Last week I wondered about the color of justice in my country.
Last night’s delivery of the Ferguson grand jury decision played out about as I expected it. Even anticipating it, I awakened feeling gloomy about prospects for real change in the United States. I continue to wonder
What it will take for police officers everywhere to approach men of all melanin levels in the exact same way, treating shooting as a last case resort in all cases.
I wonder how change can take root when bystanders support status quo by focusing attention on property damage over fatal violence.
And yet, with all this heaviness in my heart, I find reason to smile in the tiny men who own that heart. I can’t help giggling at how my baby is doing headstands–yes, headstands–while my husband tries to change his diaper.
I watch him dance and wonder what else will inspire him to dance in the years to come.
I pray freedom to walk outside without fear will carry his dancing feet far.
Long before my son was born, I occasionally crossed paths with childrened people. They were a strange lot to me, with one particularly peculiar habit: sharing their kids’ newest accomplishments. To my non-parent ears, these accomplishments were pretty unremarkable.
- Oh, your kid can smile now? You must be so proud.
- Your kid’s pooping in a toilet now? That’s . . . wow. I can’t imagine your sense of achievement.
- Your kid knows the alphabet now? Better sign him up for med school, pronto!
The end results these parents shared hardly seemed noteworthy to me. So why, I wondered, were they spoken of with such pride?
My conclusion then: Parents are weird.
A couple of weeks ago, I had to help my four-year-old son with his capital “R.” Read more…
He touches the “map” card before throwing it across the floor. He spins some circles, a four-year-old’s idea of breakdancing, while waiting for it to settle.
“Now touch ‘shell,'” I tell him, starting the same mirthful cycle anew.
By the time we finish, he’s spun more circles on the floor than I can count. He runs laps between the living room and the bedroom, more ready for bedtime than he realizes. His heart is big, this little man’s, but so is his boyful exuberance.
We settle in for stories. He protests my choice, even though he gets his choice next. As I read, I swap real words for silly ones to see if he’s paying attention: Read more…