Oh Snap – I’m a DAD!

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This was my first blog post some fourteen years ago. I took it down along with all of my other post because I simply became too overwhelmed – things here at home, things with my mom. I was unable to grasp the therapeutic relief that writing provided. Still struggling with it but things change when we least expect it. Keep the faith – help always arrives on time when you do. I’ll come back periodically – maybe continue to repost. In the meantime take every day one day at a time and take care.


Abuse and sexual assault issues are dominating the headlines these days and recent events involving former NFL players Ray McDonald, Ray Rice and Darren Sharper got me to thinking about my own family and how I think we (men) can start addressing these problems. Make no mistake, abuse is not an NFL issue, it is a global problem in society. I planned to make these issues the primary focus for my second blog post. However, as I was starting to write my first draft, my nine-year old daughter plopped down on the floor of my office with a book to read until I tucked her into bed. I took a good long look at her, she just finished 3rd grade and before I know it she will be out in the world on her own. I started to wonder if I am doing enough to prepare her for the path ahead. Am I doing enough to educate her on how to avoid the type of man that only wants to control and take advantage of her? In my opinion the root cause of these problems is that these men have absolutely no respect for women. The result is that they have no idea how to have a relationship or communicate with a woman outside of trying to get her into bed. Compounding the issue is that these men are also having kids of their own and passing on their behavior thus, creating a vicious cycle of abuse and neglect.

Call me a mama’s boy or whatever but I’m glad that as I was growing up I was taught to respect women, it didn’t matter if it was a stranger or family member, “yes ma’am, no ma’am” is still part of my vocabulary and I open doors. My family taught me that manners would take me further than money and I believe that to be true today even as I approach the age of fifty. Proverbs 22:6 says “Train up a child in the way he should go, And when he is old he will not depart from it”. I am that child. We are all, that child and somewhere along the line one set of children fell through the cracks of life to become abusers or victims. I am trying to raise my daughter so that she knows how to make good decisions, what it means to give and receive respect. For me it starts by making sure she sees the admiration, love and respect that I have for her mother. That doesn’t mean every day is perfect, were not living in Xanadu but I believe its meaningful for her to learn about how relationships work using her mother and father as examples instead of picking up breadcrumbs from what she might see on television or the internet where there are no filters, but I digress. As I was reflecting how I am raising my daughter my mind raced back some nine years to the time she was born. At the risk of sounding cliché, it was the best day of my life.

My daughter was born at 1:47 AM Tuesday morning, February 21, 2006. Her due date was actually the 19th but I was secretly pulling for the 21st because 21 is my favorite number. I am thankful that God had the same plan.

It was about 11:00 PM, Sunday February 19th. My wife had already gone to bed a few hours earlier having grown weary of waiting for the moment. I was sitting on the couch trying to decide if I should take a nap or grab some microwave popcorn and watch Robert DeNiro in the movie “Heat”. My indecisiveness was for good reason. When the doctor tells you that your baby will be born on February 19th, you spend all day on the 18th waiting for the next day and when it finally arrives you’re sitting on pins and needles waiting for the moment, that signal that sends you running for the already packed suitcase to throw in the back of the car, the sweater she is supposed to the wear, the cell phone, Suddenly you’re halfway to the hospital and a pang of doubt hits you, “Did I let down the garage door?”, “Do I have the list of people I’m supposed to call?”

I talked to my kid a few times during my wife’s pregnancy every day using this headphone / mic gadget that’s placed on the woman’s stomach in order to hear the baby’s heart-beat. I figured that if I could hear her heartbeat then she could hear my voice and never forget it.

DiNiro is about to meet his end, and I hear my wife shuffle to the bathroom. And then it happened. A clear gelatinous liquid hit the tile floor with such a splat, I thought my wife was killing a bug with her slipper, “My water broke!!! I raced into the room and saw her standing there a little frightened and a little excited all at the same time. My first thought was to grab her suitcase, grab her sweater, make sure that I had my cell phone and whisk her off to the hospital. That’s what we practiced anyway. What actually happened? I have no idea but by the time we changed her clothes, called the doctors answering service, got confirmation of a bed at the hospital and finally checked into the hospital, it was 5:45 AM, Monday. For next 14 hours I would sit by my wife’s side answering email, keeping our friends and family informed while watching the Law & Order marathon. Her water had not broken, it was just fluid which the doctors would eventually have to replace. We would sit there watching Law & Order until finally about 8:00 PM the decision was made to induce labor. And that’s when things “got real”.

The contractions came and went, violently against the backdrop of the familiar Law & Order theme song, you know the terse “dun, dun”. About 11:30 PM, our daughter’s heart rate dropped, she had become twisted in the umbilical cord; we considered doing a C-section then all of sudden it was like she was dancing, she untwisted herself………I remember the doctor screaming at my wife to push, “Push, or you’re going to be here all night!” That earned him a few hyphenated responses from my wife and I said something along the line of “What’s your problem” luckily the nurse was there to keep us calm and focused. It was a little after 1:15 AM and I noticed that I was sweating profusely a 68 degree room.
Suddenly her head began to crown and nurse asked “Sir, has anyone talked to you about what expect when you first see the color of your child?” I had no idea what the heck she was talking about but the short story is mixed babies don’t look mixed out of the womb until after the air hits them. Our nurse felt compelled to give me advance warning (too many fights in the delivery room) that if I was concerned, all I had to do was look behind our daughter’s ears.

Finally, at 1:47 AM she came into the world. I watched her yawn then let out a scream after the doctor smacked her little buttocks, then a strange thing happened, time froze for just a moment. You see newborn babies fresh from the womb don’t look resemble babies at all. They look like gargoyles made out of oatmeal and as they scream they are actually filling in becoming complete right in front of your eyes. I cut her umbilical cord and watched as they weighed and measured her. My wife was exhausted, she could barely keep her eyes open, she held our little girl few minutes and then drifted off to sleep. I gave her the first bottle, she was wrapped in blanket with a little beanie on her tiny head. I held my daughter in the crook of my left arm, her face was very close to mine as she drank from her bottle. Her eyes locked onto mine the entire time until a very familiar sound caused them to react, not look away but to kind of jump, “dun, dun” it was theme song to Law & Order.
I wish she could never leave the crook of my arm knowing the challenges that await her but she can’t be a little girl forever and the reality is I will have to let her go to make room for the next man in her life.

So how am I doing so far (after nine years)?

I have a deep appreciation for the unique and wonderfully, complex father – daughter relationship. I am doing the best that I can but I am praying every day for guidance to be a better father and husband; that I continue to earn her trust as her friend as well as her father.
I encourage every father to get engaged in the lives of their children so that together we can start to change this culture of abuse and violence.
Psalms 91

Kathryn

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I miss my grandmother – everyday. She passed away in 2013, after suffering a heart attack in November of 2011. She was in a vegetative state until one day she went to sleep and didn’t wake up. I remember the call from my mother, it was just after 10pm on Saturday night. I had put the family in a hotel because our A/C went out and headed back home – someone had to look after the animals and be on the lookout for the repair man. I heard my mom’s voice, and I knew it immediately; death, especially when it occurs to someone close to you has a peculiar sound. I can’t put it into words, but I heard it. I heard it the day my uncle told me that my aunt had passed, heard it when my mom told me that my uncle was gone. And now again it presented itself. She was driving to the hospital – I told her to slow down, she’s gone, there is nothing you can do. It probably came across as cold in the moment, but I know my mom – she was frantic, and I needed her to be in control navigating the LA freeway system from the San Fernando Valley to the South Bay.

A large part of us – of me was gone. Suddenly.

She called me dolly-dolly – something about the way I looked as a baby, could have been jaundice. I lived the better part of my childhood with my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle. My mom was there but grandmother was also, ‘mama’. And my mother didn’t seem to mind – I still called her mom. In a way I think she welcomed it – she was twenty-two when she had me, just out of college, single and still trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life. Eventually she would go on to be Macon’s first policewoman but every event in my life leading up to that point involved her side of the family.

Fast fact: I didn’t know what my father looked like until I was fifty-years old. We didn’t have a reunion – he sent me a picture. Not sure if sent him one of me or my family. That man didn’t diaper my behind one time. But I digress.

My grandmother was a giant. She was self-made having lost her parents at the age of nine-years old. She had an older brother, some cousins but she had to tackle life by herself. Her brother joined the military at a young age. I never met him, as far as know they wrote each other from time to time but they rarely talked on the phone. She didn’t mention him lot – not sure how she felt about him leaving her. In fact, I forgot him altogether until he passed away in September 2001. My grandmother and my aunt flew to Washington, DC to bury him. They were actually supposed to fly back to Los Angeles on the eleventh, but they were able to leave a day early. I know what you’re thinking, thought the same thing – who knows.

Four kids, two grandkids, one great grandson and one great granddaughter. A degree from the University of North Carolina. A church leader, mentor and teacher at the Georgia School of the Blind. That’s a long way from being cold, hungry, not knowing what to expect the next day.

Scripture says ‘We walk by Faith, not by sight”. My grandmother epitomized this, she lived it every day. She didn’t just survive her childhood – she thrived. She took jobs cleaning houses, sewing, sometime she was charged with taking care of kids not much older than her. She instilled that same drive, that same sense of responsibility to her kids and to me. I will be forever grateful. Did I tell you that I miss her?

A good friend told me this story about a former employee of his. This kid smoked a lot marijuana – partied a lot, never showed interest in expanding her role or took responsibility for her short-comings as an employee. Finally he had to let her go. Sometime later, maybe five years she called him because she needed help. She had enough of life on the street, tying to live in the fast-lane. Tired of taking her life for granted and she wanted to go home. Her parents would not take her calls and definitely would not send her any money. My friend helped her – no strings attached, no lecture, no expectation of being repaid. He said that he told her hoped that she used the opportunity to do exactly what she said she would do because sometime you don’t get a second chance – sometime you can’t find someone to believe in you. And then he told me this and it always stayed with me. He said, he helped her because somewhere along the course of her life, her family gave up on her –probably before her breakthrough. You can never give up on family. And you know what – she paid him back. Every penny.

Fast-Fact: I’m singing to the choir here; life is one and done. Live yours, not someone else, don’t try to emulate what you see on social media. Be true to all people, especially the people that love you unconditionally and be true to yourself. Enjoy the journey, avoid the race and by all means, be grateful for and happy in who you are. In this you will find your strength and your calling.

At 12pm, she prayed. At 3pm, she prayed. At 6pm, she prayed. At 9pm, she prayed and if she happened to be awake close to midnight, she prayed. That was Kathryn. Her friends, especially Ms. Jones called her kitty for her high-pitched voice. My goodness those ladies could talk on the phone. They were good friends, prayer partners, gossip partners and sometimes competitors at the church cookouts. My grandmother had a real talent for cooking having learned during the time as a child. Some recipes she learned from her mother, others she created. I learned the same way from her, from my mom. She taught me to pray too. I miss her.

Fast-Fact: I once baked and threw away eight ginger breads before I got the recipe correct.

We lived in the projects when I kid, it was called Bird City because all of the streets were name after birds. Our address was 1948 Heron Street. It still there. Experienced snow for the first time there during the Holidays. We used to have this 18-inch plastic Santa that you put a light-bulb in so it glowed. There nuts and all kinds of hard candy in a dish and oh the sweets. Sweet potato pie, ginger bread, bread pudding, chocolate, coconut, lemon cheese, pound and bunt cakes. Our tree was made of aluminum, and lit by a rotating light wheel of green, gold and blue. Sometimes we strung popcorn on the tree – my uncle and I would eat it and then we would pop some more. I theorize my grandmother didn’t have the same Thanksgiving and Christmas that she was able to give us. I’m sure of it. Even today, I’ve never met anyone who took so much joy in doing for others.

In the projects – everybody knew their neighbors business. One thing everyone knew was how strict my mom and my grandmother were. Other kids knew it and used it to their advantage. If I got into a fight at school, a whipping at home usually followed. Why did everyone know it? Well in the Seventies South, parents didn’t use belts, they used switches. If you saw a grown up go outside and get a switch you knew somebody was in trouble. I didn’t lose many if I had to fight – even in third grade I knew better than get my butt kicked twice in one day.

On one particular occasion this kid ripped a shirt that my grandmother had just purchased for me. I had seen her angry but this time she was pissed – not because he ripped the shirt but because I didn’t do anything about it. She marched me right to his house knocked on the door and told this kid – talking past his mother, mind you, to get his so and so butt outside. And she told me to make him pay for it. I lost that fight but after that nobody bothered me anymore. Afterwards I began to see my grandmother in a different light – something clicked. She was tough. Found out later she carried a derringer.

My grandmother was twice divorced, spent a short-time on welfare, shopped with food stamps. Nevertheless her kids were always clean, clothed, always had a roof over their heads. She worked hard to make sure they had what they needed, equally and sometimes she was able to get them and me, what we wanted.

Years later – Oh Snap! I’m a dad. I find myself longing for her words of wisdom – thinking back about what I observed in the way that she raised my mom and her siblings. I wonder how she would approach these days and times, with all the technology and vices that are constantly bombarding our children to make bad decisions, sacrifice their future for short-lived gains or satisfaction.

My grandmother, Kathryn was quite a lady, a mother, a grandmother, mentor and friend. I really miss her.

To be continued.

Gloria

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Getting closer to figuring out how I want to spend my time in this space. A very long time ago and I mean very long – my literature instructor encouraged me to write. She even purchased several books for me to use as reference when I went to college. But I never put time into it. Is it a surprise that I was never a good college student?  I remember that one day during course of chastising me for clowning in class she said ‘You have the talent to be a great writer, don’t waste it, you will need to find your voice for yourself and just maybe for others.” At the time I simply couldn’t see or understand what she saw in me or in my writing. I wrote what I considered to be a good not great term paper about the Frederick Douglas but in her eyes, it was ‘a fantastic journey of 25 pages’. Eventually it became a benchmark for other students taking her class.

I used to write weekly but somewhere along the way I lost my voice. Now, here I am wanting to and struggling to find my voice in this virtual space.

I don’t know if Gloria Woehler is still alive, but I wish that I could thank her for always having faith in me, for being a kind and generous soul to me and my classmates. We didn’t appreciate her. We considered her odd, with her oversize beads and her funky mix of plaid and solid colors. But what she was really was a force to surface the good out of her pupils. I remember she had one of the strangest rules, never use the word ‘and’ in sentence. And it worked.

How many do I have here? I need the practice.

If there is a moral to this story it’s don’t waste time.

I’m going to take baby steps, keep it simple. If you should happen to stumble to over this blog then stick around – watch me grow. Thanks, Gloria.

Back when the time is right.