Real Fake Friends

Letters from your Real Fake Friends There through thick and thin

Hey Ugly,

Brokey. Dummy. Fat Girl. Skinny Minnie. Blackie. Cry Baby. Oh my God, quit acting like I just call you that all the time! You’re so sensitive. You know I’m a bitch. You know I don’t sugar coat shit. You know I have no filter. You know I’m going to hell. You know I keep it real. I keep it one hunnid. You should want someone that’s going to tell you the truth, girl. I’d rather be realer than them. What you want, a yes man? I bet.. Well I’m your real friend.

Bad and Bourgeois                  

    Man, before I got to know you, you seemed so strong and well put together, (well, mentally) Like you always had the answer. Never saw you sweat. Like some fake-happy, fake-positive, fake-confident robot. “All-is-well. Yes-I-can. It-will-work-out.” I mean I literally saw you as quaint, easy to forget, easy to overlook. Boring, plain… you know, basic. I mean, how else would I see you if that’s how you look? But then you always spoke with so much conviction that I just had to get to know you to see what the hell the well-hidden hype was. Turns out, in real life, behind closed doors, you’re just another broke and broken ass mess. Incredible- Oh, and talk about boring. I don’t even know why I bother trying to add fun to your life, I always have to be the one to suggest things for us to do, places for us to go. You’d rather make up every excuse not to go and focus on all your new and recurring problems. Maybe, if you stopped sulking to yourself, found a reliable baby sitter and did something with your hair you wouldn’t be so miserable. Ball out. You know… your version. Joking.

I’ll invite you places even when I know damn well you can’t afford it. Maybe that’ll help remind you of who, what and where you really are in the grand scheme of things. Omg I am jokingggg, we’re friendssss. Sincerely though, I notice you get like mad or offended or something when you accept an invitation and didn’t divulge your current financial crisis or I’m talking about my perfectly fine life. Like I just forced you to go, or I told you to work there, or I picked your baby daddy. And my life is fantastic, like every day, sorry that offends you. So much for all that motivational speaker bullshit.

Good Heart, Bad Start.

    “You wearing that?” Of course I know you’re wearing ‘that’; we’re getting dressed to go to a party. Clearly I’m the friend with the balls, or everyone already knows I’m the friend with the balls for this type of shit, or hell maybe I’m your real friend like I always say. Either way, no ma’am. Not tonight and not in that. Whole clique lookin right, smelling good, dressed to suit their bodies and I need you to follow suit, Ms. “Super Thick”. These heifers in here would rather give you a cookie because you keep saying how much weight you lost. I know the last thing you need is another cookie. Talkin’ bout a “fifteen pounds down.” Bitch, where? Maybe 5. Anyway, who even pushed you to lose weight in the first place? Who would stop you from ordering burgers and make you get salads? Matter-fact, for your most recent birthday, what did I get you? Exercise clothes and three months paid membership. Three, paid. Who pushes you more than me? When I was a fat child my mother had me running the treadmill in trash bags. Maybe you’re just not used to people caring. Or maybe you’re just desperate to keep your new guy around and that’s why the loss of a raggedy little 15 pounds was cause to go get naked. Really ever since you and him started this… whatever you want to call it, you’ve been feeling yourself. I’ve caught your little backhanded comments… When we link up, you’re conveniently and consistently on the way somewhere else… turned me into a pit stop, huh? You don’t call me to shop with you anymore… Clearly. Dressed like you finna drop it by the pole on Healthy Hoe night. Boy, I hate to see how wild you get if you ever do get fine. Even now, I ask “You wearing that?” and you pop back with a “What you think?” Not even looking at me, flipping your weave in the mirror. I don’t like this new you one bit…

      My girl Black. Been knowing her for years and she been blacker than midnight ever since. Thick legs, momma didn’t let her get perms but she hides it in the best weaves, pretty teeth, clear skin. It’s just that it’s all like damn near the blue kinda black. Been midnight since she popped out the puss. I tell her “You really pretty as hell, just nobody can see.” Lord, but now, on the internet they love her. You know black is beautiful and the new exotic on there. It’s all just kind of weird to me because I know Black. She log in talkin bout “I got magic in my bones and moons in my eyes” or whatever. Man in real life, niggas wasn’t checkin for no Black. Well I mean, like I said she thicker than cold grits so she’d get checked on… periodically. We go off to school and she done pulled her a African, a hotep, a nigga from the band and the white boy on the baseball team. Then act like she too good to throw that black ass. Probably because back in the hood, all you hear is “Ayeeeee RED!” “Come here RED!” Red. Red. Red. And you know they used to crack on her. Even her niggas.

    But yeah, the internet and the black power niggas at this school got me walking around here with the new and improved Black, girl. She stopped wearing weaves but didn’t straighten her hair… like on some afro Chaka Zulu bull. I told her she needed to brush that shit. Did you know they made make up for people that black? She got that magic gold dust from her bones and beat her face. That’s it, though. You know black people have pretty skin most times. Catch her in the right light, that thang it crazy. I can’t lie, now that she’s come into her own… Or since her new little friends turned her into their #BlackGirlMagic project, she be walkin round lookin unreal. Like every day she gotta make a statement. I don’t tell her, they do it enough. Trust me. If I bring up this ugly girl I don’t like either… I’m trippin, I mean this ugly girl I don’t like, but I call her black after I call her ugly, Black rolls her eyes… Say something slick later, that’s how I know. I thought black was beautiful.

3 Part Harmony

I really hate sensitive people, my mouth is too slick. I’m too honest. They get mad over the stupidest stuff. So what, you’re not talking to me again? I guess I’ll cry now. I won’t lie the first time you really hurt my feelings. You called yourself “rejecting” me. Neither one of us appreciate that ever and you know it, but you just do it to me over and over. Then just respond to me out the blue a month later acting like you just had some “personal stuff” you went through. And you needed some isolation from everybody, and “everybody” somehow just looks like “me”. I don’t know why you even get mad when we get into it like I’m lying or something. Hell, if you broke you broke. You used to always complain… That’s how my mama helped me, by helping me. So, are you not blacker than paved roads? I don’t know, maybe if you really were as unbothered as you pretend to be, the truth wouldn’t bother you. Whatever. Talk to you when you get out your feelings

-Real Fake Friend

In Life You Get 3 Loves

     In life you fall all the way down in love 3 times. Some of us serial lovers get a lot more downhill tumbles. Some of us guarded lovers will settle down that first time, before we meet the others. Either way, a soulmate is one of many you might be lucky enough to find. There is more than one person that can make your heart flutter and teach you things you didn’t know you needed to learn. There are other writings on the theory and this one is my personal take.  

I met mine when I was 13 and 362 days

     Your first love teaches you heartbreak. It comes when you don’t know enough about the game to even be playing but you want nothing more than to play. Before you even know yourself too well, or what you want or like. Your first love comes when you haven’t been hurt and you’re just a ready, blank slate. I met mine when I was 13 and 362 days. Twelve years later and yes, it was and still is my first, true love. I didn’t know what love was or what a real relationship entailed, but I knew the butterflies, the sinking into another world completely when he spoke, the lying in bed waiting on the next day just to see him and the thinking of ways to get noticed by him was all real. All my classes were my favorite, because he was in all my classes. I made sure to have my work done in case he wanted to copy. When he didn’t come to school, I wanted to call my mom to check me out, because there was no point, joy or reason in being anywhere he wasn’t. At 14 I fell in love for the first time.

    And he was beautiful! Smart, hardworking, streetwise, athletic, funny, cool, well dressed; there was literally nothing wrong with him. I saw no flaws and treated him that way. I loved him the way God wants you to love people, but it wasn’t enough. Like a mother in love with her child, I neglected my own boundaries, my state of comfort- I neglected myself out of love for this boy. I thought he knew better than to take advantage of that the way he could have, but the way I loved him he probably just thought I was crazy. I never asked to be his girlfriend, or even did too much inquiring about what he had going on outside of me. I just sat there and loved him and in our 11th grade year, he committed to someone else. I died. Boy, they did not lie when they told you that first cut hurts the deepest.  I didn’t know what having my heart broken or feelings hurt felt like until it happened. It’s like the first time you get your “s-word rocked”. Not punched very hard, no… it’s like the first time you get your whole shit rocked!

I want him to love me like the man in the beginning of ‘Love Sosa’

     In the relationships that followed I kept my guard up. I was pretty committed to being nonchalant and cool about everything. After all, that’s what my first loved about me. Disrespect inevitably ensued and my only real deal breaker is being embarrassed. Maybe I should’ve been like Jay Z and started relationships with a smooth “don’t embarrass me”. But I didn’t and they did in one way or another. These kinds of loves (although they can be real) aren’t that second, defining soul mate you get in life. The second love is the love that loves you, undoubtedly. Unshaken, un-bothered, unwavering, strong passion. All that karma love from when you were as blind as they are now. The second one teaches you what it feels like to be loved. 

    At this point in life, I knew myself and I loved myself. I felt like I was self-aware in acknowledging that I wasn’t doing anything great or spectacular currently (a college student), and I was absolutely performing well below my potential, my parents were poor, I had a crooked smile and no titties, and yeah, I was still great. Amazing. A god-damn unicorn. My self-esteem had been attacked for years at this point, to no damn avail because I was great and at 22 I decided I needed someone who knew and wasn’t scared to act on it, regardless of where I was. I needed someone that wasn’t waiting on me to blow before they acted on how they felt. I told God, “I want him to love me like the man going off in the beginning of that Chief Keef song ‘Love Sosa’.” And boy, did he...

     Your second love hasn’t been in real love before. They’ve probably loved the people they were with, that they chose because they were comfortable, good looking, had status, benefits and sex. But they never loved a person for them. I’m the kind of person you learn love with. I don’t know why, I don’t try to do anything special; I just know if you bond with me,  it’s different. I’m different and you have to love me for me if you do, because I don’t feed into that other stuff. At first he gave me what I deserved. He held me like a baby and rocked me to sleep, spent all his time, money, making sure I eat. “When I look at you I don ‘t see no flaws” and he’d be looking me in my soul when he said it. When I’d ask how long he wanted to keep me, every time he responded “Til’ you’re old and grey” and I’d just die. I hadn’t sincerely thought like that since my first love. Although I didn’t know if I wanted him that long, I was so happy he wanted me in that way and acted like it. Just what I asked for. I thought to myself; this is comfortable, he loves me, this is what I need, and I’m satisfied. And then I met my third love.

     At the beginning of my new relationship with my faithful boyfriend that doesn’t have any lingering girls in love trying to argue with me on social media, I meet this guy. I’m ignoring him but he’s making it painfully obvious he’s interested in me. He was attractive and more of my type as far as looks goes, but I was taken by a good one. I let him know I had a boyfriend. I had no problem doing it but with how sweet he had been with his interest, I felt bad. I’d talk to him when I saw him and tried to treat him like a friend. I was really being faithful, y’all. I really was… until one day he looked at me. My hair was natural and it might have been one of the first days I wore it out. My boyfriend loved it and I knew he was the one for me because I looked like a young boy. I was really hoping I wouldn’t see the other guy and I did. I was really hoping he wouldn’t talk to me but here he came, talking. 

     He looked me in my soul, y’all. The sinking into another world completely when he spoke, that I hadn’t done since I was 14? I sank. I don’t even remember what we were talking about but everything got hot and everyone else left the room. Then he asked “You’re natural?” with his eyes still stabbing my soul. “Yeah” I think I said yeah. “My mom is natural.” So you like it? Oh my goodness, why do I care? He’s so beautiful. Wait, you can’t say that... what face am I even making right now? Where are my legs, has anyone seen my legs? Did I answer? Close your mouth, girl, ugh! Just walk away.

     And I did. And I had no clue how I was moving my legs and everything was still hot. I couldn’t turn around to see if he was still staring but I had to. So I did, and he was. I went in the bathroom and died. I hadn’t felt that in so long. I had just cheated. It was in that moment I knew he had everything I thought I could never find again. Right as I settled for someone that loved me, I found the first man to melt me to hot candle wax in years. I found the hope that I didn’t have in love and relationships anymore. For some reason I knew he could make me as happy as I could make him, and I could’ve made him very, very happy, y’all.

     If you’re feeling bad for that second guy, don’t. I may have broken his heart by telling him there was a guy that liked me that I probably would like back, if I wasn’t in a relationship, but that was the truth. I’ve always been honest and I didn’t think that was even that deep of a statement but it turned him into another person. He got me back, y’all.  I’ve never been the girl who couldn’t accept the truth and even more so, understand it. So how God saw fit to put me with someone that thought the answer was to whoop me back in love, I don’t know. He definitely made me pay and showed me why you don’t settle for convenience. He was good to me but not going to be good enough for me and I knew that. With no condescension intended, I knew he was a passive participant of his life, experiencing things without learning the lessons. 

     And every day I still think about the one who came and made me believe again. And when I think about him moving on and never getting a chance to experience him in any capacity, I want to cry. To know things could never be as perfect as they could’ve been is too much to think about. This was the first time I felt things I couldn’t ignore, sugar coat or reword and as bad as it feels, I’m thankful. The last love teaches you to carry yourself like the person that deserves your ideal partner. It teaches you patience and how to wait and work for something that might not happen... again. To not fear hoping your dreams can come true, like you don’t know deja vu. No matter how bad it goes, it leaves you thankful.

Stages of the Exploration Stage

I was listening to an interview that touched on the “exploration stage”, also known as another kind of phase. The woman said there were 3 phases, but rather named the woman that doesn’t ever explore, the woman that unapologetically does, and the last kind of woman that stays long enough to get her fill, jumps out and gets married.

In the middle of a conversation I decided to address the actual stages of the phase in your life when you enter #theexplorationstage.

1. Hurt It’s either your dad, mom, their relationship, a really traumatic relationship of your own, rape, feeling rejected, ugly or being body shamed- I almost don’t care what anyone else says, it all stems from some kind of initial hurt that tells you to gain your strength back through the power your sexuality can give you. Being wanted feels good at first. It feels even better when you can go about things the way society tells you not to and people still love you. Some women wild all the way out here, some women just have casual sex with a few partners. Some women will have one night stands with men they don’t know. Pick your poison.

2. Fakelationship So after either a few months or years, you tell yourself you’re ready to settle down. You go through a couple of situationships. I was the type of explorer that wanted to commit, but not for the right reasons. I met a guy I really liked and I knew he wouldn’t treat me the same if I had sex with other people. I also don’t like a variety of partners so it’s natural for me to have one partner at a time. Add in feelings too much time spent and exclusivity and there you have your fakelationship. You did not go about it the right way. You took no time to cleanse the yoni. Or find yourself again, or feel what it feels to be like by yourself and like it. You tell yourself you should, then will, and then you don’t. However many times, however many years.

3. The Great Escape Explorers settle down and out of exploration one of two ways: abruptly or slowly. You either marry out or “get saved” or you save yourself. You put in the work it takes to be alone and fix yourself and then you wait, pray and pray some more.

“Cute... & That’s It.”

     “Super Cute, Just Like Mommy” “Mommy Is My Stylist” shirts I clearly didn’t buy for my daughter. “Desserts First By Orders Of The Princess”. A bib she was given that she ended up somewhat living up to at day care, because she demanded to be fed first every day they had yogurt. Oh, absolutely not.

     I’m the kind of woman that throws you off when you read my daughter’s shirts. Although I care about how she looks, it’s more about being neat or girly. Babies are cute. My baby is cute. Babies wear clothes because babies walking around in just diapers, drinking bottles look bad. I actually didn’t dress her often in the house when she was very young, just wrapped her in blankets. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why everyone demanded I dress this spitting up, pooping out the diaper baby every day. I’m really not on that other than on special occasions; birthdays holidays, picture day etc.

     If she wants to be a doll, I have no problem encouraging that. I know how you feel when you look good and I remember when that was a daily concern, but what else? 

      When you wear a message, you endorse it. It’s typically a quick, general point you want to get across to as many people you can, either about yourself or your stance on something, So I was just curious as to why the message we send to our daughters is to be concerned with and prideful of their looks, only. What if she was ugly? I know that’s wrong to think about and babies are off limits, but at some point in life someone’s going to make a fair judgement of your looks. Why should it even be a concern when someone inevitably does find you unattractive? I want my child to be kind, strong, healthy, emotionally balanced, determined, intelligent and hard working. There are 50 (I’m lying) things I’m more concerned about than her looks. 

     I want to raise a beautiful woman who doesn’t even mention it, but clearly knows it. I want her to pride herself in her mind and the way she treats people. I want her to treat her pretty friends the same way she treats the less attractive ones, and for her to be comfortable around them all the same, I want her to put her heart, mind and soul on her proverbial t-shirt. Where do I buy those?

The Perfect Family

A husband sits with his arm around his wife. He is handsome, works out, very daddy-ish. The wife has such a perfect waist and body and her face looks is so young and vibrant you didn’t assume the three kids running around were hers. The oldest is ten and the other two are spaced out evenly enough in age under him. And if the oldest is 10, that means the wife is 40 plus, because she waited until the perect age (after 30) to start having kids. Her skin is so vibrant, well moisturized and wrinkle free because that’s not some baby daddy with his arm around her, it’s her husband. The one father of every kid she ever conceived in her womb, and he doesn’t stress her out at all. He’s never going to ‘leave her with all those kids by herself’, so they don’t have anything  at all to argue about. And he’s an ideal father figure and partner in every aspect. You know that because he knew to make her a wife and not just another baby’s mama. Duh. Her degree(s)  are on the wall and she had her six figure income-making career before she sat down and had some damn children.  A real Proverb’s 31 Woman.

I grew up something like that, actually. My mother had graduated college and married my father and even waited years before she had her first child. My father had also graduated college and found himself working a good ol’ government job so hard that my mother was afforded the opportunity to stay home and raise some babies, all with the same daddy. Some babies she had at 28 and 30 years old. Set up for perfection, right? Now we weren’t rich and this story ended up taking a million turns before I turned 18; jobs lost, new careers started, jobs lost, moves out of state, business started, businesses failed. Hell, LIFE happened to my parents as I watched closely.

I watched my mother as a stay-at-home mom at first, teaching me Spanish and how to count and spell. Really pouring all she could into me. When my paternal grandmother got sick, she took care of her as well. Me, my brother and my nana. And when my daddy lost his government job she got up and found two of her own, and kept every light on and faucet running by her damn self. You literally could not ask for or find a better woman. But we all know, that won’t stop a nigga from trying. I saw my mother go through things inside and greet the world with a smile, pleasant attitude and godly aura, regardless. I watched her forgive, forgive, forgive. Give, give, give. Love, love, love and when I turned 18, I watched her lose it all and start from ground 0.

She built herself up again, kept it together and moved on, as real women do. She didn’t clown him on Facebook or go slut it out to catch up on all she had missed out on, spending 23 years being faithful to some man. She found God, rebuilt her foundation, and moved on. Now maybe there’s some big fabulous and amazing blessing waiting for her on the other side. Maybe the blessing was not allowing herself to be held back and dragged down by that ‘some man’ any longer. Maybe the blessings are the two could-be-better kids that came out of the marriage… Or maybe the lesson was for me.

“Don’t waste your life and all your good years trying to be a good woman to some fucking man.”

Got it.

Many of my friends didn’t grow up with a two parent household. For instance, I was talking to my first cousin once we had grown up and become friends. She was an only child with the mom that wanted to dress alike all the time. Ummm, where do I sign up? Where she saw a father figure in the home and a friend to play with, I saw a live in year-round Scrooge and a personal boy face-ass nuisance after I specifically asked for a sister. The grass really always looks greener. My children-of-divorce friends always bragged about getting “two Christmases” etc. because they split holidays between their parents (omg, so cool). Having two rooms filled with toys. A ‘mama’s house’ and ‘daddy’s house’ and I’m just listening, picturing the two biggest toy filled rooms I could imagine. Best of all, for them,  I know they probably didn’t see some of the things I saw a man do. Eventually I saw the difference between the kids that longed for two parent homes and (some of) those of us in them that knew better.

Around the age of 19 something happened to my ego. I went from longing for things I didn’t think I deserved to understanding that nothing and no one deserved me,  the way my father or no man I had known deserved my beautiful, brilliant, talented, educated, dedicated, loyal, hard-working mother. I realized that I was the prize, the gift, the table and the house the table was in. I was IT and women probably never raised the type of men that deserved a goddess like me ever before. And if they did, they damn sure hadn’t in the last 20 or so years. So I wasn’t looking for a damn husband. A man was not about to feel like he owned me, ever. And damn sure not so he could throw me away when he was done... I was nobody’s property and I was going to do any and all of the leaving, when I saw fit. I lost my will to fight for love and I wasn’t on the search for a life partner and that was just it. I told myself that even if I got married, I would always be prepared to leave or be left at the drop of a dime. Because I went off to college one semester and came home to divorced parents. I went off the next semester and came home to my father telling me this was not my home anymore, while standing in front of some crow faced bitch. Okay? So the lesson there was things can change at the drops of dimes and you’ve got to be ready to change with them. I found my lane and this was it. They call us free spirits.

Hoes. Free spirit became synonymous with hoe and if your spirit is truly free that’s some laughable shit. Free spirit to me means, I wore mascara and bold eyeliner today with a sleek bun and business attire. Maybe I had a meeting, maybe I was just feeling like Joan Clayton from Girlfriends. Tomorrow I may feel like Solange or Kelis. This month I might feel like Solange and opt for a natual brow. And natural legs and armpits, too (I don’t know if she shaves or not). I might have my home girl sew some hair in and it might be fire red. I might cut all of it off and go blonde (just the ends, though). Really, whatever. I am a free. I invest in the people I spend time with. I am a listening ear, soundboard, friend, confidante, companion. Mother. My loyalty is to myself so it does not blind my decision making. Once you are causing me more harm than all this good I am giving to you, I will be gone like the wind. I live gone like the wind. Never really in one place in the first place. Always on the way somewhere else. I didn’t even put titles on our time here, so there were no questions to be asked or arguments to be had once I decide to go. I owed no one anything and wasn’t passing around my collection plate, either. I was FREE.

In a partner I wasn’t necessarily looking for anything, but I knew how it should feel. That’s how I got the most out of situations; allowing things to be what and who they are and growing into what or who it will be. I certainly wasn’t looking for a husband but I managed to have never dated, entertained or courted a man I did not know would be a great father. Compassion, empathy, dedication. Always the sons of divorced parents. I was blessed enough to connect more than once with someone that understood one of the most valuable and rewarding experiences in adulting was in being a good parent; responsible in my decision making, loving, caring, respectful of our child’s parent.

In a partner I wasn’t necessarily looking for anything, but I knew how it should feel. That’s how I got the most out of situations; allowing things to be what and who they are and growing into what or who it will be. I certainly wasn’t looking for a husband but I managed to have never dated, entertained or courted a man I did not know would be a great father. Compassion, empathy, dedication. All sons of divorced parents. I was blessed enough to connect more than once with someone that understood one of the most valuable and rewarding experiences in adulting was in being a good parent; responsible in my decision making, loving, caring, respectful of their child’s mothers. I could pick a good future father out better than Safaree can spot plastic surgery. Trust me, I knew.

But I noticed, even before I was a baby mother, that people get shamed out of wanting what they really want in a family. People shame pregnant women the whole nine months if they’re doing it alone, and shame their baby daddy’s with them if they’re not their husband. I can remember being in church at a service where a young woman was having her baby christened. The minister asked her to introduce everyone to the congregation. She got on the mic “my aunt, my mom... and her father” Safe. “Your what?” asked the minister. Hmmmmmm what you doin, lady? She said: HER. FATHER. “My daughter’s father?” She said “Your what?” again. “He’s not your husband, is he?” And I think it was in that moment that I decided I just did not want the marriage thing. A man unmarried was selfish and living, but the woman was unwanted and unclean. Unreal. My rebellion and the clouds of opinions I allowed to shape my own desires is the only reason I feel like I don’t have the perfect Proud Baby Mama story, but at the very least I have a daughter that gets all the love I wanted. 

Mission accomplished.

#BMBlock 5 Places To Cut Costs (+5 You Can’t)

W    The consensus on babies is that they are way too expensive. As a mother, I learned this is mainly because there are several items you use so much of constantly (i.e. diapers and wipes). So we came up with a guide to cutting costs where you can. We also went ahead and told you where you have to spend a pretty penny, unless you want to waste more.

#CUT Diapers

     On a weekly basis, depending on how you buy, we have your diapers and wipes.I’d order the top 3 brands from greatest to worst as  1. Pampers 2. Huggies  3. Luvs.  Pampers are the diapers they give you in the hospital and as a new mom I appreciated the yellow strip that turned blue when wet. Huggies are a very close, debatable second. Like, if I asked for Pampers and someone accidentally got me Huggies, I wouldn’t be mad. Luvs are terrible. Choosy moms choose Luvs because you’d have to like changing the diaper at the first sign of wetness to be choosing Luvs. It’s not about sitting your baby in a diaper until it can’t hold anymore, but reliability on long car rides or overnight. Dollar General and Walmart’s Parent’s Choice brand diapers can keep your baby dry on a cross country trip with no breaks. We also recommend buying diapers buy the box.

#CANT Wipes

Wipes, on the other hand, is a constant buy you can’t cut costs with. You literally won’t pick up sh** with off brand wipes and the good ones aren’t that expensive. These should also be bought by the box. 

#CANT Bottles and Pacifiers

    I personally don’t have a clue about the life cycle of pacifiers because my daughter didn’t take one for long. I tried several kinds and the only ones she entertained were the more expensive ones and the one the hospital gifted us that’s green, all rubber and shaped like a circle. The cheap ones aren’t shaped to fit in the mouth comfortably and I assumed that’s why she spit them out immediately. Either way choose a nice pacifier to support your baby’s oral development.

     You should also buy the better bottles. During the teething stage, my daughter messed up her bottles chewing on the nipples. There are the tall and thin 8 ounce bottles and the shorter, fat ones. I liked the taller, slimmer ones, but not the 99 cent, 3 for $2 ones at Walmart. There are 3/$10.00 ones without colorful lions on them at Publix by Nuby that won’t end up leaking or with a displaced nipple. I don’t like the fat 8 ounce one at all but the 4 ounce fat ones are good for learning how to hold a bottle.

#CUT Clothes and Bibs

     With clothes and bibs: quantity over quality. I love dressing y daughter up on special occasions but day to day, babies are messy. They spill milk, drool, slob, poop out their diapers (it’s unavoidable), leak piss, spit up food and everything else. It’s way more important to have two outfit changes on you at all times and a fresh baby, than a super fresh (stylish) baby (with spit up on his clothes). You can never have enough bibs! Aside from being messy eaters, the teething stage will have your baby drooling/slobbing non-stop and so much so that they soak through the bib. You need at least a million bibs.

#CANT Stroller and Car Seat

      You need a good stroller because raggedy strollers look bad. You have to be way too careful with cheap strollers that look like they’re made for dolls in the first place. A good stroller typically comes with a good car seat and grows with your baby from birth to about two years old. 

#CAN Bathtub and Baby Bags 

     With the bath tub, I won’t lie. I wanted a $40 one that vibrates and soothes the baby while bathing. I thought it was so cool but I didn’t want to pay for it (I know it was only $40 but still). The cheap bathtubs work fine, especially considering a lot of us were bathed in the sink. You can also rock the cheaper baby bag. Make sure you are absolutely prepared for anything in whichever bag you choose to wear. Walmart has great bags, but make sure you go back and find a GOOD wipe dispenser and a better changing pad.

Good luck

#BMBlock 5 Ways To Fight Post Partum Depression

When I got pregnant with my daughter I was a 23 year old recent college graduate, working in the city I had an apartment, living with my child’s father, I had a car, and I needed two more classes to have the job I really wanted. Not too bad, right? Only I was about two weeks away from my first eviction, my job was 15 cents above minimum wage, I had been trying to bring my first abusive relationship to an end since August of the previous year, and my new baby daddy decided a baby would solve everything.

I had been battling depression and anxiety for years and years but now my life was actually falling apart. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of the worst relationship I had ever been through, and now I’m pregnant by the man. After I prayed and pleaded for it to be over and now it never would be, in some capacity. I had been swimming in sorrow my whole life, not knowing I was fake-drowning in knee deep water… until now.

So fast-forward to my 2nd trimester: I’ve moved back to a city in the middle of nowhere with my mom and her husband. And his mom. And the rest of their family. And my little brother. Did I mention I don’t like human interaction? That I’m an introvert and it literally drains the life out of me to engage with talking-ass people all day? So I’m depressed, thinking I’m at least getting away from all the drama, only to find I’m entering a new world of constant exaggerated high energy called “Theirs”.

I tone down how I used to see things out of respect for the present, but is the picture clear? I went from one high energy situation to another, as a pregnant introvert. So I’m learning all about pregnancy and motherhood and the effect a person growing their whole ass inside you has on your emotions from a home visitor. Happy women, secure, safe, thriving women, women that are so much better than I felt I was, still go through postpartum depression. Married women with amazing husbands and good sister circles still go through post-partum. So even with a perfect situation it’s not something you can always avoid. I struggle with talking about depression openly sometimes because I really know how that goes. And I know you can’t tell a depressed person to get up and do something about it the way people would tell me. But if you find yourself there and choose to try and leave here are 5 things I can recommend you find or do to prepare you/fight against it.

1.      AN ASS KISSER

Your frenemy, hating friend, bully sisters, “keep it real” cousins; if you feel as though you’re more inclined to be depressed like I did, get away from them! Get away from her, now! You need a good sister circle around you that understands what you’re going through, how you may be feeling and the fact that you might not be able to put it all into words. I suggest just one good female friend who understands that you are sensitive and it’s their job to have your back right now. Also, be considerate of what they might be going through. Her life didn’t stop just because you’re currently cooking one. If your friend is struggling with their own problems or bouts of depression, being irrational, demanding and inconsiderate might run them away. (Trust me, you’re going to get bitchy.) So you’ll have to find a really good, understanding, mature and emotionally intelligent friend to go through this with.

2.      GET OFF SOCIAL MEDIA

Especially if you are in a less than ideal situation: get off social media! The sooner and the longer, the better. For me it was extremely annoying to see people treating being on birth control like an accomplishment. It was hard for me to understand why people needed to make public observations like “everybody pregnant” “too many baby showers, not enough weddings” or declarations like “I’m not having kids, I like money too much.” It genuinely annoyed me because all I could hear was the lack of innocence in the intent. That could all sound like some petty BS but I heard three hormonal, sensitive pregnant women say “Amen.”

3.      GET UP AND GO

The best two things you can do is get out of the house and take a walk. Okay, the checklist: headphones, happy music, (recommendation: A Seat At The Table from Solange) a stroller and your baby, and a comfortable pair of Nike’s. People kept telling me to do it and once I finally listened, I got it. I can’t explain what it is about fresh air that feels better but you and your baby will enjoy it.

4.      ME TIME

Find some time away from the baby and everyone else to enjoy yourself. Get your nails, feet or hair done and don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for doing so. Being a new mother, it’s important not to lose your identity in that. After you have the baby people congratulate you, then after a while, you’re an afterthought. The “How is mom? turns into “You better be xyz”. You’re bombarded with unwarranted advice and critique. No one cares about what you’re doing outside of motherhood so you have to (without neglecting your child). An inexpensive way to do this is sprucing up your baths with soaps and candles, buying lotions and salt lamps.

5.      MOMMIES UNITE

Find other moms! Either for a week or forever, there’ll be disconnect between you and your friends that aren’t moms (yet). It’s a somewhat painful but understandable (not really) experience. Things won’t change with everyone but they’ll change positively between you and your mommy friends. You’ll be able to share more experiences and better understandings. SUPPORT is the ke

Turn On The Lights

In reality, I did have my baby by the wrong person. The person everyone warns you not to have it by. The worst person possible. The worst person I ever met. See, I was the type of woman that had been in a couple meaningful relationships by the time I met my child's father at 22 (wow). A few relationships my life allowed because they overlapped. For as long as I can remember being an adult, I just knew men that loved me. And I loved them too. All. And I met new ones. (Oh God, this sounds like way more than then it is) And they treated me as fairly as you can treat a woman like me, walking around with all these genuine connections dragging behind her like cans on a string. Although occasionally draped in a little drama; giving love, receiving love, being love was what I was all about. I was a light and this man was looking for a girlfriend. And I could not be that.

I tried time and time again to explain that there should be no harm in me giving away some conversation and that it was the best part about me; exploring your own mind through my beautiful one. I tried to explain to him that I could separate the physical from the mental gymnastics of dialogue that I l longed to exercise with my few life long friends. What’s even more hurtful about it all is he didn’t value my mind at all. He didn’t enjoy my kinds of conversation and didn’t trust me enough to open up for whatever reasons. So he forced him having me all to himself only to sit me up on a shelf to rot. Claimed, untouched, purposeless, withering away. And here my stupid ass goes and gives him the gift I told myself I would never, EVERRRRR give to someone that did not deserve my eternal light. I let it happen and did not stop it. My flesh, my blood, my name. My brilliance, my beauty. I gave that to someone who could not even see my light. No, I don't regret her. Yes, I love her more than my own life. But how was I so blind.

Shaquan, Too

Pay attention to your kids. Read to them, talk with them, draw, color, paint, explore their interests, develop their talents, invest in your children… Not just monetarily either; don’t send them off to practices and summer camps and after school programs without investing time, love and patience in them. Become their best friend. Encourage them. Speak to them with love and compassion so they can see the clear difference between making a mistake and being disobedient. Raise emotionally intelligent children.

I believe life is like a really well written movie where you’re intrigued yet lost the whole time and everything comes together at the “end” or resolution stage. You flashback to all these milestones and years of wandering and confusion and see their key roles in preparing you for this moment. Right? Okay so I am currently a substitute teacher. How did I find myself here? Impeding quarter life crisis aside, I had bills to pay and a daughter to take care of, and right before the school year started I got fired from my fake-promising secretary job. I’m in a city where anyone making over minimum wage travels and hour to work and I literally can’t afford car trouble. So, yeah, substitute teaching it is.

My first day was a 3rd grade class. I got through to the class bad ass and thought “Maybe I can get used to this” because I am so passionate about making a difference, but you like… can’t. Every day you have a new classroom full of kids that know time and numbers are on their side. Meaning they’re used to sitting in these tacky, cluttered, lazily decorated classrooms for 11,000 hours days. They know there’s 18-25 of them and only one of you, you don’t know their names, you can pinpoint the noise if everyone’s making it, and you will run out of patience if they just keep wearing on it.

I care a lot. If you asked me what I wanted to be in high school, aware of all the money making professions I should have aspired to, I would’ve said “a high school English teacher at a Title 1 school”. I have always had a heart for “bad” kids; behavior problems that might really just have some learning problems, attitude problems, trouble makers, dropouts. These were all my favorite people and no one could understand that it wasn’t a bad boy fascination. I understood that children with no control of their environments or parenting were blamed for both and I didn’t like it. And I tried myself to make it up to the hood on behalf of the church and Upstanding Negro community across the country by simply caring.

Saying all that to say “bad” was not the problem.

“Bad” was never an issue and “boy” definitely wasn’t either. I thought my gift and purpose in life was caring for young thrown away black boys but I quickly learned that wasn’t necessary here: these black boys, for the most part, were coddled. “He’s really such a sweet kid” The older white lady that walked me down from the front introduced me to the class, then knelt at the boy’s desk to attempt to talk him out of giving me a hard time… then turned to me and said that. Girl, how the hell? What I found even more odd was his coddling was followed by the bad black girl in the class being reprimanded sternly for getting out of her seat. How, Susan? I see the dynamics have changed.

So although they normally aren’t my target audience, I began to pay more attention to the black girls. All my life we never got along, but there was something unique about almost every single little black girl I encountered now: they wanted me there. If I was holding the door open at a middle school for the students coming in their third period, trying to look like I knew what was going on, black girls would walk by and get wide eyed. “I wanna be in her class! Man she need to come to our class! Miss! You know you can come down here, right?” Once an aid came in and took over the second block of the fifth grade Science class that I was subbing for (ironically, the one full of little black girls). Before that day she was their friend. I could tell because she was comfortable calling them “gwarl” and “girlfriend” and snapping in S-formation. Oh, but that did not work on this day. “I want you to teach!” The cutest dark skinned girl said to me in disappointment. Her friend was turned around looking at me, too. Although I was happy they took over a science lesson, due to the fact that I hate science, I acted like it was out of my hands. “She kind of took over” I whispered back with a shrug. “Sometimes you gotta boss up” the other girl said. The way she said it with her hand motions almost made me laugh out loud. Maybe you’re right, girl.

Bad or not, all these kids were in desperate need of attention. All of them. Even the good, quiet and shy ones eventually warmed up to my kindness and turned into ankle bracelets. They all wanted to pile on top of each other to surround me at the table all day, eat lunch with me and “help me” get the rest of the class quiet (by talking even more to each kid individually about why they needed to be quiet). Dear God. There were very few ‘other’ kids in comparison; the good kids that were laid back and quiet, doing their work with an aggravated maturity about them. I started to wonder what the difference was in their rearing. I know the intensive classes were full of tech savvy children and found out a lot of the honors kids weren’t allowed to be on electronics for over an hour at home. It’s obvious when a child has structure at home and I will also tell you, in case you didn’t know, it’s obvious when they do not. When they aren’t asked about their day and what they learned. When no one is sitting down and helping them with their homework when they need it and when no one is even asking the child if they had homework. 

As passionate as I am about our children is as passionate as I have to be about the parents because the difference between needy students and the only three in the class that aren’t driving the teacher up the wall is their parenting. We have to raise our kids. You can’t talk about her parenting because her kids are ashy or you don’t like how she fixes their hair or dresses them if they can read, sit still and pay attention in school. Your kids are in schools clinging tightly to strangers like Matilda with Miss Honey, because I’m the first adult that wasn’t telling them to “Sit they ass down and be quiet” every 5 seconds. I pay every day for having a heart with these kids and have to keep in mind not to raise one when I get with my own daughter. It’s so easy to give her a toy with lights, music and sounds or find a YouTube video to play for her. I admit I don’t even know how to properly engage my daughter because she’s currently 11 months old. Well, I’m getting better, but all up until around 9 months I just did not know what to do with the child. I had a home visitor and all to teach me about the developmental stages, what milestones she should be reaching, things to work with her on and all… But it just didn’t come natural to me to play with a baby. Everybody would tell me to bond with her, hold her and talk to her, and I would just hold her, look at her… Lost. So yes, it is hard! When they’re children it seems like they can’t grasp things quickly enough ad they have a lot of unwarranted emotions. Still, that’s YOUR child. The job is mine alone (okay, her father’s too) to pour into my child. We have to constantly be aware of that. I mean, think about the way you are with everything. Your temperament, work ethic, self esteem, values, morals, humor. How much did you learn from school?

Boss. Black. B-Word.

Black women? I love.

On paper. Passionately black, unapologetically black, black girl magic. All phrases you'd find in my social media biographies (if that's how I wrote my biographies). “Go, sis!” and “Yaaaasssss, bitch!” are used heavily in my vocabulary. I went to a HBCU. I even had the afro. All signs of your favorite kind of black girl, right? But in real life, I couldn't stand these bitches.

Okay I lied, they didn’t like me. Well, it was more of a mutual blend of curiosity, confusion, enamor and disdain. Not a full rejection, nor a full acceptance. I liked watching them. Observing them and trying to get into their minds, as I do everyone. Watching them interact with each other, with the boys, observing their various archetypes, seeing them express themselves non verbally and non-stop through their clothing, hair and nails. White toes, fuzzy key chains or thigh tattoos- you know what all that means. I noted the way some of their spirits dropped when you saw them without weaves or their nervousness debuting the afro they didn’t think was tall enough yet. Learned the little social cues that indicated maybe, just maybe, everyone was talking about you before you walked in (they love that shit). I saw how they passively yet aggressively let it be known when they didn't like someone using jokes, banter, unnecessary observations. I watched them, like everyone else, in awe. Saw them either control the room, captivate the world. Do it all so confidently. I saw them love relentlessly or never at all. And I loved them. Yes, I loved them flaws and all but when it was time to play? Like play with them? I was ready to go home.

Like PLENTY OF OTHER BLACK GIRLS I'm nice, introverted and passive, period. Empathic, easily crying tears for others before I can for myself. I am one of the many black girls that want the whole world to get along. So no, I am not claiming to be some unicorn black girl. And every time black women were grouped together to be dismissed as mean, angry, divisive, bad attitude having bitches, I was present in that group. No matter how different you could find me, I was them and they were me.

But yes, I am also saying that only saying that it seemed like every time I was around too many black girls, they were tossing the room up into teams and picking sides. You can get with ‘this’ or you could get with ‘that’. The IN crowd and the OUT casts. I had to get used to, then expect, then embrace 9/10 times being that or out… or whatever that weird, in limbo, do-i-like-you-or-not-there’s-a-disconnect-can’t-put-my-finger-on-it-hmm thing me and black girls do with each other is called. So I wasn’t always an outcast per say. My wittiness and observational nature made it so I could find an acceptable facet of myself to show them. But even when I could fit in, I still didn’t blend in. Even if they did like me, I still wasn’t necessarily sitting with them. You know? I kind of preferred it to be that way: all against me… or rather, everyone except me.

But honestly, it’s odd feeling like you make people uncomfortable. Or rather, that there is a mutual discomfort between you two. Not the white ones, not the men, no. Just the ones that look like you. The ones I should fall in easiest with.

I found I wasn’t about to chase the approval of black female authority either because from college to my first three "real" jobs, I got along with black, fully grown women even more poorly. Well definitely not all, just the ones that looked at me with so much… I don’t know is that… envy? What? I’m not sure but I think they would infuriatedly watch me waste over all the youth and potential they'd kill to have again… or were they trying to ensure I wouldn’t realize my potential, leaving them to their superiority? Wasn’t sure but as you probably can pick up on, the real issue was between me and my black, female superiors.

For some reason my whole life, older black women have known either to try and take me out early or under their wing quickly before someone else saw what they did. I've rarely to never been ignored in their hands. They all start off liking me and my pleasant, timid personality but then one day I'll do something. I'll do something that rubs them that same wrong way and they'll give me that look. Like they knew I was too good to be true and they see who I really am. And from that point on it's like my efforts are thwarted and my genuineness is dismissed.

Oh, you thought I was weak? No, girl! I'm a lion, too! that's why I like you! ...Oh you're the only lion in this jungle...? I better watch my step? Ha, ha... okay?

My first job was as a cashier at a fast food restaurant. I worked for an insatiable black woman 10 years my senior. At first, I tried. Anywhere I am my mind is to move ahead so I had no qualms about trying my ass off as a grown ass woman in a fast food restaurant. No one had to tell me to try or take pride in my eight dollar and five cent an hour work. At first there was an issue (with… you guessed it... the black girls) because I don’t feel it necessary to speak when I walk in the room, especially if I feel like the only reason my presence needs to be made known is so you don’t slip up and say something you didn’t want me to hear. But I spoke, though. Even forced myself to be friendly, although nobody knew how hard for me that was. The harder I tried in work, the harder she wanted me to. The more I did, the less she said I was doing. Everything I did to go above and beyond what my little poor ass job entailed became a requirement. Once I had to start watching people who didn't know right from left surpass me, I snapped. Plus, I ended up having my own problems going on so I couldn't possibly be of good use to her company with all the excuses and black eyes I was coming in with. I still haven’t fully figured out what she didn’t find teachable about me but I decided I didn’t want to learn anyway. So fine. Next.

I moved to another city and worked for a spineless black woman next. On a team made up of myself, a middle aged white woman and another middle aged black woman that just would not shut the fuck up.

Hello, I’m Nandi. I'm ALWAYS the new girl but don't worry, I won't be here long. My mom literally blows with the wind so since I was a child, I was always the new girl. Not too often, but often enough. New family in church, new kids in the neighborhood, new girl at work. I come, stay long enough to shake shit up, and leave. It’s how I was raised. The issue at this job wasn’t the boss. She was sweet as pie and accommodating than a M-Fer. The issue was the talking lady strong armed every team meeting so we didn’t get much else done, and the boss lady let her do it. I mean, the purpose of the weekly meetings was already redundant, especially with a job designed with the purpose to be our transition into something more. So her, the talking ass lady, having worked this job longggg past her time, knew all these remedial ass turns like the back of her own chicken frying hands. Knew when to talk and about what, the art of keeping us off topic with her long, pointless lies and stories. Most importantly, she knew how to interrupt me. I say “right” out of habit and this particular program (child education) discourages the responses “right” and “wrong” and encourages “yes” and “try again”, whooptie-damn-do. Oh, but you know Madam Talk-a-lot made it her duty to catch every “right” and give me bullshit pointers and such. Fuck all this. I left there quickly and ended up in the hands of the angriest black woman you or I know

and I loved it.

By this time I was just as angry. I already fake-hated people, now understood what there was to hate about men, but I only hated people in theory and from my experiences. I still had the capacity to greet everyone with a smile and pleasant attitude. She, did not. Almost 30 years my senior, she opened up to me quickly and would stop work to tell me all the stories of her life. She had fired 5 assistants before me and I wondered if they got the stories, too. The fucking novel filled up to the rim with danger, drama, loneliness, abandonment, rejection, anger and resentment. I knew God put me there to tell her something but before I learned the words to that song, I found myself hating this bitch. For what reasons? Pick one. She used all her painful past as an excuse to go out of her way to be a bitch to people. It soothed her to hurt people. We were in a leasing office (you would’ve thought we were real estate tycoons, my nigga… it was the damn clubhouse at the apartment complex) so the fact that she had the power to leave folks HOMELESS? Oh dear God, she thought she was the second coming of Christ. I watched her snake people, then turn to me with a speech of how she couldn’t figure out why people talked so badly about her… then I watched her snake me to our boss. Bold face lying, constantly. And when I sulking but silent let it happen, I was reassured that she was the one that called the shots I needed to be worried about. Not her boss. Damn, et tu, Brute? Bet.

She tried to manipulate me, aggravated me out of asking her clarification. She had only been trained  in her position for 2 days with way more responsibilities than my assistant ass, (although she had started out as an assistant, like me, observing the director before her for however many years before she got her new position) half ass training me? No big deal. She was old and bitter but stable and proud and I was not mad at her at all. A lion is still a lion. But she made sure I was mad. It turned from the promise of being her successor into an unachievable, ongoing riddle. Whatever answer I had was wrong. She wanted me to need it. I thought my presence said that. She needed me to fear her. I woke up to the devil after I put him to sleep, so… sorry, I couldn't. She wanted to convince me that I was really just a zebra pretending, incompetent and that I needed her to teach me MY own lioness ways. She feared I would see through all her facades and I did. I think the final straw was when I let her know that I knew she was wearing a half wig, I’m not sure. She fired me.

That isn't a lick-the-wound exaggeration, it was a set up I should've seen coming before it did when I walked in on the 27th day of the 2nd month of being absolutely done with her imaginary dramatic bullshit. Some young little know-it-all-with-nothing-to-show-for-it bitch thinking I'm just gonna hand her the one thing I have, one thing she wants, needs.... and I'm just gon hand it to her? For free? Not that day, huh? Right, and it was fine, because I didn't have a second left to waste on non-sense that wasn't my own.

So I’m doing that thing you do when all your plans fall through and you start over a million times. I’m on Fresh Start Four. I work with children again and the way these black little girls’ eyes light up when they see me says a lot. I realized through children that often times, people just want my attention. Like when I say ‘everyone sit down and be quiet.” And Starquaijah decides she needs to sharpen all 75 million of her colored pencils. Not like I’m some oh-so-special black female deity… Well, not like it’s obvious I’m some super special black female deity… but like I’m a black girl, too. In my fear and then familiarity with rejection, I unknowingly became the black standoffish, uninterested girl I always assumed I didn’t have much in common with. And in these series of events I learned to take off anger, rudeness and disinterest as defense mechanisms, wake up my ‘resting bitch face’ and try out this carefree black girl deal. So far, I must say, it’s helping.

Baby Mama Blue

    I found out I was pregnant in March of 2016. It couldn't have come at a worse time in my life. My child's father and I hated each other. But I guess not enough, eh? Because here we were. Me, 23. Freshly out of college. Dragging my feet to the "what's next" only to instead, find myself here. Pregnant.

    My daughter's father knew I was before I stepped out of denial. He was happy; rubbing my stomach, hoping it would be a girl. I knew instantaneously it was one. I also knew that to be half the battle, getting the father excited about things. I knew I'd always be happy when the time came and felt strongly that any child I were to bring into this world needed TWO happily anticipating parents.

    Now, I choose only to discuss on this platform the feelings I know I share with a certain minority of new mothers. Not the personal whys or becauses; just the what. I struggled through my pregnancy to conceptualize what I was feeling. I'd read mom blogs, expecting mom forums, meet with a home visitor weekly, go to doctors, see strangers and follow Expecting Mom pages on Facebook, posting all these beautiful, joyous, harp string plucking memes. But it was like the music that only played when I was being addressed, and it def didn't match the music that played when I closed the door and was alone.

I. Was. Mortified.

     Look at your prospects for president. I haven't gotten over Trayvon. Chemicals and chemical warfare. Mean girls. Mean boys. Mean PEOPLE. Dog fights in school bathrooms over puppy love taken too seriously. Or just because I don't like your outfits! Predators. Racists. Disease. Accidents! Cars, boats, plains, trains, falling, drowning. Oh, God, what if it is a she?

Men... and what if it is a man? I was not ready and did not feel like I ever could be. No matter what I could do in these 8 months I had left to prepare, it would still be done here on earth.

     Afterwards, at around 8 months it hit me that I actually had to go through with this. See, I'm a runner. I might even have an Avoidant personality disorder. It wasn't just a thought that popped into and back out of my head, it was a shock that fingertip-toed and touched every part of my spine at once. I'm going to be someone's mother. All those mental notes I've been taking about the mom I wanted to be and the cause and effects of the actions of the mothers I saw, were ready to be thumbed through and organized into a plan of action.

    So far this whole "mommy thing" hadn't exactly appealed to me. And what's crazy is it always had! My whole life! But when it was time I was inside, melting. Crumbling. Cowering in the corner.

     After a depressed pregnancy I was induced Halloween night around 7 PM. I labored about 10 hours and on Nov 1st I had a healthy 7 pound 7 ounce girl. I literally felt myself give up and die around 1:30 AM. I looked out the maybe 12th story window onto a city although in reality I was on the first floor in a hick town. That's how I knew I was dying. I told the nurse so she wasn't caught off guard. She chuckled, unmoved and amused and told me I'd be fine. No, you're not listening, girl. I AM DEAD. The doctor never came and I took until 3 AM to dilate a centimeter. Then 6, then 10 in an hour. As soon as I heard "you're in labor" I pushed, even though the nurses begged me not to. The doctor lived an hour away and had only then been reached but damnit I'm a runner, I said. So if I don't run, I damn sure won't stay and stop fighting.

     When her head came out I gave up. My whole body coughed and she was out of me and on the bed. Her cry was the saddest thing I ever heard. Like she knew where she finally was. I asked her to stop sweetly and she did immediately (I didn't know crying was encouraged). When they passed her to me she looked like she knew what I knew. Well first, she didn't look like me. Secondly, she looked like her father's sister I hated and most importantly- she looked distraught. Her eyes looked up asked me "what now?" And I did not have an answer. She understood and lowered her head again. I still didn't cry the breakthrough tears of joy everyone described. This felt like the beginning of a pressing interrogation I did not have the answers to.

      My daughter is 9 months and two weeks. (And 2 days and 4 hours) The fear has yet to fade but I love her. It's a heavy kind of love I would at any other time run from, but the one time I tried to I found myself laughing, packing a baby bag. I love her so much. It's crazy how God gives you another version of yourself to raise. You walk ahead of yourself trying to correct it in them... instead of you. Is it still too much? Absolutely. But not for all the reasons people try to punch you with when you're an unprepared parent. Love is just a task in itself.

    Watching her grow has to be the most fun. I credit myself, quietly knowing I've done nothing to prove being trusted with this. I had a "looking for the mommy only to realize I'm the mommy" moment, too. I think it's because her cry translated to "MAN! WHAT IS THIS BITCH DOING?" to me. She's gutsy, ballsy. Crazy. A few days ago she gave me the tightest hug. I didn't know I needed and almost cried wondering how she did... until I realized she was trying to choke me. I mean, like... she was shake-squeezing and all.

The point I'm making is every moment ain't pretty. And sometimes, there aren't any pretty moments. Or none pretty enough to matter because the darkness is too thick. Sometimes you won't have hope for morning because, either due to your constant crying into folded arms or your cold, city lit star speckled reality, you cannot. And the point is, that's all okay. And you are not alone. Take your time.