What A Difference A Year Makes - Lessons For My Baby Girl

I will never forget the day.  It was Sunday, September 30, 2012.  It was early in the morning, and I was trying to peel myself out of bed to get ready to go to church.  That weekend had been like any other weekend, but I was just so unusually tired.  As I made my way to my bathroom to shower, I thought to myself, “What is wrong with me?  I haven’t been this tired since I was … PREGNANT.”

A little background here.  At the time, I was 39 years old.  My son was 8.  My husband and I had been trying for years to have another baby, but we never conceived.  There was nothing medically wrong with either of us.  But for whatever reason, we went years without getting pregnant.  Did I mention that I was 39?  My husband was 40.  After all the years of trying, I think we had finally decided we were going to have just one child, and that was fine with us.  Our son was indeed a blessing to our lives, and he has made us extremely happy and proud to be his parents.

But could it be?  Could I finally be pregnant again?  As excited as I wanted to be about the possibility, I, like so many times before, told myself to calm down and don’t set myself up for yet another disappointment.  I went by the store on the way home from church to buy a pregnancy test.  I took it at 10pm that night … and it came back positive.

After getting over the initial shock of the positive pregnancy test, something just hit me like a ton of bricks.  Hold up.  Wait a minute.  I’m going to have a baby … at 40!!!  40, y’all.  FOUR-TEE!!!  I couldn’t help but chuckle a little bit, though.  God answers prayers in His own time.  (That’s a whole ‘nother blog entry, y’all.)  God also has a sense of humor.  Me?  A baby?  At the seasoned age of 40?

Before I discovered I was pregnant, I was already going through what I termed my mid-life crisis.  I had been reflecting on my life and thinking of the things I had accomplished, what I had yet to accomplish, and what goals I was going to set for myself in this season of my life.  I started doing things that made me feel better about and for myself.  I started compiling my "bucket list".  And then comes the unexpected blessing of a baby.  Wow!!

When my husband and I were planning to get married and mapping out the story for the rest of our lives, we had envisioned what our family would be.  We wanted a son and daughter.  We got pregnant fairly quickly with our son.  When things didn't go as planned with getting pregnant with our second child, I'll have to admit that my faith got shaky.  God knew the desires of my heart.  Lord knows I prayed enough.  I had bought things over the years in preparation for a baby girl.  Year after year had passed.  Finally, thinking that perhaps a baby wasn't in my future, I gave away all those things I had bought.  I had given up hope.

Fast forward to Friday, January 25, 2013.  I was 20+ weeks pregnant and had my ultrasound that day.  We learned we were having our girl!  Funny thing.  The next morning, I was looking through a closet and found one thing that I bought for my daughter that I hadn't given away.  It was a Princess Tiana doll.

What a difference a year makes.  I am now 41, and my daughter turned a year old a few months ago.  What an adventure this has been.  This has been a year of immeasurable joy watching her grow and an eye-opening year of self-discovery for me. 

I think a lot about the example I am setting for my daughter.  Let's face it.  Probably the biggest influence in a child's life is their same sex parent.  That's a downright daunting thought, y'all.  At least for me it is.  I need to have my stuff together.  I want to make sure I'm setting a good example for my daughter.  My next few blog entries will deal with the lessons I want to teach my baby girl.  So many lessons.  So many things I want for her.  So many dreams I have for her.

It's important I do this right.
 

A Personal Reflection ... Let Fathers' Day Be For FATHERS

I lost my dad on Monday, November 24, 2008.  His death left a huge, gaping hole in my heart and in the lives of the members of my immediate family.  Fathers' Day and the holidays are particularly hard for me.  While they have become times I reflect on the 35 years I was blessed to spend with my Daddy, they are also times of great sadness because he's no longer here.  I still miss him terribly.

Fathers' Day is this Sunday.  Over the past few years, I have noticed something that troubles me and ... well ... just plain gets on my nerves.  What is it?  It bothers me when folks give shout outs or celebrate mothers on FATHERS' DAY.  Let me explain.

I was raised in a two parent home.  While I know that isn't everyone's reality, it was mine.  I'm 40+, and I still marvel at everything my mother, Dorothy Gambrell, did.  She was an amazing wife to my dad for over 40 years, raised two daughters, held down a full-time job outside the home, was active in her church and community, kept an immaculately clean house, could cook her behind off, and did it all with seemingly incredible ease while wearing pumps, lipstick, perfectly coifed hair, and a Wonder Woman cape.  Ok, so I embellished a little with the cape, but you get the point.  Mama was the bomb diggity, and I love and adore her for that.  I still want to be like her when I grow up.

But with everything my mother was and continues to be, there was something that she couldn't be to me.  That was a father.  I can and will never discount the influence my Daddy had on my life.  My father, Ernest Gambrell, was an extraordinary man.  Yes, I know I'm biased, but he absolutely was.  I always knew that growing up, but it's even more apparent to me now as an adult.  He was a strong and commanding presence in my life.  Perhaps it's because of his loving, positive influence on me that I take such a strong exception to celebrating mothers on fathers' day.

Let me be clear.  In no way am I diminishing what single mothers do for their children.  They work ... HARD.  I know and love many single mothers, and I know and love people who were or are being raised by single mothers.  But I also know countless numbers of men who are there and support their children regardless of whether or not they are married to their children's mothers.  I'm not talking about support that comes in the form of a monthly check.  I'm talking about being there for parent-teacher conferences, recitals, and ball games.  I'm talking about being there to wipe away tears, give hugs, and offer encouragement.  I'm talking about changing dirty diapers and being there for first words and steps.  Instead of concentrating on the absent fathers, what is the harm in celebrating the fathers or father figures that are present every single day?

I see a double standard.  Let's be honest.  If there were Hallmark cards for fathers on Mothers' Day, a lot of us would have an issue with that.  So let's not take away from honoring and celebrating our men on Fathers' Day.  Real fathers deserve better. 

Happy Fathers' Day to all fathers, uncles, and father figures.  I hope this Sunday will be a day that you are celebrated for the treasures you truly are. 

A Tribute to Karyn Washington

I didn't intend this to be my first blog entry, but something has been weighing heavily on my heart for several days now.
 
A couple weeks ago, you may have heard about the death of 22 year-old Karyn Washington.  She was the founder of the blog "For Brown Girls" and the #DarkSkinRedLip Project.  Both were founded to inspire, encourage, and empower darker-skinned Black women to love their looks, share their experiences, and feel comfortable in their own skin.  I read she died of an apparent suicide, and she had been suffering from mental illness and depression.  The depression became worse after the death of her mother.

Ms. Washington's death has struck a chord with me for a few reasons.  For one, having grown up as a dark-skinned Black girl in South Carolina, I know all too well how the ridicule and teasing of your looks can affect you.  Because of that, I applauded her efforts to empower other dark chocolate sistahs.  Secondly, she was only 22 years old.  At 22, my life was just beginning.  I had just graduated from college and was looking forward to starting my adult life.  22 is so incredibly young.

Lastly, how many of us can identify with her?  I know I'm raising my hand.  We are everything to everyone, but we fail to take care of ourselves both physically and mentally.  We have many people in our lives who love us.  Yet ... we wear a mask.  We smile on the outside but are hurting and crying on the inside.  Why is it so hard for Black women to ask for help?  Why do we find it necessary to be strong all the time?  Why is it so shameful to see a professional when we've run out of answers?

We have so much on our plates and so many demands on our time.  We are wives, mothers, community leaders, caregivers, entrepreneurs, etc.  And let's not forget to factor in some other things we may be going through ... illness, aging parents, lost loved ones, lost jobs, mounting bills, failing relationships.  It can all be overwhelming.  I know.  I consider myself a strong person, but it's hard for me to reach out for help.  I don't want to feel weak or vulnerable, and I definitely don't want to be seen in that way.  So like so many of us sistahs, I smile.  I tell everyone I'm fine when I am wasting away on the inside.

Sistahs, we have to do better.  We have to be strong enough to know when we need help, when we're at our breaking point, and when we are having thoughts that we no longer matter enough to live.  As much as I love God and believe in the power of prayer, we can't always pray away depression.  We can attend all the church services in the world and pray 'til we've worn holes in our knees, but God put mental health professionals on Earth for a reason.  We can't be afraid to seek their help.

Also, if you know a sistah (or anyone) who is going through a difficult time in their lives, reach out to them.  Check on them.  You'd be surprised at how much an encouraging word or gesture can do to a person who is in despair.

I used to work with someone who attempted suicide a few years ago.  They were going through a bad time in their life and decided ending their life was the answer to their problems.  The suicide attempt failed.  That person did get help, and they are the happiest I've seen them in years.  To remind them of what they had to live for, they had their daughter's name tattooed on their arm.  Moral of the story?  Whatever you have to do to remind yourself that you matter, that you are loved, that your death is not the answer to your problem, that's EXACTLY what you have to do.

Ms. Washington, I never met you, but your untimely death has been a wake-up call to me.  Thank you for your work in our community.  May your death not be in vain and serve to encourage others to reach out for help in their times of need.