Am I Your Mate?

I believe I’ve mentioned it before, but if not, I am originally from Nigeria, in West Africa. In 1983, my family of five, at the time, moved to the United States shortly after I turned four years old. Apparently, at the time, I was fluent in my mother’s language, Yoruba, and reportedly felt more comfortable speaking it than English. My two younger siblings, almost 2 years and 10 months old, weren’t as well versed in the language and definitely had not spent enough time in Nigeria to become accustomed to the way of life there, or the culture. (Not to say that I was so knowledgeable myself at the age of four.)

As we grew up, our parents made sure that we valued respect, altruism, and community. As a people, at that time at least, those were the big things. So, for instance, every time our parents summoned us, we were trained to respond, “Yes, Mommy/Daddy”, without fail. If the words, “What?” or “Yes” made their way out, we were toast. If an adult walked into a room and there was no other seat available, we were to automatically offer our seat, even if it meant we would be left standing or looking for another seat.

Another important thing was ‘greeting’ when we met or saw someone older than us. It didn’t matter if we knew them, didn’t like them, had no clue who or how old they were. The important thing was to say, “Good morning/afternoon/evening” and smile. We were never allowed to wait for an ‘elder’ to speak to us first, as that was considered disrespectful. Averting your eyes in order to avoid greeting was never a good idea.

The words stupid, idiot, or dunce were used often, but we were not to use them in context of anyone older than ourselves. I was even allowed to slap my younger siblings if any of them ever called me one of those or dared to tell me to shut-up. As the oldest, I had quite a bit of power at my disposal, but in hindsight, I realize I probably abused it quite a bit.

By the age of ten, I was the oldest of five siblings. I was put in charge quite a bit and was encouraged to always demand respect from my younger siblings. I think having been put in such a position, even now, as an adult, I am still very much that way. Despite living in the United States, my siblings all being taller than me, and times having changed, I still strongly believe it is important to respect one’s elders. They may not always be right, but they have some wisdom that their time on Earth alone has given them and automatically gives them the right to, regardless of how equal we feel we should be.

Even now, as a mother, I am teaching my own children the importance of respect. Sometimes they become frustrated with me, because I insist that they call close family friends Uncle and Aunty so-and- so, versus their first names. I cannot stand when a human being I could have given birth to has the audacity to call me by my first name. On a good day, I’ll grin and bear it. On other days, I simply say, “Actually, that’s Miss Esther or Mrs Zufelt to you; please don’t call me by my first name.”

Talking back is frowned upon. It doesn’t matter whether the individual you’re speaking to has said the most absurd thing. Respect comes before anything else. The issue can still be addressed, but doing so without insulting or disrespecting the elder can sometimes be difficult. In such cases, it’s just better to walk away.

I really dislike when someone, especially someone younger than me, playfully slaps me on the shoulder and says, “Stuuuuppid!” That word is used so much more now than when I was younger, and it literally makes me cringe when someone says it to me. I just view it as disrespectful. I guess you can call me old-fashioned or old school. I was raised to respect others, in order to be respected in return, especially within one’s circle of friends.

My children will grow up using the phrases “yes, please”, “no, thank you”, “may I please…”, etc. I always thought I’d be the parent that has their children address individuals as ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’, but at my age, when I hear a young person address me as ma’am, I feel about 15 years older, so I’ll spare all those clinging fiercely to their sexy and stick to teaching them to address older folks as Mr/Miss/Mrs or Uncle/Aunty. 

Ten Years Strong

Today, December 18^th, happens to be my husband and I’s 10^th wedding anniversary. Who knew ten years ago that we would be where we are today? Not me! I won’t lie and say it’s all been peachy or a stroll in the park. It’s been more like an endless rollercoaster. There have certainly been good times, but the bad times have been really bad. However, in these last ten years, I’ve learned and grown a lot. By no means am I the perfect wife. (HA! Far from it!) I do know that in the last several years, I’ve learned the following, and if any of it helps even one person or marriage, then I’ll be glad to have shared.

10.  Try and embrace one of the family things your spouse does that you may not understand but means the world to him/her. For instance, growing up, my family didn’t celebrate Christmas, in terms of gift giving, etc. We focused on Jesus, the reason for the season. However, my husband’s family is big on Christmas. For the first several years, I didn’t get why we made lists and gave gifts to others that they could probably just buy themselves. I also didn’t get why one would wait until the end of the year to give a gift. In our family, if you saw something someone would like, you bought it and gave it, even if their birthday was in a few days or Christmas was tomorrow. It just wasn’t a big deal to us growing up. For my husband’s sake though, I do my best to embrace it: going out to pick up stocking stuffers the week of Christmas and do my best to get excited about it, even though I get anxiety about the whole thing almost every year. I do know that he appreciates me getting into it for his sake, and that makes me happy. Your presence and participation could mean the world to your spouse. Plus, you never know…you may actually start looking forward to it.

9.  Support your spouse’s dreams, regardless of what naysayers may say. When it’s time to reap, the other will always know that even when it seemed impossible, you had his/her back, you believed in his or her dream. Don’t give into other people’s negativity. If you believe in your spouse, that’s fuel enough to help the dream become reality.

8. I’m not big on PDA, especially being mindful of my single friends. However, one thing I don’t mind is holding my husband’s hands.  It’s an indication of love without words. Sometimes, when we’re in a heated argument and end up giving each other the silent treatment, to break the ice, especially in a vehicle, one of us reaches out to the other’s hand and waits until the recipient responds with a squeeze. That small gesture is how we know we’re good. The issue may not have been worth the argument, and a little squeeze of the hand says, “I know you got in your feelings, and I got in mine. I’m sorry.” If it’s a bigger issue, we discuss it later, when we’re both calm and rational. Hand holding for me is us indicating we’re one, and we’re in this together.

7.  Find something that the two of you enjoy doing together, even if in silence, when you’re alone. My husband and I enjoy getting out a blanket and pillows and watching the movie “Something New” while playing Skipbo or Phase 10. We may not say more than a few words to each other, but that time together means a lot. Quality time versus quantity time is important. Learn to appreciate each other’s presence. Just make sure you find, or make, time for one another, in the absence of sex.

6.  Learn your spouse’s language. It’s not until about three years into our marriage that I realized that the “The Five Love Languages” weren’t just a hokey concept that Gary D. Chapman concocted. I realized that just because I appreciated when my husband did things around the house to help me out, me cleaning up the entire house before he returned from work did not have the same effect on him. He would have been satisfied with a hug and a kiss upon seeing me. The ta-da and gesturing to the kitchen, living room, etc didn’t mean much. While I am keen on acts of service, my husband is more appreciative of physical touch. Use the love language your spouse is more apt to receive than the one you like.

5.  It’s important to dream together. My husband and I have designed a house, started a nonprofit organization all in our minds. We talk about it when times are tough, to give us hope that together, we can reach our goals and our joint hope, or dream, can become our reality, as long as we each do our part and keep each other accountable. No one person does all the work or dreaming. They are joint dreams we intend to strive toward and attain together.

4.   Lean on one another. If there is anyone that should know you better than anybody on the planet, it should be your spouse. When life takes those sharp turns: you get turned down for the job of your dreams, you lose a close relative, you get laid off, or you just feel like giving up, your spouse should be there to encourage and pick you up. You’re partners who are supposed to do life together. His pain is yours and vice versa. Don’t keep it to yourself.

3. Don’t wait until night time to make up. I’ve found it’s better to talk it out before either of you leaves. In the heat of the moment, storming out could potentially worsen things. From another perspective, I know of one couple who never made it back to each other the night after a disagreement. One passed away unexpectedly, leaving the other heartbroken. We’re not promised another day or moment, so we should try not to let issues linger; patch them up as soon as you can.

2.  Talk to each other. Talk about everything, even the uncomfortable. If you can’t talk to your spouse, then who can you talk to? Your spouse should be able to accept you – good, bad, ugly, worst. It may hurt sometimes, but you don’t want an explosion, because even the simple irritants can fester and grow, becoming nuisances. If it bothers you, share it (lovingly). If you’re feeling insecure, share your insecurity; you should feel safe enough to be vulnerable with your spouse. Being honest about your feelings doesn’t make you a mitch or over-emotional.

1.  Fight for your marriage. Don’t let your families be the cause for strife between you two. Don’t let your friends’ advice or input make you question your relationship. There are well-wishers out there that don’t realize they are actually sowing seeds of doubt in you with their words. There are too many distractions in the world around us: money, work, the opposite sex, etc. If we do not fight for our marriages, divorce too easily becomes an option. If you love him/her, fight like your life depends on it, because if you don’t, someone out there wants what you are taking for granted.

Just know that that ONE should make you a better version of yourself. Together, you can take on the world and conquer it, if you work as a team. Love is beautiful and sweet. Cheers to your marriage, or your future marriage, as you wait for Mr/Mrs Right or are engaged at this time! 

I Guess I'm Like Rapunzel's Mom?

Being that my first two children were boys, I was over the moon when our third ultrasound indicated we would be having a girl. We went back and forth about names. Left to my husband, she was to be Naomi Joelle. I have always liked Nicolette, but he turned his nose up to it. So, the battle went on for months, until we agreed we should stick to Hebrew names as we had with our sons; hence, we agreed on Eliana Joelle.

Eliana = my God has answered

Joelle = Jehovah is God

I figured we were destined to be close, regardless of other people’s experiences with their daughters. We’d get pedicures, watch movies, and go shopping together. I had my mind in the clouds about all the great benefits having a girl would reap. Granted, that dream did in fact become reality, but with a hint of sass and attitude I did not anticipate.

Many times, I find myself getting heated over this neck-snapping, eye-rolling, akimbo-stanced female I don’t even recognize. I know in no way, shape, or form did I ever cop an attitude like she does when I was a child. Being the offspring of parents straight from Nigeria, I would have been slapped back to Africa having such gall. She reminds me of my youngest sister, who tried and tried our parents growing up. Miss “why”, “how come,” “I don’t want to”, “I don’t like him/her”…that was my little sister, and I remember all the spankings she got growing up. Always putting her foot in her mouth and not scared of a single person. With that in mind, if I hadn’t pushed that baby out of my body myself, I would have thought somehow, someway, she was actually my sister’s.

One day, she got in trouble, and after mean-mugging for a few minutes, she came up to me, hands on hip, and very matter-of-factly stated, “You shouldn’t pull our ears when we’re in trouble. You’re gonna make them break, and good mommies don’t do that. They just talk to their kids, like I talk to my baby when she doesn’t listen.” Then, she just walked away and went to play with her brothers.

On a few occasions, I see that she is a bit like me, and it’s actually embarrassing. She is quick-witted and has a comeback for almost any opposition posed. She’s not afraid to share her thoughts on a matter, if an opportunity is presented (and sometimes even when it’s not). 

There was a day one of her brothers had been told not to do something, so he wouldn’t get hurt in the process. Needless to say, he didn’t listen and continued anyway, until he got hurt. I continued cooking, unmoved. She ran over and started talking to him. I heard, “You shoulda have listened to Mommy. Now you’re over here crying. Are you happy? She told you to stop, and you didn’t listen. Nobody wants to hear you cry, so just stop it,” she hissed, and walked back to the kitchen where I was. Then she said, “I’ve already told him to stop crying. You can go spank him if you want.” I whipped my neck around but had no words.

The other day, I had my baby niece, and she was giggling as my daughter played with her. My brother walked into the living room and tried to join in on the fun. No one knew what happened, but our niece just started crying and screaming out of the blue. My daughter then stated, “She’s crying because you’re black. You look like a black monster, so she’s scared.” I was taken aback by that and scolded her for the rude comment. A few minutes after my brother left the room, our niece continued playing and giggling with her cousin. Then, unsolicited, my daughter stated, “See, Mommy…I told you” and continued playing with her cousin.

I’m not sure where all this attitude comes from, but I know some of it comes from me. I just was not expecting that yesterday, when I told her and her brothers that due to their behaviors, we would most likely not be going on a specific outing today. As my husband and I prepared to say their nighttime prayers with them, she blurted out, “Well, you’re a bad mommy. Good mommies don’t do that. They take their children, even if they don’t listen. You’re bad, just like Rapunzel’s mom. All princess’s moms are mean and bad, and I’m a princess, so you’re bad!”

I shot her a look that said, “You just tried it and are SO lucky I’m tired right now,” which my husband noticed, so he scolded her and informed her of how rude and disrespectful her comment was. She apologized to me, sat next to me, smiled, gave me a raggedy side hug and asked, “So can we go tomorrow?” 

                                                          

                                         

No Longer Colorless: Why Don't White People Like Black People?

This week has been crazy with the news and social media blowing up regarding the Michael Brown verdict. My friends and I have been going back on forth about it, too. Some of our conversations have been pretty heated, and I must admit, I’ve been a lot more vocal about it than other similar situations. Then, after viewing this particular piece online, I was livid! I remember having an hour or so long conversation with my brother and close friend two mornings ago. We each expressed our common concern for what the verdict implies to us as ‘black folk’ in America: there’s a target on our young men’s backs, and we all must thus walk circumspectly.

I didn’t realize, as usual, that my little church mouse was within hearing distance, doing her best to understand the reason behind our escalating conversation. I guess in her little mind, she knew we were upset about something, but since she was supposed to be upstairs working on her ABCMouse app, she would get in trouble if she intruded.

At the end of the discussion, we ended up agreeing that we were lucky to live in Arizona, despite the occasional racial profiling. I encouraged my brother to be mindful of what he wears, so he doesn’t, or shouldn’t, appear thuggish (whatever that means). I informed him that even as a black individual, I clutch my purse a little tighter when passing by a black male with sagging pants, unkempt hair, rough or hard-looking face with “shifty eyes”, especially if there are more than one of them and they are talking loudly and walking toward me. I’m not sure what it is, but it makes me uneasy and causes my heart to beat just a little faster until we pass one another or I act like I have a reason to cross the street, if I’m with my children.

I’ve expressed this to others in the past, and it seems it is more of a common feeling than I thought. I’m black, and I’m often scared of my fellow black brothers, much more so than their counterpart Caucasian homeys who don the same attire, even with pants sagging lower, hats cocked to the side, obviously smoking weed, or speaking in slang I totally can’t understand, bumping their rap music with explicit lyrics as loud as if they were having a house party.

Over the years, I guess my church mouse has observed, overheard talks of, and experienced racism. On more than one occasion, she has asked why “the old white people” at the grocery never respond to her greetings or waves. Some smile at her until they see me walk up next to her or call her name and ask for her hand. Others simply look at and ignore her. I’ve explained to her that many of them, being older, lived in a time where they didn’t understand the beauty of black people. After all, how else would I explain it to her at four years old?

I think what stopped me my steps though is when my brother shared that on Wednesday morning, she had asked him why white people don’t like black people. Later on that day, I asked why she would think that, and she simply replied, “I just know, Mommy,” and my heart sunk. I assured her that was not the case, noting that her father’s side of the family loves us, but I guess she had never really placed a color on them in relation to me (the darkest person in the family). In that one moment, with that explanation, I ruined her colorless perspective of them.

Ignorance ≠ Bliss

Last weekend gave me the scare of a lifetime. I purposely never owned a thermometer, because I never wanted to know my temperature or any of my children’s. Ignorant, right? Yes, I guess so. I just figured if I don’t know, then it can’t ever be bad.

Last weekend, however, my ignorance, or stupidity, was called out by my children’s pediatrician. She inquired about my son’s temperature overnight. I told her I had no idea what it was. She asked how he had felt that night, and I told her he was pretty miserable. She asked why his school sent him home, and I told her it was because his temperature was high. She asked if I had known that the night before, and I told her I didn’t, as I squirmed in my seat, unwilling to attempt to give an excuse.

As we were leaving her office, she stressed the importance of checking his temperature throughout the night, which meant that even though it was after 7 pm, I needed to get a thermometer before my husband had to leave for work in an hour.

As he prepared for work, I checked our son’s temperature, and it was almost 105^o. I stood and just looked at the thermometer, while my son stood there looking pitiful and ghostly. All I could manage was, “Babe, you’re gonna have to call in; we have to get him to the ER.”

We took his temperature two more times and it was still over 104^o. I was in shock, and every negative thought possible flooded my head. My husband didn’t realize he worsened it by stating, “We have to hurry. An adult can die from a 106^o temperature, so 105^o is no good for a child. Let’s go!”

No thermometer. No thermometer. No thermometer. That’s all that kept going through my mind. My ignorance could have cost my son his life. No thermometer. No thermometer. No thermometer. Ignorance is NOT bliss. 

Almost Just Lost My Baby

Friday morning, right about 5:40 am, I received a call from my husband, who works the night shift. Barely awake, I asked him what was wrong. In return, he asked me if I was okay, and I assured him I was. He then inquired about our children. I told him I believed they were fine but that I’d check on them.

He asked to remain on the phone as I did so. Checking each child in his/her bed, I was certain all three were just fine. I then walked down the hall, to the laundry room, to ask him what was wrong, as could tell something was wrong but whispering wasn’t really working for me. He told me that he had been feeling an impending doom, as if something bad was going to happen. He told me he had been praying all night but had no idea exactly what to pray about but randomly did so.

When he got home, we prayed together, along with the children, and left it at that. That night, we thanked God for all making it home in one piece.

The next day started well, but we still said some pretty strong prayers over each family member, as well as close friends. My husband went to sleep, one child stayed home sick, while the rest of us went downtown for a conference. As we left, the children and I were walking and talking, as we approached a crosswalk.

“Mommy…” my son called out, so I turned to face him.

“We can cross now…” I heard to my left. As I turned toward the little voice to my left, I noticed my daughter had already entered the crosswalk. I darted across to her, just in time to get her out of the way of a truck she was backing, which came from nowhere and was headed straight for her.

 My heart beat fifty times faster. I felt like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I couldn’t help thinking, “I almost just lost my baby.” I couldn’t help but hold her close for a few minutes, but then I was angry. I started asking her rhetorical questions: “Why did you leave my side? I told you I would tell you when it was safe to go.” “Do you know what could have happened if Mommy didn’t get to you in time?” “Do you realize you could have died? Do you know what that means?”

Shortly after we got to our van, I breathed a sigh of relief and called my husband. I shared what had just happened and told him I believed that something bad was supposed to happen but did not. I thanked him for praying, even when he had no clue why. I thanked him for not ignoring that bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. If he had, it could have cost me my baby.

The Death of Grace

Earlier this year, my husband and I were supposed to go to a concert with a group of friends, but I happened to fall ill. We had paid for the tickets and scheduled a baby-sitter, so my husband was very bummed that we wouldn’t have a chance to at least spend some time together.

Despite feeling nauseous and light-headed, I told Grace, the sitter, that we would still be in need of her services. Although our date to Paradise Bakery, sharing a Southwest Chicken Caesar Salad, was short-lived, upon our return, our children were all smiles and inquired about Grace returning in the future. Apparently, she had taught them games and “all kinds of fun stuff”. We thanked and paid Grace.

We had planned on seeing Grace the following day, at church, as usual, but we did not. My youngest son was frantic after church, but I had no idea why. After some silence on our way home, I heard him whisper, “Mommy, I know where Aunty Grace is…”

“Aunty Grace died,” and at that very moment, he burst into inconsolable tears. The young woman who he had played with the night before and had assumed he would see the next day was nowhere to be found. Of course, in his little mind, it all made sense…I guess.

Panicking, his two siblings started asking what had happened to their beloved Aunty Grace. Each had his/her own question an scenario they started throwing out. What began and seemed “oh…how cute” became, “Oh my gosh…where did they come up with this? This is crazy!”

I tried several times to assure them that Aunty Grace was just fine. She was probably tired and at home, but Ezra repeatedly shouted through tears, “NO, MOMMY; tell us the truth! She died, and you don’t want to tell us the truth!”

Frantically, as I approached the freeway, I searched for my phone and attempted to call Grace in vain. I proceeded to try calling her two younger siblings, but I couldn’t reach them, until my second attempt, when I was able to reach her younger sister.

I quickly explained what was going on and asked where Grace was. Apparently, she had gone to Florida early that morning for an internship and had failed to mention she would be leaving so soon. Hearing the children in the background, she could tell they needed a proof of life. She promised to take the lead and keep trying to contact Grace.

When Grace was brought up to speed, she was told how important it was for her to speak to the children, especially Ezra.

Reluctantly, he reached out for the phone and heard Grace’s voice but became upset and returned it, stating, “That’s not Aunty Grace!”

After sending a photo of herself via text and sending voicemails, etc, he finally started coming around. He sat quietly, with the phone in his hands, all cried out, as he looked at her picture continuously.

Months later, I asked what had caused him to react that way, and he replied, “Mommy, we saw her on Saturday night, and on Sunday, she was gone from the stage. When people go away from us without telling us, it means they died. People should always tell you if you won’t see them for a long time, a really long time. I was just sad; it’s all.”

So now, every time Grace visits, she goes out of her way to let Ezra know that she’ll be leaving for a long period of time. She also ensures she sends pictures of herself from time-to-time, and she’s never too busy for a call from him.

This incident made me realize once more just how much children are hearing, listening, and absorbing information, whether or not they are able to process it. With two church members who had died just months before and an uncle in critical health, I could totally understand how he came to that conclusion. For weeks afterward, we made ourselves available for his random questions regarding death and the afterlife. Sometimes I still wonder at what particular point in time the leap to such a morbid conclusion occurred and what other strange things run through children’s minds in general. 

Time to Let Go of the Chaos

Over the last ten months, in an effort to get ourselves to a place of financial fitness, our family of five has been living with a close friend. Initially, it was very embarrassing to me. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone knowing much about it, because that’s an automatic judgment on us, especially my husband. I just didn’t want to explain it.

After a while, I realized we are doing what is best for our family, whether or not others understand it. It is just something that we need to do. Initially, it was supposed to be a six-month deal, but it was extended, in order for additional progress to be made.

The funny thing about it is that I’m learning so much about myself and being humbled quite a bit through this experience. I’m realizing I’m a bigger nag than I thought I was. I realize that almost any and everything annoys me. I realize how difficult of a person I am to live with, because I want everything just so. However, the space that my husband and I occupy is the most disorganized, disheveled looking room  of the five.

Every time I enter it, as dark as I am, I blush because I’m so embarrassed of the chaos it represents. My excuse for the longest time has been, ‘It’s so much smaller than our rooms in the past; I can’t work with it. There’s not enough space for all our stuff.” There has never been a time in the past that that has been an issue for me though, so it’s had me thinking. As individuals, we know someone out there whose life is chaotic, whose life is full of one issue after another, even though to everyone else who doesn’t know them quite so well, they are living the dream. One day, they’re “having a hard time”. Tomorrow, life’s got them by the balls. The next, they’re wondering why bad things always seem to happen to them. Nothing ever seems to get better; the clutter in their lives just increases. Their lives are in constant chaos, which just seems to increase.

The interesting thing is many people are fooled by the façade, just like in our situation. The kitchen is pretty clean, the living room is kept up as much as possible with three growing children, the restroom we use is regularly maintained, but our bedroom is another story. All we have to do is close the door. As long as the door is closed, everything is okay.

One step inside and I’m stressed just looking at it. How does an individual like me who is easily bothered by small, random things not in a state of urgency to get it all put in place? Why have I not said, ‘Look, I’ve had enough; I can work with what I’ve got”? I’ll be honest…I get to that place every week, but something else tends to be more important, to which I direct my attention. My reasoning is that it’ll take more time than I have to dedicate to it.

And that’s the problem with many of us. We don’t get fed up with the filth, clutter, chaos in our lives to have an honest conversation with ourselves, seek an organizer, someone we can trust, or who seemingly has it together. We just look at how ugly the situation has gotten and either give up or figure, ‘Hey, it’s my issue, my filth…I created it, and I’ll just deal with it.’

There’s often so much stuff on our plates, in our lives, but if we just take the time to analyze the stains in our carpet and find the perfect carpet cleaner for it, pick up one dirty sock at a time and put it in the hamper, or finally fold the clothes on the dresser and actually put them inside, things will start to look up. Sometimes, the dirty socks are bad influences we’re surrounded by but consider harmless. Other times, the stains are the issues we’ve hidden for so long they seem part and parcel of us. We just push the dresser and hamper over them, because as long as we and others don’t see them, we can pretend they don’t exist. The clean clothes all over the place may be good friends/relationships/influences we’ve tossed aside because they aren’t the coolest, or they keep us in check.

The weekend is here, so I for one will make it one of my top priorities to clean up the clutter I go to bed in and wake up to every morning. We can’t just be about the talk; it’s important to walk the walk. It’s time we get rid of the chaos, the dirt, and the mold, in whatever form they may be, in our lives. 

Another Angel Called Home

Last week, my husband and I received some horrible news, from Facebook nonetheless. One of the two pastors who married us almost ten years ago, and his wife, lost their only child, their 20-year-old son. I think as a mother, it has been a bit more difficult for me to deal with than my husband, even though he‘s known them longer and has had a closer relationship with them than me. I can’t even imagine the hurt and the pain. I can’t even imagine the struggle to come to grips with the fact that someone’s child is gone before he even got to truly live. Now he’s gone before his parents, their only child.

In some ways, I’ve been numb. I’ve been a bit standoffish. It’s given me a lot to think about. I’ve been questioning myself. Have I shown my children the love they need? Have I showered them with all the love and care that I can? Is what I’ve done enough? I question my parenting. I question almost everything I do now.

This young man lived, and he lived hard. He lived a life of passion, love, and dedication. He served with kindness and humility. I don’t think a parent could be any more proud and satisfied. However, to lose a child in that manner, or at all, after caring for and nurturing him all these years, would certainly be difficult.

It would be difficult to even think of what to write, think of what to say in order to console them. Silence is pretty much all I have to give. People who have asked what’s wrong seldom get an answer, because I’m just wondering how and why. Those with three and four and five children are out there not taking care of them, yet…Then I stop myself, I remember God knows best. He knows what we can handle. So his parents march on, continuing to smile, despite their pain and loss. They lift up, despite their heartache. He won’t give us more than we can bear. I see that now. Although this seems unbearable to me, God knew this is something they could handle, get through. I can imagine there are those nights they cry and hold themselves, asking “why”. From what I see, they’ll be just fine. How? I’m not sure, but I’m certain they have supernatural strength from above.

I’m not sure what I’d do. I don’t even want to imagine it. However, I implore everyone to love.

 Love like it’s your last day. Enjoy each moment as if it were your last. Reach out as if you’ll never have a second chance to do so. Live life full. Live life gladly. Live life boisterously. Live life with reverence. You never know when your last day will be.

Rest in peace, Jeffrey!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cty6O9A1PLM&sns=fb

You were their little flower, 

a lone rose amidst a garden full of dandelions, daffodils, and sunflowers.

You were their little ray of light.

A few days ago, you were plucked from the ground,

Much sooner than we thought ready.

Now, you have been transformed from their garden into the sky, 

As a star to shine as they look up above.

Who would have imagined? 

Who can even say it?

But He never gives us more than we can bear.

The heartache and sorrow, unimaginable, I’m sure.

The pain continues.

Day-by-day pictures of you and your smile surface, resulting in smiles and tears.

Those who knew you…those who loved you...no one can imagine. 

"Why him, Lord?" "Why us, Lord?"

But He knew on that stage, even before your little boy started on that stage over ten years ago,

that his time here would be short.

The clock was ticking; his time would soon be up. 

His father was given time with him.

He could have been with others, on  a mischievous adventure when this occurred,

But with his father he rode.

Love drove him.

Love watched him.

Love brought him to his knees.

Love engulfed him in that moment and beckoned him. 

He complied, although we humans call him dead.

Love beckoned him, and he said, “Good bye”.

Love promised him no more hurt, no more pain.

Love will send comfort that no man will understand.

Love will grow them.

Love will strengthen.

Only Love can see them through.

Day-by-day, it will be a struggle, 

But day-by-day, the strength and love needed, He will provide.

An angel now, his duty's completed, his purpose fulfilled.

As soldiers in the trenches, continue the legacy placed in your heart:  

Loving the orphans, bringing hope to the hurt and lost.

What once was one child becomes one thousand, as Love gives them the strength to carry on.

No Man Is an Island

It’s so interesting how we human beings get so involved with ourselves and what’s going on in our daily lives that we lose sight of those around us. We have close friends, some family, and co-workers we hear from, see, or run into on a fairly consistent basis, yet, we tend to have surface conversations. A “hey, how are you?” “What’s up?” Or, “Hope things are going well” are met with such responses as “good”,  “not much”, or  “yes”. Many of us are much too busy to take the time to probe further, to ensure things truly are okay with those around us.

We walk around each day, passing by individuals with open wounds that they alone can feel and see. As we approach, they cover them up with smiles that serve as bandages, or they look the other way. In our haste and/or absorption with our own worries we wave, smile back, or sometimes don’t even notice or acknowledge them.

I’ve been guilty of the above. I have errands to run, projects I need to complete, and even worries I ponder over continuously. I’ve been that person who sees someone who is probably having a bad day and just avoids his or her eyes; after all, what can I really do? Nothing, right?

Well, a few weeks ago, I took a second. I smiled at a lady smoking next to a store I was going into, and she smiled back. I said, “Have a nice day,” and she muttered, “Sure, I guess.” I was so tempted to move along, but I lingered a few minutes, only to find out one of her parents had passed, the other was sick, and she had just lost her job. She was having not just a bad day but a horrible month. I did my best to encourage her. After I left, I wondered if I’d made a difference at all.

I recently met with a friend I’ve known for over five years.  I thought that, as usual, we were just going to have lunch and have some light conversation and talk about meeting up again before the end of the year. From the moment I sat down, I noticed a difference in my friend. I thought it was a deep sadness, and it scared me a bit. We’d sat across from one another several times. How could I have missed it? We’d had conversations in person and texted back and forth a lot. This time, unlike most others, our conversation was a lot less surface-like, which was nice, but I felt that we weren’t addressing something.

After we parted, I was unable to rest, knowing something was off. A few days later, I finally got the courage to share my concern with my friend, only to be told about the loneliness being felt. I was saddened to think that someone I know and call a friend could possibly feel alone. 

In a world full of millions of human bodies, one would think that everyone has at least someone they can talk to or confide in, but I’m finding that’s not the case. There are many people out there who would appreciate a non-rhetorical, sincere, “How are you?” Take a second or even a minute to wait for their response. Make someone genuinely feel cared for. We all have our own agendas and lives to live, but we were not put on Earth to solely serve our own purposes. No man or woman is an island. We need each other. 

You Deserve a Moment

My name is Esther, and a few years ago, I lost myself. I lost myself to my family. I put aside the things I dreamt of and always wanted to be and do to dive into my role as a mother and wife. Every waking moment was about my children and husband. I felt bad if I did anything I was interested in or enjoyed. I felt I could be doing something for the family, whether it was cleaning the house, putting school lunches together, or fussing over what everyone would like for dinner. I thought my life had to completely evolve around my family since I was a stay-at-home mom/housewife. It was like I was trying to prove that I was indeed doing something, like trying hard to earn my keep.

As time goes on, I’m realizing life doesn’t have to be so difficult. My role as a mother and a wife is great and all, but I need to appreciate and embrace who I am as an individual.

I believe that as mothers, many of us lose ourselves in our role. We fully immerse ourselves in motherhood. Most of our conversation with our spouses and friends are about our children: what they’re doing or saying, etc. We share the  things we did/do with our children, share their pictures, etc. From my perspective, that gets old fast, and people get tired of hearing about and seeing pictures of your children, unless they’re family.

I believe moms should step outside the box of motherhood for moments during each day. If it’s getting up early to enjoy a good book with soft music in the background over a cup of coffee or tea and Biscotti in a spare room or den, or staying up about an hour or two after the children go to bed to try a new craft or experiment with DIYing: candles, body butter, body scrubs, etc, it’s all good. Enjoy the silence. Enjoy your time.

Turn off the TV, light some candles, put your hair up, grab a towel, fill your tub with lots of bubbles, slip in, and reflect. You’re a mom, and you deserve a break. You deserve some time to yourself.

If you’re willing, plan at least one day a month to spend with a friend, different friends, or a group of friends, and agree not to talk about the children as individuals. Make it all about yourselves. Talk about your hopes, your dreams, things you’re learning about yourself (even if because of your children). We are women, individuals first, and we shouldn’t feel guilty to take a moment, or even a few, to enjoy the people individuals we are. 

Stop Calling Me a Prisoner

A few friends of mine and I have been pretty diligent about our mall walks one of our friends organized a little earlier this Summer.  Three days a week, we do our best to arrive between 8 am and 10 am to get in as many minutes, or miles, as we can. It’s been fun, and been a great idea, being that with the Phoenix heat, it’s almost impossible to get and remain motivated to work out at all.

Over the last several weeks, I’ve been very observant, watching others as we pass them, or they pass us by. It’s been interesting to watch their smiles turn into frowns or frowns turn to smiles. Mind you, it’s a family walk, but mainly mommies participate, and most of us come with children in tow. We are of various backgrounds – African and a mix of races, especially our children.

As my sister and I walk by, we get surprised smiles, stares, and even the occasional glare. We are fairly dark-skinned, especially my sister. I’m a creamy blend of mocha and carmel myself, so when the elderly, which is the majority of the walking folks that early in the morning, get a glimpse of either of us and her daughter or my children, the responses are fun, and I get a kick out of all of them.

Today though, there was a rather interesting lady. She and a little boy, who I can’t but assume was her grandson, were walking in the opposite direction of my daughter and I before my sister and friend joined us. I greeted them, as I often try to do with passers-by, but unlike most, she scowled and grabbed the little boy, hastening her pace.

I was a tad upset, as my daughter had waved at the little boy, but he was not given an opportunity to respond. I began making up a story in my mind about her, as I tend to do from time-to-time, as a woman of reason. Funnily, we passed her once again, and being that I tried to convince myself that she had not heard me the first time, I smiled at her. Yet again, my gesture was met with a scowl, and she looked in the opposite direction.

While I hate to bring up the race card, I will, because I’ve noticed that even though we live in a very diverse world, there are still many close-minded individuals. They still hold onto ideologies and beliefs of the past and have them spill into the lives of their innocent children and grandchildren.

I’ve witnessed elderly couples change sides of the store they are walking on because of us. I’ve seen individuals smile at other loud and unruly children in a store, yet, when my children pass by much more quiet and wave or say, “hi”, they are obviously ignored or glared at.

My daughter is unfortunately very sensitive to this and asks, “Why didn’t they say “hi” to us? We said “hi” to them.” I’m not sure I answer in the best way, but my response is usually, “Not everyone is nice. Just keep saying “hi” to people though; it’ll make someone smile.”

While mulling over this morning’s experience, I realized that it’s not just when it comes to race that we hold others captive based on our beliefs or ideologies. As humans, we tend to judge people in general, even if simply based on our past experiences, what others have told us, or what we deem right or wrong. We make prisoners of those around us, resulting in insecurities, loss of freedoms, and often depression.

"Our modern society is engaged in polishing and decorating the cage in which man is kept imprisoned." - Swami Nirmalananda

Holy Moly Matrimony

When I said, “I do”, I didn’t know I applied and had been accepted for a job. Truth be told…marriage is work, straight and simple. I thought the lovey-dovey would last forever. I thought the twinkle in his eyes, the sexy in his voice, and all his silly jokes would always be cute to me.

Reality check! Three years in, the twinkle had lost its shine, the sexy lost its sexy, and the jokes became quite annoying. I wondered how so many people made it to ten and twenty years with a smile on their faces. Were they faking the funk? Were they just staying together for the children? Could they really be happy all those years?

I started longing for the weekly hangouts with my girlfriends and wanted him to find his fellas and roll with them sometimes. The whole togetherness thing was a tad overrated; it was just too much for me.

Now, ten years in, I see things in a different light. The reason the twinkle in his eyes seemed like it had dulled was because I had lost sight of why I’d married him. When I began re-examining myself as a wife, to find my role in the matter, I started hearing the sexy again. I realized that the key to a lot of our issues was our lack of communication. We were talking, in fact, we did that a lot. The problem was we were no longer communicating about things that really mattered to us as individuals or our dreams.

We had gotten used to mainly conversing about the children, work, my job search…you know…just surface stuff. I didn’t know my husband was interested in returning to school. He didn’t know that I was still very passionate about writing books and had begun working on my first. It frustrated me that a few of my close friends were interested enough about my life to know of this development, while if my husband cared, it would have come up in conversation.

I knew he had always been passionate about drawing and creating, but I thought the dream had died shortly after we’d gotten married. I didn’t know if given the opportunity, he’d still want to return to school.

Days, months, and years went by, and our marriage just seemed boring. There was nothing to really look forward to except soccer games and church, whenever he could make it with us. Something had to give. There was no way our marriage could survive the way we were.

Time and money weren’t on our side. If we continued the way we were going, it was only a matter of time before our marriage completely fell apart. Our finances became our biggest bone of contention, and we just couldn’t see eye-to-eye on even the simplest of things. We just weren’t the same people we’d been years before, and rather than grow together, we’d “grown apart”. I’d always wondered what that meant, but I finally understood. There were no ifs, ands, or buts; our marriage was crumbling, and we weren’t doing much to rectify things, other than complain.

We decided to seek Christian counseling. It was needed and well overdue. We could barely resolve  conflicts or come to reasonable agreements without being at each other’s throats. However, deep down, we still loved each other. After six to eight weeks of counseling, we each recognized our mistakes and decided our marriage was worth fighting for, worth working at, and it would not be easy but we finally decided to come together, be purposeful about spending time together. We had to work at it. 

We started really talking. We talked about EVERYTHING. We shared EVERYTHING. No more secrets or assumptions that the other didn’t care. It was like a full-time job, but one that I started enjoying again. It was like the dream job I’d always hoped for but still had its ups and downs I was willing to put up with, because I thoroughly and honestly loved what I did. In this case, my main job description is communicating in love and honesty and being there for my husband, as much as I can. It’s one heck of a job but it’s an amazing adventure. 

My Nana Is Black, You Know?

My daughter is in a place in her life where color is a big deal. She has to categorize people by the color of their skin. It’s not something we talked about much at home really. Since her oldest brother began kindergarten two years ago though, the subject comes up more frequently than it did in the past.

Her brothers often have discussions about what color they are. They fight over whose skin tone is closest to daddy’s or mommy’s. They seem confused as to why they are varying shades, each with a different hair texture.  My husband and I initially thought it would be a passing thing, something they would be curious about for a bit and then pick back up right around junior high.

They wonder why daddy is considered white, when the paper they use in school is actually white. “So Daddy’s not really white. What color is he then?  You’re not really black either, Mommy; you’re just dark brown.”

In a world in which the differences in color and race are still a big deal, I wonder how accepting people will be of the continued mix among races in the next ten years. These days, an individual could be a combination of races, and in some places, that’s okay. It’s a shame that in this day and age, there are still those who feel races should remain “pure”,that any mix of races taints a particular race over another. To make individuals feel less than based on the color of their skin is ignorance at its highest level. How does one judge another individual for something they are unable to change?

In my children’s innocence now, they point out their differences, as well as ours. I hope and pray that in the future, their curiosity will turn into an appreciation for their differences and those of others. Until then, I guess I’ll just have to get used to hearing comments like, “Our nana is black, you know? How about yours?”

Let Your Will Be Done

The last few days have been a bit rough. After a sobering dinner with one of our good friends on Saturday, my husband and I have been going back and forth about the future. Considering the experience of our friend, whose father died unexpectedly in December, our conversations have been more on the serious side.

We’ve been forced to consider our mortality, especially as parents. My husband has had more difficulty with this than me. His struggle lies in the fact that he does not want to consider our lives with any one of us no longer around. Although we’re both well-aware that tomorrow is not promised to any of us, the fact that any number of things could keep us from growing old together or even raising our children ourselves is quite unsettling. Actually, it’s more morbid and depressing than anything really.

However, as parents, we have to do what we need to in order to ensure our children’s futures. For almost a week now, we’ve had two sets of our living wills, documents designating our durable powers of attorney, etc sitting on the kitchen counter. We pass by the pile. We talk about the pile. We glare at the pile, but the pile remains still…untouched.

How can the life we’ve built together come down to a stack of papers? This stack of papers will help strangers determine who would have our children if something happened to either of us. I mean almost ten years into our marriage, seven years of parenthood, big dreams, and plenty to live for, we’re forced to start thinking of the worst case scenario. We now have to determine who will take care of our children if we don’t make it to see them live until they’re adults. Who takes joy in this? Not me, that’s for sure, but it’s got to be done.

I have seen and heard of children in foster care because both parents passed unexpectedly. Because their parents had no will in place and no designated individual or couple to raise them in their stead, the state was the authority left to determine that. It’s sad to think that the hard work parents have put into instilling a sense of right and wrong could be uprooted by someone who has no idea of who their parents were and no sense of the values their parents held dear and wanted to pass along to their children.

We are dust. Our lives are like a vapor. Nothing is guaranteed, not even tomorrow. We have faith. We trust God, because that’s all we can do. We were given wisdom , and it is key in making decisions. It is important we consider the future but not become consumed by or anxious about it. We can make plans and set things in place, for the love of our children. By God’s grace and mercy, we’ll be there to welcome our grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but the groundwork ought to be laid.

So let me leave you with this question: Who would you trust your children with if it came down to it?

The Days They Almost Died (Part 3)

Friday, July 25 this year was pretty laid back. My children and I were scheduled for a playdate with a friend I’d made back in my caregiving days, prior to children and even marriage. Being that we live on  opposite sides of town, we were going to meet up somewhere halfway, at an aquatic center. Nothing crazy, no big deal.

Upon our arrival, what looked like a little community center from the outside actually ended up being pretty massive to a mother rolling solo with her three children, none of whom know how to swim.

We paid and entered what seemed, to me, more of a water park than community pool or aquatic center. I had not come dressed to do anything other than gab a bit with my friend and yell occasionally, “Don’t go that far: you can’t swim, and neither can I. Let’s  be smart.” However, they saw their friends and immediately forgot that the four weeks of swimming lessons they’d taken two years ago was just to get them comfortable in water. For some reason, my daughter and oldest son were really feeling like Michael Phelps. They followed their friends to the deep end, at which point, I had to remind them how unprepared any of us was to save the other. That seemed to bring them back to reality, so they returned to the more shallow side.

About forty minutes in, all three children were feeling adventurous and decided they would like to attempt the “big kid” waterslide, which was a little under four feet deep. I decided it couldn’t hurt to walk them over, figuring one or all three would chicken out once we got up to the top.

I was right…my younger son freaked at the height as he looked down. He was no longer interested in proving himself to be a big kid who could do anything. He wanted to go back down immediately and was panicking. He pulled my hand and said he wanted to go back down at that very moment. I told the other two that we all needed to get back down, but the other two did not budge. They were set on going down that big kid slide.

I tried to get the attention of the lifeguard at the top, telling her my older son was fine to go down, but I would be back, as was skeptical of my daughter going down. She was trying to listen, but other children were vying for her attention as well, so I got a nod and raced back down with my son, who had already started making his way down without me.

As we reached the bottom, I noticed my older son, who I could have sworn had at least three or four children in front of him was coming down the slide. I ran along the side, to take a picture for my husband, as proof that he had conquered his fear of heights and water. Unfortunately, I missed the shot, so I walked quickly along the side, to get him, so we could all go back up to get their sister, which I knew would take some coaxing of my younger son.

As I looked up quickly though, I noticed I could no longer see my daughter. I figured she had gotten cold feet and was heading down, so we began heading back to the staircase. For some reason, I looked up again, and this time, I saw her, but she seemed to be going down the slide. I did a double take, because there was no way the lifeguard would let her go down. Just to make sure though, we stood at the side, to make sure. I spoke to the lifeguard on the side closest to me, informing him that the child coming down could potentially be my daughter, although I had my doubts. I told him if that were the case, she does not know how to swim, and I asked if I could somehow cross the lazy river to the other side, in order to get her, to which he replied, “No, ma’am; sorry, you can’t do that.” As I stood there trying to reason with him, I saw my daughter splash out of the mouth of the slide flailing her arms. I screamed, “That’s her! That’s my daughter! Get her; she doesn’t know how to swim!!! GET HER!!!”

As I saw her go down for the second time, it took all that was in me not to say, “Screw it!” and jump into the lazy river. The only problem is that I knew that would freak my sons out and put them in danger as well. My heart was in my throat as I heard the piercing sound of whistles and lifeguards ushering everyone out of all the pools, screaming, “Drowning in progress!” I watched as four or five teenage lifeguards leapt into the pool to get my daughter who seemed to be gasping for air.

I watched them carry her to an office, as I walked quickly behind the lifeguard who had her. As we made our way to the office, I saw children pointing and heard, “Is she the reason we all had to get out of the pool?” “Was she drowning, Mommy?” “Can we swim now?”

In shame, I entered the room, where I was given a well-deserved lecture on pool safety and the importance of watching my children around water. I had to sign paperwork stating I’d been spoken to, and it was then I found out that my daughter had been asked to wait and let someone else go before her, I guess to buy me time to get back up to her. However, being who she is, as the lifeguard leaned down to address another child, my daughter pushed past her and went down the slide. Knowing her like the back of my hand, I knew that very well could be true, as she probably wanted to follow her big brother.

As we walked out of the office, still very embarrassed, I scolded her for not being safe and told her how important it was for her to be a better listener. Her response? “Mommy, did you see me? I was swimming! I was doggy paddling. Did you see me? I want to do that again!”

(Of course, as usual, this episode freaked me out further, due to the following news story that had affected a friend's friend's family member a few weeks earlier: http://www.azfamily.com/news/local/Boy-drowns-during-Fourth-of-July-pool-party-in-Phoenix-124991014.html.)

You Sure May!

Yesterday, on a very long drive to pick one of my sons up from school, as I enjoyed my favorite station on the radio, I heard my daughter trying to get my attention. A tad upset at her timing, being that the radio had been off for about fifteen minutes straight prior, I turned off the music to inquire about what she needed.

“Mommy, you know last night, you hurt my feelings when you slapped my hand.”

“Do you know why I slapped your hand?”

“Yes, I finished all of my brother’s treat when he went to the bathroom without asking, but that was still mean. I don’t slap my baby’s hand when she doesn’t listen.”

“Hmm…so, you really don’t think what you did required a consequence, even though your brother was crying because you stole his treat?”

“Well, even when we do bad stuff, you said Jesus forgives us. You should say sorry to me, and you should just forgive me and not slap my hand ever again. I said sorry to him.”

I sighed and went on to explain the importance of being considerate of others. I continued by giving her the reason for consequences and what they achieve, as well as why the person dishing out the consequences is not obligated to request forgiveness. I did stress that it is important to be certain the offender is aware of why he or she is receiving a consequence.

I asked her if she understood, and she said she did. “So does that mean you’re going to slap my hand if I do bad stuff again? I don’t think Jesus likes that, but I’ll try not to do bad stuff.”

“Good, that’s fine. All of us do bad stuff and don’t listen. We just have to keep trying to be better every day. So, you’ll try hard, and I’ll try hard…deal?”

“Deal! I love you so much, Mommy. Thank you for turning the music off to listen to me.”

“I love you, too, mama. May I turn the music back on now?”

“Yep, you sure may!”

The Days They Almost Died (Part 2)

From the womb, my second son has always been quite different from his siblings. He was the one I suffered from Polyhydramnios with, making me the biggest I ever was during any of my three pregnancies. He was also very fussy in the womb and moved around quite a bit, so we nicknamed him Earthquake. He was our pot-bellied little man with hardly any hair with the loudest cry at birth.

Just like with his older brother, I wasn’t able to be home long before returning to work. In his case, I got two additional weeks, making it a total of four weeks before my mom came from Nigeria to help me transition back to work again. It had been less than six months since she left, so I felt really bad having her return so soon. However, there’s nothing like your mom’s help when you’re growing your family and still trying to figure things out for yourself.

Soon after, when he was ten months old, my mom was in town again, and I totally appreciated her presence. Even ten months in, juggling work, a baby and toddler was still taking some getting used to. That night, my mom and I had stayed up late talking and watching TV. We were both engrossed in our conversation but began getting tired.

As we were saying our good-nights, I thought I heard some noise. I asked my mom, but she said she didn’t hear a thing. I decided to check on my boys, starting with the oldest, but he didn’t make a peep. I leaned over his bed and kissed him. As I was heading toward the baby’s room, I thought I heard something and stood by the door for a moment. I couldn’t hear much but figured it must have just been him coughing, so I quickly tiptoed past his room and over to the loft. I decided to linger a little longer, just in case, until I dozed off on the couch for a few minutes.

Once again, I thought I heard a noise but was more certain this time. It was a funny noise, a somewhat muffled sound. I checked my oldest son again, and he was still fast asleep. I ventured inside my baby’s room this time and slowly made my way toward his crib but hastened my pace when the noise continued. I looked over the crib with a smile and couldn’t believe what I thought I saw. I grabbed my baby boy and turned on the light. He had vomit all over his face, nose, and covers and was still vomiting.

Like last time, I screamed for my mom. I quickly walked him out of his room into the loft, where my mom met me. My baby was still throwing up and seemed to be having difficulty breathing. My mom took him from me and sat him up, leaning him over her arm. She was praying. I was praying. Each time we cleaned him up, it was in vain. Vomit and mucus was coming out of his nose and mouth, and his eyes were blank.

After what seemed like an hour, all of a sudden, all the fluid ceased. He rubbed his eyes with his yucky hands and reached out to me. My mom handed him over, and as he started to babble, we both sighed in relief and started thanking God. I decided to have him sleep in our room downstairs, just so I could monitor him. That night, I could hardly sleep; I just kept checking on him.

The next morning, I called the pediatrician’s office and told the nurse what had happened. She asked me a few questions and told me to call if there were any issues. I asked her if I should be concerned, and she just asked that he be monitored closely. After doing some research online, I realized that if I had not arrived sooner, my baby could have aspirated on his vomit. The very thought sent chills down my back.

I relived that memory so many times and still do from time-to-time. Parenthood is a big responsibility. Lives are dependent on us. It can be both scary and rewarding, but sometimes the scary moments are really scary, and every moment counts.