Anonymous comments on my post titled, “My Dad is Black,”“Anonymous here. I think that honestly discussing race, and acknowledging differences in skin color, in opportunity, in background, in history, would allow us as a society to at least partially do away with the negative connotations those words carry. I ask you what is wrong with calling someone black? What feeling does that give you inside, why do you feel bad about it? I don’t feel bad saying that someone is black — why should I? Should I feel bad when I say that my daughter has green eyes? Should I feel bad when I say I am 5 feet tall? Why should facts like this make us ashamed? I think when we are able to talk about race as a society, we will be halfway to it not mattering.”

I post these questions here because contrary to popular opinion, I don’t have all the answers. I do know, though, that it was jarring to hear a little child who still says “yike” instead of “like” declare, “My dad is black.” And then the next day, I wondered why his dad thought that was racist and felt so offended.

Could it be that he does not consider himself “black,” but rather African? I don’t know. I can’t speak for him.

Your daughter has green eyes. That is a physical description.

You are five feet tall. That’s also a physical description.

“He is black” is not a description. It’s a label. Consider that a description would be more along the lines of “He has chocolate brown skin.”

Anonymous says, “I think that honestly discussing race, and acknowledging differences in skin color, in opportunity, in background, in history, would allow us as a society to at least partially do away with the negative connotations those words carry.” And while this is true, I don’t think that giving a three-year old a racial label for his father is helpful. Furthermore, I think it’s confusing for a three-year old who knows his colors and can see with his own big brown eyes that his dad is brown.

But what do I know?

Nothing says “I am a good housewife,” like a crock pot simmering on the counter. On these days where I manage to think ahead (why I can’t remember that I have to cook dinner
every
single
night
is one of the great mysteries of the human brain) I am so pleased with myself that I tend to ignore the rest of the household chores. I simply rest in my smugness, knowing that we will, indeed, be eating a hearty dinner together. And that makes me look good.

I stayed in bed until the last possible minute this morning (7:50 a.m.), which seemed to alarm my husband, but he didn’t know what I knew. (One of my babies isn’t here today and the toddler arrived late.) I’ve sort of been slouching through this day ever since, with the exception of doing the dishes, washing, drying and folding three loads of laundry, cleaning out the fridge, and getting dinner into the crock pot (barbecued pork, if you really must know).

Tonight, our 7-year old has soccer practice and I managed to schedule my parent-teacher conference with his teacher before he and my husband get back. Which means I’ll have to take my 3-year old with me. Poor planning on my part.

Speaking of my daughter, today she and her buddy were sitting at the base of the stairs. She said to him, “This is frustrating!” As I approached, I could see they were sharing a pack of Oreo cookies which they pilfered from his lunchbox. She couldn’t get the remaining cookies out of the package. I was impressed that she used the word “frustrating” correctly in a sentence.

Of course, kids learn by example, so apparently I use the word “frustrating” often enough to teach my baby girl to say it, too. So now you know.

Well, that’s two hours of my life I’m never getting back. I wish I had read this review of North Country before I saw it.

The two hours felt like three. That’s never a good sign.

The movie was B-o-r-i-n-g–that’s Boring with a capital B.

The only redeeming factor about going to the movie last night was that I wasn’t at home, hearing the normal, natural, regular sounds of children. Some days, I just can’t stand that for one more minute.

I like to see movies that I suspect will be nominated for Academy Awards. I think I made a mistake this time, however. Drat!

In September 2003, I started babysitting a one-year old boy. My daughter is just six weeks older than this boy so they’ve grown into best buddies. They play crazy games with lots of chasing and shrieking, she bosses him around, they fuss at each other, they explore the backyard and lately, she cries when he goes home.

Last week, I was talking with this 3-year old boy, discussing who would be picking him up. His parents have been divorced for almost a year now, and they share custody equally, so one week his mom picks him up and then the next week, his dad picks him up. (The day in question, his dad was due to pick him up–on Wednesday nights, the parent without custody for the week gets to have the boy overnight.) So every afternoon, we talk about which parent is coming. This particular day, I said, “Tell me about your dad.”

And the boy said, “My dad is black.”

This fact was no surprise to me–after all, I can’t possibly overlook the fact that his father is an imposing man with strong African features. He’s from Nigeria, after all, and still speaks with a lilting accent.

But I was shocked, nonetheless, because we don’t use labels to describe people in our house. We’ll talk about their eye color or their hair color or on a rare occasion, their skin color (brownish, my kids will say, or kind of tan or even pink). But never black, white, Asian, Hispanic.

So I gently asked, “Who told you that?”

“Susie.” His 4-year old cousin.

I blinked. Then said, “Tell me about your mom. What about her?”

He said, “My mom is white.”

I said, “What about you?”

He said, “I’m white.” With his big brown eyes, he glanced down at his tan skin when he said that.

I just sighed. Why do we have to use these labels in this first place?

That day, when his father picked him up, the first thing the boy said was, “Dad, you are black!” And his father shrugged and said, “Yes, I am black.” I kind of shrugged. What an awkward moment.

The next day, when his mom picked him up from my house, she said, “Um, did anything racial come up yesterday?”

I told her about the boy saying, “My dad is black.” I told her that he reported his cousin told him that. She said, “Oh.”

Then she told me that the night before, the boy’s dad called her and accused her of being a racist. He said he didn’t want the boy to have to deal with racial issues at his age. She said, “I don’t either!”

Until that day, the boy simply had a dad and a mom. Now, he knows that he has a black dad and a white mom. Does that mean it matters? Does the label make a difference?

Commenting on racial and ethnic issues makes me nervous. If one notices differences, is one a racist? If I don’t mention someone’s ethnic heritage, am I disrespecting their culture? I can never be anything other than a white woman and as such, it’s hard to figure out what I’m allowed to say or not say.

I used to live in an area with a mostly white population. I remember the afternoon we were visiting a church couple and the wife explained about all that she had to leave behind when they left Detroit for northern Michigan. They sacrificed their beautiful home with its white carpets when Detroit began desegregating its schools in 1976. She spoke as if fleeing desegregation was somehow noble and righteous. In their eyes, they rescued their kids from having to go to school with black kids.

I suppose I am a coward because I said nothing, though I felt a queasy in the presence of this woman was seemed unaware of her utter racism.

So I was happy when we moved back here to the Pacific Northwest where our children go to school with a diverse population of kids. We do our best to raise our kids to be colorblind.

But then a child hears from another child who heard from an adult somewhere that some of us are black and some of us are white and some of us wonder why those labels make us cringe. I wonder if the day will ever come when we are all just plain old people who have different colored eyes and different ancestors and different shades of skin?

The object? A blue jump rope.

The boys cut off the handles and tied it into lasso. They swing it around in the backyard and throw it high into the trees. I have no idea what purpose this serves. Who can fathom the reasoning in a boy’s mind?

My daughter found this mangled jump rope. She knew exactly what to do with it. She put the loop around her neck and with one dainty hand, picked up the other end and voila! It was a stethescope.

I murmured to my husband, “Look at her. She’s pretending to be a doctor!”

My husband, aka Mr. Safety, looked horrified and said with alarm, “I don’t like that at all! It’s very dangerous!”

To think a simple jump rope can be so many things to so many people. Lasso, stethescope, noose. Not once has anyone actually jumped rope with it.

(For those of you wondering: Our weekend with a houseguest went very well. I never did get the floor mopped, much to my utter shame, but the world did not come to an end because of my dismal housekeeping skills.)

I came across this map which allows you to add your locations so I can see where you are. Won’t you please play along? There’s a button over in the sidebar, too. (And when I say “you,” I mean all of you who read this blog on a semi-regular basis.) Please? Pretty please?

Oh. And don’t forget to put something in the “shout-out” box. If you don’t (I didn’t originally), you entry won’t show up at all.

[I am reposting this today so everyone can play along. That’s right. That means you. Thanks to everyone who has already added themselves to the map. Did you notice this is an International Blog, with readers in Australia and England?]

I realized that my children soak up the academic information I provide with all the enthusiasm and effectiveness that a dry sponge soaks up dry sand.

In other news, I vacuumed out in the inside of my computer. It hasn’t crashed since.

My brilliant and handsome husband had the good sense to release me from the shackles of my bondage. He and his friend took the children to the pumpkin patch today (despite protests from one of the 12-year olds: “I hate the pumpkin patch! It’s stupid! I won’t go!”) while I went out. And about. Alone. For hours.

I found myself wandering in a secret passageway I never knew existed at the local public library. Who knew there were stairs in that building? Today was a library book sale and I came away with a bag full of books that cost me only $12.50. I can not die until I am 127 years old because I have so many books stacked up waiting to be read. (Alas, I am going to temporarily give up Gilead, which won a Pultizer Prize. I wanted to love this book, but I’m just bogged down and everytime I read it, I literally fall asleep. I’m going to start a new book.)

Then, I went to Wal-Mart, where I wasted a great deal of time cruising up and down the aisles, doing a little Christmas shopping while I waited for my film to be developed. We don’t have our very own Wal-Mart here, so I had to drive a bit to get to one. I know some people think Wal-Marts are actually run by Satan, but I love Wal-Mart.

My love for Wal-Mart goes back to the days when I lived in northern Michigan. Hold up your left hand, fingers closed–we lived at the left base of your pointer-finger fingernail. One year, the snow began in October and we didn’t see grass again until March. Since we didn’t own snowmobiles and didn’t ice-fish, our entertainment involved shopping at the local Wal-Mart–which was a good thirty-minutes from our house. (Everything was thirty minutes from our house, except for the moose and wild turkeys and the kids who sniffed glue back in the woods on the edge of our ten acres.) I loved Wal-Mart (and I never disrespected it by calling it “Wallyworld,” either) because it made northern Michigan almost bearable. I even spent one wedding anniversary shopping at Wal-Mart.

Those were four long years. And that was before I had the internet, so just sit still for a minute and feel sympathetic.

Thank you. And good-night.

Dear One,

When you came into my life, suddenly, everything expanded. My constricted, tiny, slow-motion world turned into a blur, a whizzing magic show, full of wonder and lights. What joy I felt in those early days! You rescued me from the doldrums, from plodding along in weary monotony.

As the days passed–really, as the months screamed by in a flash, I spent more and more time with you. We grew so comfortable together, didn’t we? You and me; we made such a great pair. I depended on you. I counted on you. I even trusted my financial records to you. I thought you felt the same about me.

I’d spill my guts to you, often late into the night. I looked forward to our time together, learning new things, sharing information, dreaming of places we might visit. And you let me down. You utterly betrayed me.

I just can’t believe how suddenly you dumped me. In the past, at least I had some warning. But you? You just up and quit! How dare you! I was in the middle of a riveting spiel about something or another (I can’t remember exactly what, but I’m sure it was dazzling) and your deafening silence cut me off in mid-sentence. I am still stunned at your callousness.

I never expected it. Oh, I know, I should have. I’ve heard others moan about that kind of unreliability, but I never thought you had it in you. I believed you were different. My vulnerable faith has been crushed.

I thought I was doing everything right. I was really careful. I didn’t wander afar, nor did I let my eyes stray. I didn’t speak to just anyone, nor did I share things I ought not. You and I–weren’t we guarded enough? Didn’t we put up a strong enough fence around us? How did this gulf open between us?

Now, I just don’t feel safe. I don’t want to begin a tale for fear you will cut me off. I am wary of disclosing any information, personal or not. I’m even scared to go places I used to go. Who is watching? Who caused this devastation? Was it me? Was it you? Was it someone plotting against us? This turn of events baffles me.

I was true to you, too. Even after the first time. But now, you should know that I’ve begun to think of another . . . another computer, that is. I’m thinking of replacing you with a laptop.

So there. Take that. I’m taking my lightening-fast fingers and moving on.

(Okay. One more chance. But that’s it. I mean it.)

I continue to struggle with my computer and no longer pretend to know what the mustard is wrong with it.

So I will blog quickly before it turns itself off.

Remember the Seinfeld episode (season eight) when Elaine had the bright idea to sell muffin tops, rather than whole muffins? Well, my daughter is three and she will only eat the tops of muffins. I wonder if this is a genetic abnormality or merely good sense?

I hate playing boards games. Anna Quindlen said, “Maybe I had three children in the first place so I wouldn’t ever have to play board games.” in this article in Newsweek. That makes me feel so much better, because I never have the urge to sit and play Monopoly or CandyLand or any other game with my kids. Good thing my husband does that sort of thing.

My daughter said to her friend the other day, “You are buggin’ me really much!” And that’s how I feel about my computer. It’s buggin’ me really much.

Our guest arrived last night at 10:30 p.m. and I realized how lovely my house looks in the glow of candlelight. You couldn’t see the dust or the unmopped floor. My husband sat at the kitchen table and reminisced over a photo album (a magnetic album, oh the horrors of acidic pages!) full of college pictures. My husband was quite impressed with his young, buff college self. He sported a full head of hair then and a trimmer waistline.

They’ve headed up north this morning to visit another of their college buddies. I hope it’ll be dark when they return so they house still looks presentable.

The three-year olds played outside this morning and I was so happy for the peace and quiet that I didn’t even stop my daughter from using the hose. She sprayed herself and her buddy while I soaked in the almost-solitude. (The 12-year olds were in their room procrastinating, but I ignored them, too.)

I have to mention that I had the most awkward moment last week. I took my daughter to visit my mother at her little apartment. I called ahead to make sure it was all right. Imagine my shock when I spied a gray-haired mountain of a man sitting in my mother’s recliner. I studiously avoided looking at him and my mother acted as if she were completely alone. Then we entered the house and still, she said nothing about this man.

We chatted for a bit and headed through the kitchen to the bedroom to look at something, all the while ignoring this man. I could feel his eyes on me and I kept waiting for my mother to say, “Oh, this is__________,” but she didn’t.

Finally, when my daughter ran to the patio door to see the kitty, I was unavoidably close to the man, so, I looked him in the eye and stuck out my hand. He introduced himself and made incessant small-talk with me the rest of the visit.

I am not in the mood for another man in my mother’s life. See, here’s the history in a nutshell:

My mother was married to my father.

Then she married a freeloader who stole all her stuff. That lasted 5 years.

Then she married an illiterate alcoholic who hit her with a coffee mug, among other things. That lasted 18 months.

Then she married a beer-drinking, undershirt-wearing, couch-potato alcoholic who threatened to kill her and himself with a shotgun. She escaped a box at a time after a few years.

Then she lived with some guy for six or seven years, pretending for the first few years that she was merely renting a room. That man wore sweatpants to family gatherings, which was revolting.

So, you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t greet the next man in a long line of losers with the bare minimum requirement of enthusiasm. When is it time to give up on love? I say, when you’ve struck out five or six times in a row. And when you have kids, even grown kids.

At the very least, get a police check on the guy and make him take a psychological profile, too. And don’t bring him to family events. I can’t take it anymore.