...A Time to be Silent and a Time to Speak Up

I’m a sister and a mother, but neither makes me unique. I am honored to have two brown brothers, chocolate and mocha and two sons, one tawny, the other tortilla. Having one brother who lives here and two black sons, events hitting so close to home have had me thinking quite a bit and distracted. Over the last few weeks, my emotions have been all over the place.

As a Nigerian born woman, I have received my fair share of hate, from people who look like me to others who look nothing like me on the inside or outside. I will never forget the day my sister and I were walking to school one morning, talking and laughing. I believe we were starting 3^rd and 5^th grades. About 15 minutes from school, passing some apartments on our usual route at the time, we weren’t able to hear one another anymore due to the sound of loud music and laughter coming from behind us. As we turned to see who was making all the noise, two teenagers in a convertible were quickly making their way north, in our direction. Out of mere curiosity, we slowed down to see the cool car, but as they got close to us, they slowed down, one stood up on the passenger’s side, yelled, “N*****s, go back to where you came from; you don’t belong here!” As if that was not enough, he spat at us, then slid back in his seat as they both laughed uncontrollably and sped away. It’s been 30 years, and I haven’t forgotten that incident. So when people question my solidarity because I don’t use a black tile, or they say, “You don’t understand,” because of the race of the person to whom I’m married, I just shake my head. I’m not any less black or immune; I’m not any less moved nor shaken. We all grieve and respond in our own ways. Anyone who knows me knows I do very little out of obligation, because if done that way, it’s not done from my heart.

The most recent issues over the last few weeks have made me very upset, and I dislike that people are making it seem like one-off incidents. Black people are being killed at the hands of those who pledged to honor and serve. Too many are making it seem like people of color's outcries are over-the-top. Black people have suffered for many years in this country, in one way or the other, both openly and silently. They just want to be heard.

The officers lost their jobs, and at the time I initially wrote this, they had yet to be arrested. Now they have been, but the fact that it took so much to move the hands of justice is disheartening. The whole incident made me angry, and I felt like deleting some “Facebook friends” due to their ignorance masked as wisdom, stating "all lives matter," as if that’s not a given. They do, but Kaepernick took a knee for a reason, BLM was born, both because of a growing need for attention to this matter: black people being killed by police unnecessarily and unjustly. No, not “all cops are bad,” but the system, is broken, let’s at least admit that. There’s a lot social media is bringing attention to now that has been going on for decades, and that’s simply the truth. People have been experiencing this type of treatment before bodycams and viral videos.

Looting and all that is an emotional, and terrible, reaction to a systemic problem that requires the powers-that-be to take action, rather than sweep this all under the rug. Rage is growing. People are hurting. These videos are becoming common place and will lead to desensitization. People are making comments and blaming a whole race for actions of a few rogue ones. Unfortunately, a lot of people are opportunists, taking advantage of social issues and in turn giving a bad name to positive movements. People are simply tired of the real issue (cause) being swept under the rug and focusing on the effect, especially if they are part of the untouched/seldomly touched majority. Even other people of color making comments are being chewed up. Folks just want the cause addressed.

It's like a child being bullied at school, and rather than the teacher/principal doing anything about it, the child is reprimanded for self-isolating, protecting himself. Then he starts acting out and throwing things in class and is suspended. The other parents say, "If he had a good home..." "Oh, he could have hurt someone...." "He needs help." Yes, all true, and no, his actions aren't justified, but the reason for his reaction is not, and has not been, addressed and must. Unfortunately, when unheard, out of frustration and anger, “hurt people hurt people”.

Rather than commenting on the result, which people will be reprimanded or jailed for, because it certainly won't be overlooked, others need to be compassionate and try to understand the hurt and rage. After all, this year has been one for the books. We are all trying to work out so much emotionally and mentally: loss of jobs, the fear of a new virus, and a new normal on the horizon. There is definitely a build up of rage and frustration from all sides. We have reached a boiling point. This HAD to happen. All that being said, we must stand in solidarity for this cause, because it’s been a long time coming. If we don’t rally together now and speak out against the injustice, it will continue.

I am African, so I don’t truly understand the deep pain of my black American brothers and sisters. However, I am black, and I am their sister. And even if I weren’t black, I believe I would still stand up with them, link my arms with them, and lend my voice to help put an end to the injustice against, and murders of, black men and women. By doing so, one is not saying it’s okay to burn buildings, loot, or any of that. Listen. Be silent. We truly should be in this together, until something changes.

Rather than fuel the fire of hate and separation, we should help dissipate the rage/hatred/chaos, but definitely not by spouting off insensitively. Oneness, unity, is needed at this time. If you cannot offer a solution, or be part of the solution (participate in peaceful protests, hand out waters to those participating, donate to help/further the cause, private message those posting and getting out of hand on social media, etc.), please don’t inadvertently be part of the problem. Please don’t make blanket statements dismissing a whole race, or group of people, based on the actions of a few.

"A man dies when he refuses to stand up for that which is right. A man dies when he refuses to stand up for justice. A man dies when he refuses to take a stand for that which is true." - Dr Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Being Somebody in a Nobody World

Less than two weeks ago, my oldest child turned 13. To be quite honest, it was a very sobering time for me. My son had hit a milestone which really caused me to reflect, because I recalled the day of his birth as if it were only days ago. I remembered my excitement and anxiety, both at great highs. What would life as a mom be like? Was I even equipped to take on the new role? Who was I to think I was prepared to raise another human being? Was I being selfish bringing another human into our broken world? Well, all those thoughts ceased the moment that tiny being, with a head full of hair, was placed in my arms. Since then, my life has never been the same.

Now, 13 years later, after many ups and downs, sleepless nights, days of doubt, yet many memories and beautiful moments, there are a few things I can say I have learned, mainly by default, that I am both happy and ashamed to admit.

   1. Perfection is relative. You see, my oldest child is different from his younger siblings, and I have written about his beautiful mind in the past. For many years, I blamed myself for his being different. When he was born, I was only able to be home for two weeks before returning to work. He was the only child of our three who attended a daycare of some sort. So many times, I’ve said to myself, “If I had just been home more, then…” “If I had just followed my intuition when I noticed his speech issues, then…” It is only of recent, if I am being transparent, that I’ve come to realize he is perfect exactly as he is. The moment I truly embraced that, our relationship blossomed unlike ever before. He and I get each other in a way we never have, and I love it.

   2.  Monkey see, monkey do is a thing. My daughter, more than her brothers, has taught me that I must always be mindful of what I do (around them). She challenges me daily, reminding me that many of her actions and ways of being are just her following in my footsteps. She loves and respects me, and that is great, but it makes me more conscious of my every word and move.

    3. My life is more than just about me and what I want. The moment I decided to be a parent, I could no longer just consider myself and what makes me happy. My career choices weren’t about just what I wanted but what I wanted for us. My time became more valuable; moments were cherished a lot more. I had to suppress my inner hermit and do things like go to public places like the park, Jump Street, Rush Fun Park, etc. I had to engage in activities that do not interest me in the least bit, as the smell of random children and the thought of germs lingering make me very uneasy.

    4. Sacrifice is required daily. Every single day, I give up a little part of myself for my children. Yes, I do, and you probably do, too, even when it comes to the littlest of things. The other day, it was playing Shoutrageous with the children when I should have been attending to some paperwork that would require an hour or so of my time later. Today, it was sacrificing a 2-mile walk I was looking forward to because they wanted to have popcorn and watch something, which ended up being a bore to me but quite entertaining to them. We don’t get those moments  back.

   5. They have a right to question my actions, respectfully. I learned the hard way that this was true. I lost my mind one day and got in my feelings over something trivial. My daughter, as is her nature, later pulled me aside, like I do with them, and inquired, “But, Mommy, I thought you said if you know you’re right, fighting over it makes it seem you don’t believe it. I know you were right, so why did you keep arguing about it? Why didn’t you just ignore him?” Sigh…

   6. The good I do or don’t, they notice. I used to give money to the homeless on the side of the street. My children started to follow suit, when they had spare cash. After a few years, I stopped, and of course, they noticed. They asked why I didn’t like giving to the homeless like Jesus did. We had a great conversation and agreed that giving is good, but that we should give food and water instead. 

    

    7. Consistency is key, so my“yes” must be “yes” and my “no” must be “no”. If there’s one thing my children know well about me, it is that if I say “yes” to something, my word is my bond, even when I wish it wasn’t. Another, which they repeat to one another is, “You already asked her, and she said, “no”. You know Mommy doesn’t change her mind.”

   8.  What I may be able to handle, they may not be able to bear. I am the “man up” queen. I’m not big on wallowing in tears or pity parties, but I do believe in having “moments”. I learned the hard way that even though I have difficulty knowing how to respond when others are crying, with my children, I can’t make them feel less than for expressing themselves through tears. As awkward as it often can be for me still, I have come to realize, through them, that adult or child, we all handle things quite differently, and I need to respect that.

    9.  I must love even when it’s hard to do so. For the sake of my children, I have, on many occasions, had to suppress my inner petty. There have been people I know it’s obvious I just can’t stand, but because I love my children and they care for them,  I do my best to look at the people through their eyes and God’s. It’s amazing how forgiving and loving children can be even when they have been deeply hurt. Look, I’m still learning.

  10.   Words are powerful. They are fire. They either ignite hope and inspire, or they fiercely burn up       everything I’ve taken the time to build in them.

  11.   Like A.L. Williams said, way before Nike caught on, “Just do it”. As their parent, I can't just talk about it, I have to be about it, whatever "it" may be. I can’t just say, “one day, I’ll…” “One day, we will…” Just do it! If I have a passion, I can't use my children as a reason not to pursue it. They are not my crutches; they are my reason. I've put them (as crutches) down many times, in order be the best version of myself I can be for them, and myself. When they see me pursue my dreams and passions, they realize I am unstoppable, and if I can be unstoppable, they can be, too. I allow my children to dream, but we talk about what it takes to achieve those dreams as well.

As my children's parent, my sole purpose is to raise loving, God-focused children who embrace the world with wonder and who know and believe that they can impact the world significantly with their gifts and talents. In this life, I truly believe we all just want to be somebody. My children are little beings who will grow to be leaders of tomorrow. It bothers me when people say, “Don’t listen to them, they’re just kids.” Honestly, I listen to them, because they haven’t been tainted by the world. They still believe anything is possible. They haven’t lost faith in the goodness of humanity. When they say, “hi” to someone and they are ignored, I remind them that “hi,” or a smile, could make the next person's day, and they whole-heartedly believe it. In the big world, I’m nobody, but in my children’s world, I am definitely somebody.

Pardon Me, I'm an Odd Somebody

I, for one, know I’m a very complex being. There are many things that irk and irritate me, and some, I can’t even explain why.

For instance, I dislike any part of a person (arm, wrist, etc) passing, or going over, my food or drink. Also, take a bite of my food, or take a sip of my anything, and don’t bother giving it back; it’s yours.

I feel if you’ve worked up a sweat, in any which way, you should not feel it necessary to hug me. If we’re not equally sweaty, please stay in your lane. I have showered.

If you and your toothbrush are fighting, I don’t want to be the referee. Please do not feel the need to have a close range conversation with me. That is a different kind of abuse my nose does not appreciate.

I am that person who believes very much in designated seating. At home, we have designated seats at our dining table, and I have ONE couch I designate for myself in our living room. It is an unspoken rule that no one is allowed on that couch. Why? I am very particular. I, myself, do not even sit on it with outside clothes. What are “outside” clothes? Any piece of attire that has followed me outside to my car, the mailbox, to a store, or seen the inside of a car…if it has left the walls of our house, it cannot go on my couch. I adhere to that self-imposed rule, and because others don’t care enough, I reserve that one couch for myself and do not sit anywhere else, so as not to be inconsiderate and take up space someone else needs.

I dislike people taking their shoes (of any kind) from outside to my carpet. Please remove your shoes at the door. I am not interested in having you track the pigeon poop you somehow picked up from outside onto the carpet my children sit and do flips on. Please do not be offended by my request for you remove your shoes upon entry to our home. It’s a simple request, so we don’t become one with, or inhale, all the rubbish that makes its way onto your shoes during the course of the day.

Ugh! Children who call me by my first name. I’m old school: we are not mates nor friends; I’m Miss Esther, or Mrs Zufelt, to you.

There are so many more, but another thing is that I enjoy time with people I care for, to any degree. I am not big on receiving gifts, as my love languages are acts of service and quality time. I’m the cheapest date anyone will ever have. I am not big on money, neither is there anything “I’ve just gotta have”. I’m very simple, despite my other idiosyncrasies, which is why it hurts if someone accuses me of being their friend, or wanting them around, for what I can get from them. When I want to help, or show someone a better way, and I am accused of wanting to pad my pockets…that person has no idea of who I am, nor do they understand my heart.

Much of who I am is birthed from things that have occurred in my life that I would not change for anything. The many tears, heartbreaks, “why me God”, etc have made me the unique individual I am. It takes me a lot of time to feel comfortable enough to be my true self, not because I want, or like to pretend, to be someone else. Having been judged and misunderstood for many years, a thick wall that takes time to break down exists.

Call me a weirdo. Call me “special”. The truth is I’m a little abnormal, and I’m very okay with it. We’re all beautiful things.

Too Grown and Too Tired

At my age, the idea that I would even be saying at this time, that I’m still “finding myself” is odd to me. I figured that by about 35, we, as adults, should be fully aware of who we are and what we are truly capable of or what we find insurmountable and potentially a challenge to conquer. It’s fitting, I suppose, that as I get closer to 40, that I would be in deep thought more often than I ever have. I sleep much later regularly and still wake up early.

My mind continuously works and wonders. At the end of the day,  I nit-pick at every decision I made during the day and try to self-evaluate. I attempt to “fast” those pesky habits I just seem to be drawn to or have made part of my daily life and allowed to become my new normal. It’s not easy, I tell ya. The annoying thing is that the more often I ponder, the less I like the grown up version of me. Why? I had envisioned myself being a whole different person at this point in my life, and the fact that I am so far from my teenage idea of me as an adult honestly keeps me up at night.

I tend to be a judgemental person, because I have such high expectations of myself and hardly give myself a break. Unfortunately, with that same measure,  I often address others when it comes to things I probably don’t truly even understand. Considering all my flaws and the hurdles in my life I should be jumping over but choose to skirt around, I realize I don’t get very far, because I’m my own roadblock and I often allow others to be as well.

Today though, I’m done. I have decided that I need to surround myself with purposeful people, individuals who are grounded and believe in living for greater purposes than just themselves. I am choosing to impact the world at large, in order to impact my world. My path of choice may not look like everyone else’s, but mark my words, my existence here on Earth will mean something.  As one of my mentors, Richard Church, rightfully reminds us often:  Live your life so that when your headstone is put up, the dash between your birth and death would have meant something to many. The life you live now matters; touch as many lives as you can along the way.

Many have mocked me for my crusade, thinking it is self-serving, and that’s okay, because they don’t know me. Anyone who knows a single thing about me knows money does not move or motivate me. I used to be concerned about how people viewed me or whether they would accept my offer to enrich their lives in the same way mine has been. I’ve decided to stop caring what others think of me in this area of my life. I will no longer offer apologizes for wanting to help others in the same way God used others to help my family. I judge myself on a daily basis, so feel free to join me; I honestly don’t care.

The Thorns Are Meant to Grow Us

2017 has been an interesting year, to say the least. There have been some tough losses followed by hot tears, love’s been birthed, reunions have taken place, great laughs have been shared, and difficult decisions have been made. All in all, life is full of ups and downs, and in order to grow, we must go through the hills and valleys of life; otherwise, we remain stagnant and never really get to know what we’re made of.

Sitting here less than two weeks from 2018, I, for one, am sobered by what I’ve learned about myself this year. I’ve been impressed by the growth I’ve made, in some areas of my life. I’ve stretched myself and done things I’ve only dreamt of doing and achieving. In that, I’ve learned to trust my dreams and goals with others who believe in me. Those who kept me on track and made sure that even when I spoke in fear or doubt, I caught myself, didn’t give up and kept going. I can’t even utter words that would adequately convey the appreciation I have for these few but dear ones.

Then I remember those moments where I sat in my closet, in the dark, where I cried out of desperation and hopelessness, wanting an answer from God. In those moments, I felt alone, forgotten, and like I was a “sinner in the hands of an angry God”. I felt the thorns, purging me of my weaknesses, bitterness, and impure heart. I felt the pain of birthing the wrongs I’d done, seeing them face-to-face and not recognizing myself afterward. I’ve been down to my last, felt punched in the stomach, but lifted back up by His everlasting and loving arms.

This year, I’ve looked in the eyes of my children and experienced the love Christ must have for us when we’re hurt, have lied, or are feeling extreme pain as a result of a decision we made even after being advised to be careful. I’ve had to be the disciplinarian, hard as it has been in many situations, to ensure they think twice before repeating the painful actions. I’ve held them close, because they’ve been broken by things I may find trivial but they feel will end their world. I’ve watched as they’ve lied right to my face without them realizing I was right there watching from a distance the entire time and just wish they’d be straight up with me. As a human, can I truly say I know the heart and mind of God? Definitely not, but I’ve had a glimpse of it and tasted a bit of it. Gosh, how His heart must ache and long for us.

I’m leaving 2017 with a better understanding of who and Whose I am and trusting God that the ugly parts of me remain here. My daily reflections will continue, because in order to become better, we must be truthful with ourselves and truly want to be better. I bid farewell to 2017 with a slight longing but ready for a fresh and beautiful start where I don’t snip off my wings, fear jumping, or doubt myself and the things that have been put in my heart to affect lives. 

Mommy, What Is a Hickey?

“It won’t kill them,” they said. “Just let them watch it every once in a while,” I was told. “You take the fun out of everything,” they complained. “Ugh, what’s it really going to hurt?” they asked. Well, if only they could help me that Friday evening when my seven-year-old daughter asked that infamous question, “Mommy, what’s a hickey?”

Dumbfounded, I didn’t know what to say or where to start. All I could muster up was, “Ummm…where did you hear that from?”

“Never mind, I already know what it is,” she responded. “I just wanted to know if you knew.”

Who? What? When? The…?!? I scratched my head and just stared at her. “What do you mean you wanted to know if I knew? How and where did you even hear it?”

Interestingly enough, I looked up to face the TV, having heard the ‘h’ word coming from the screen I so seldomly turn on during the day. There they were, a couple of my favorite childhood characters all grown up with the remake of one of my beloved programs going through what I was, except they exposed my children to the ‘h’ word.

Disgusted, I grabbed the remote control and turned off the TV. “That’s what I get for listening to other people’s advice on keeping my children occupied so I can take care of business-related things without being disturbed. Back to worksheets and book reports and presentations,” I thought.

With blank stares on their faces, I knew they were still waiting for a response from me. “I know what  it is. What do you think it is?” That was my strategy. Maybe they didn’t know and just wanted to trick me into telling them. What I heard made me cringe though. They knew…she knew. She offered to demonstrate it on her arm, which I passed on, admitting, at that point, that she was indeed correct.

It reminded me of the time I found them (my three children) huddled in the boys’ room giggling, obviously trying to keep me from hearing them. The only clue I had that something was going on was that I was in the kitchen much too long without hearing someone come tattle or ask me when dinner would be ready. Knowing something wasn’t right, I walked toward the boys’ room, which was slightly closed. The thing is our little people are well-aware that anyone who doesn’t pay the bills, mortgage/rent, or have a contributing job, has no business or right to door-closing in our house, so that half-cracked door was already a mistake.

I peaked in and saw them getting along and giggling away. I was almost tempted to let them be, but I knew something was off. I tried to strain my ears to catch what they were saying, but Nathaniel was talking and giggling very incoherently. Frustrated, I said, “Hey, I’d like to laugh, too. What are we laughing about?”

Like a bunch of thieves caught in the act, they looked up at me and stared. That was the tell…

“Nathaniel, what were you sharing that was so funny, buddy?” I asked.

Staring like a deer caught in headlights, his hands moved slowly to his lips, and I knew I wasn’t going to get anything from him. If I was to get a straight answer, I had to go to the little mama, the informer, who simply could no longer contain herself and asked, “Mama, do you know what balls are?”

Attempting to stay composed, because I knew this could potentially mean what I thought she was referring to, I simply replied, “Yep.”

“What are they?” she asked.

“Circular items that can be used for sports or for other purposes. Why?” And that’s when I got the response I dreaded, because it took me back to my elementary school days.

“THEY ARE A PART OF A BOY’S PRIVATES!” she roared out, completely over the top with amusement.

I stared at her brothers clearly unamused. My stare, with no words uttered, was a question they did not need me to ask in order for me to receive an answer.

The bus was there, and they began throwing each other under it until Nathaniel fessed up and said, “(Boy’s name) in my class told us during recess that his big brother told him that.”

The eye rolling happened, and I reminded them that when something is knowingly inappropriate, we do not share it.

Look, folks, I didn’t sign up for this. It took me back to my 7^th grade English, when Greg Hopkins annoyed me because every time he came across the word chicken breast in a passage, he would giggle for minutes on end, spewing saliva through his braces. I always hoped I wouldn’t have such nerdiness to deal with because my children, of course, would have a sense of appropriateness and be more classy.

Unfortunately, children will be children, and I’m learning that monitoring what they see and hear is very important, at least when we can. In my case, as they grow older and their interests quickly change from cartoons and toys to “real people” shows and electronics/ “big girl stuff,” I just need to be more available and continue to keep our lines of communication open, especially with the little diva, as always. She picks up so much from watching and listening to conversations that don’t concern her, and sometimes that scares me. The thing is, she trusts me, so she knows I’ll always hear her out, and we’ll discuss whatever she’s heard and seen, even if initially I squirm or wish I could disappear. 

E No Easy

From a distance, I watched them as they rode. I smiled. I laughed. I watched, mesmerized in wonder. I recalled a similar scenario from twenty-two months ago, when we first moved here, when the mood was not quite as joyous. There was whining, crying, complaining, and accidents. We didn’t make it quite as far that day. In fact, I was angry that I had taken them on a jog with me, especially since they had begged and promised they would keep up and not complain. Today, there I was, lagging behind, leisurely walking and watching the three of them. Over two miles in, and they wanted to go on.

That moment, as have many in the last several weeks, has made me realize just how quickly they grow. I’ve done more pondering and reminiscing than I think I’ve ever done in my life. I’ve asked myself questions that were never important to me before. I have sought my purpose in life. I have wondered if I’m doing, or have done, enough. I’ve wondered if what I have done will jeopardize their future, mess them up as adults, or help them be the amazing people God has called them to be.

Since I was younger, my parents and siblings have been aware of my strong leadership and my difficulty accepting mediocrity. I don’t take nonsense and have great expectations of people I care about and love. I believe everyone has amazing potential, as long as they self-evaluate. We all have gifts. There is something that differentiates us, sets us apart from those around us. So, when my children want to quit, say they can’t, don’t want to make an attempt, say they’ll “try” rather than do their best, I’m not at all about that. Our dad always says, “Na wa o, your reign is tough, Esther.” The thing he knows though, as do those who know me well, is I’m extremely tough on myself. The standards to which I hold others, I hold myself to even more, hence, my concern that I could potentially be ruining my children.

I’m what my children consider “a mean mommy” on certain days. Those days are the difficult ones. They are the days I have to make the tough decision to stand by my word and not succumb to empty threats. Those are the days I hold them accountable for their actions. Those are the days I remind them that when they find money on the ground and spend it without attempting to seek the owner, it is equivalent to stealing. Those are the days when one child loses a game and receives what I tell him is a consolation prize and remind him that’s not how things work in the real world. Those are the days that I hear one of his siblings reply, “Stop being mean; at least they tried.” And the child on the losing team replies, “No, it’s okay. We didn’t win. We didn’t earn it. Mommy is right. We just have focus and play harder next time.” On those days I wonder, ‘Am I wrong? Am I creating monsters or fostering insecurity in them?’

I may be old school in my ways, or when it comes to my thought process, but I try to be straight-forward with my children. I don’t give cutesy names to body parts. My “yes” is “yes”; it takes a lot to change my mind. I want them to trust that if I say I will do something, I intend to do it. I want them to know if I say they cannot do something, I intend to stand by that, regardless of how many times they beg and plead, especially when taking a stand on a topic we have clearly discussed several times.

So, on days like today, Mother’s Day, when I am showered with cards, pictures, sweet notes about how much I mean to them, I become overwhelmed. To some degree, it helps validate that I’m not such a horrible mom; they see that I really do just want the best for them. When I overhear them consoling a scolded sibling:  “Mommy only said/did that because she doesn’t want us to go to  jail when we’re bigger,” I feel sad but hope they see my heart. I hope that in a few years they will appreciate what I was really going for – helping them to become productive citizens of this Earth and not liabilities. I want them to be a joy to those around them. I want them to be reliable and respectful. I want them to use their manners. I want them to greet people, even if they don’t receive responses. I want them to think little of others’ opinions, especially when it makes them question whether they are good, or pretty, enough. I want them to love who they are, so I rock a style I’m not feeling with confidence, to prove that as long as we are secure in ourselves, who cares what others think. I hope it shows them they are enough. They should pursue their dreams. They should think outside the box. They should challenge themselves to make one person’s day better on a daily basis. They should never leave a person’s house worse than they met it.

Should I be less strict? Maybe. Should I scold less? Possibly. Should I stop telling them they can do better when they come home with Bs or Cs? Ehn. All I know is my drive and passion about life and the things I hold dear and fight for are due to the fact that I had parents who believed in me. They did not allow me to settle for less than my best. I was not encouraged to do subpar work or be complacent. We may not have had a lot growing up, but we knew that if we put our minds to it, we could conquer the world.

As each day passes, each month goes by, and the years become decades, I pray that as the story of my life is unfolding before my children’s eyes, it is making some sense. I pray they see that despite my hard exterior, I hold them dear and very close to my heart. I pray they don’t despise me. I hope they see love. Their wings are growing, and before long, they will take flight. I just want them to be ready for this crazy, evil world. I just want the best for them. They deserve it, but e no easy o.