A Goat in the Dishwasher, an M Under the Stove: Life with a Toddler

When my children were young, as in the toddler-terrible-twos stage, I don’t remember them being this active. Or maybe they were. Maybe toddlers haven’t changed. It’s me. I know. Life with my grandson makes me look back and wonder just how I got over.Never mind the typical exchanges with a toddler: the pull-up changes; Intro to Potty Training 101; whole handprints on a newly cleaned patio door; constant climbing, running, jumping, and spinning; never-ending questions (or rather question attempts. they’re mostly baby babble); distasteful food simply spat out to dribble down one’s shirt or if he’s being polite, he will release the unwanted food into his palm and offer it back; pouring milk/juice/water out on a table to use as finger paint – leaving lovely decorations. No. I’m talking about how much a toddler helps me understand myself.

First, I believe I have some mild form of, oh, I don’t know. Let’s just say I cannot enjoy furniture if it’s dirty or enjoy looking at my front lawn (or the neighbor’s for that matter) if a piece of debris has landed there. I tell people that the debris interrupts my line of vision. Is that weird? The way I see it, a person could have a million dollar (fill inthe blank). But if it’s dirty, the luster and proverbial thrill is gone. Nugget (the aforementioned grandson who will turn three-years-old in March 2021) has taught me that I get bothered by things being all over, under, and out of place. The decorative couch pillows are reassigned as building supplies for a fort. And never mind that he still likes me to carry him around on my hip and has the nerve to swing his legs back and forth! My back, knees, and right forearm muscle are spilling all my secrets. But I must say that witnessing toddlerhood does have its advantages.

I once watched Nugget take a coaster from the table and potpourri from a bowl to build some sort of deco art. I knew it was his masterpiece because he shouted, “Oook! oook!” and waited for my approval. I obliged him by applauding and shouting, “Bravo! Bravo!” while giving him commentary on how magnificent it was. He smiled toothily, poked out his belly (he doesn’t know how to poke out his chest), and swung his arms back and forth in delight. He has an untainted appreciation for all music, and his favorite song (other than Happy Birthday) is Din Daa Daa by George Kranz. Please, I beg of you to look up the lyrics (video optional). Nugget looked at a picture of an owl and told me it was “mad.” His doodle with some markers was so beautiful, his mother framed it. After racing back and forth in the living room and transferring the dog’s food from one bowl to another, I said to him in a deep voice, “Get up there, and sit down!”  To which he responded in words of the same tone. Now, I know he will need correction to some behavior, but to this I could only laugh. And we laugh a lot.

So. I’ve decided that spending time with Nugget and enduring his messes is what life is all about. After all, he won’t be this age for long. Who cares if there’s a goat in the dishwasher and an M under the stove? There’s an entire zoo in my purse. And that’s just fine by me.

400 Years and We Still Can't Breathe

As I sit here thinking about our condition as African-Americans, I can’t help thinking that it was all inevitable. I will explain later. We must come to the realization that we will always have to fight for our rights and that they are not given as freely to us as they are to others. In the big scheme of things, African-Americans have moved forward a notch or two. Sure, we have advanced degrees and own businesses, but what did we expect a country to become when its very foundation was built on black necks and black backs through black blood? 

“So…I have an idea,” thought USA in the beginning, “How about we go to a continent and kidnap the people there, bring them over here and make them plant and harvest crops that we can get rich from and pass down to our children? Oh, and it gets better! Let’s make slaves out of ‘em and make ‘em do it for free, and in return they git nothing but a hard life and suffering all their days and for their children, too?” And so it began. Formed in the minds of some whites was a superiority complex while at the same time ushering in African-Americans’ defense mechanisms. Yes, we have moved forward a mile or two. But how much farther we’d be had it not been for the scale of unbalanced policies like Jim Crow and employment discrimination. How much farther we’d be had it not been for the destruction of our towns and livelihood. How much farther we’d be if not for any of it. So, it was inevitable.

The clashes, fighting, and fires were inevitable. Because they are not new. It feels as if we stepped out of the pages of the civil rights movement of the 1960s to experience it all over again. Honestly, our lives never cease to be a civil rights movement. For as long as we live in this skin, we must be ready to defend it. We always have, and it was inevitable that we are doing it again. But how we fight and defend ourselves have nothing to do with hurling bricks and bottles. We must start using our weapons: the vote and the dollar. We must start researching the backgrounds of people for whom we vote and elect them if their policy beliefs align with moving us forward. When they are elected and prove to be a disappointment, we vote them out. Let us support or own businesses. If they get something right, write a positive review, tell everybody you know, and go back often. If not, pull the owner to the side in private and express the complaint. At least it gives the owner an opportunity to address the issue. 

I am sorry for those who have lost loved ones at the hands of injustice and hatred. After 400 years, this country doesn’t have it right. African-Americans are still fighting for rights. And we still can’t breathe.

Picture credit: @kenslerb via Twitter.com