I received over a tweet I posted. It went a little something like this:
So, I suppose it’s time to give an update on this post.
For those who are just joining us and who’d love a summary: I realized that my love of my hair, which I’d been chemically straightening since I was 12, was actually a deep-rooted, eurocentric…I dunno what to call it…self-racism?…that had come from growing up in a mostly White town where I’d been taught that I was only acceptable when I could be likened to European beauty and behavioral ideals.
Put even simpler: I’d been taught the best parts of me were the parts that were the most “White.”
Assholes are everywhere, we know this. Who counts as an asshole is truly subjective, but the consensus seems to be that dealing with them is miserable and akin to a day of diarrhea and spotty cell phone service.
If you’re like me and you talk about things people don’t like to hear as much as I do, you sometimes deal with more than your share of assholes. It can be emotionally and mentally draining, and it can leave you feeling as if people are trash.
All of them aren’t, but some of them are. …