Dinner and a Show

Monday March 19Th

The weather in Chicago is so fantastic today. Spring is definitely in the air. It is the perfect day to plan the garden- and get those seeds started indoors.

This year I am doing window boxes. Hopefully the colorful plants will block the view outside which is a bit dirty. This neighborhood is full of stately mansions which have been turned into 2,4, and 6 apartments! To actually own one and have a single family, 6 bedroom home, would be a dream. 

For now I am attempting to make friends with the guys  hanging out on the front porches with their 40 ounces in hand. My children have never lived in the hood so this is brand new to them.

We are lucky enough to not have cockroaches in our building but we have been inside someone’s  home around here that does have them. My son was shocked. 

” they are like pets, mom! People are just sitting around talking while roaches are walking right in front of them.”

I had to hush him out the door that day. Hopefully we didn’t pick up any hitchhiking cock roaches!

I am super big on nature, birds, trees and insects are cool with me but not bugs in the house. No rats either. I ain’t even big on hamsters.

Bad things happen to hamsters around me. Rabbits aren’t safe either. Dogs can share my bed. I’m strange like that.

Well that’s enough. I am so sorry about the hamsters that I killed by accident.

Crybaby escaped from his cage. I was running into a dark room to catch the phone when the heel of my right foot slammed down on something soft. Crybaby didn’t cry much longer … just spun around in circles until he expired.

I was nine when I killed Crybaby. Although my mother tried to console me by telling me that I probably put Crybaby out of his misery. We had suspected something was wrong with that hamster. He had gotten the name due to him moaning and squeaking if another hamster came near him or if we picked him up. He was inbred and of the third litter.

We had started out with 3 hamsters and ended up with about 20. The original 3 were all suppose to have been boys. At any rate, the entire experience left a sore spot. After stepping on Crybaby I felt the need to punish myself. I hopped around on one leg for two weeks, refusing to let my right heel touch the ground. My mother only asked me how long I planned on punishing myself when she noticed what I was doing.

Some children are very sensitive. Perhaps the professionals would agree that it all depends on what they are exposed to and how. I try very hard to have the patience to explain the world around us to my children. Sometimes I find that big things are easier than little things to explain.

Anybody can teach my kids how to tie their shoes, so why spend energy figuring out how to talk about that? I concentrate on heavier topics.

According to my eldest son, his friends aren’t so lucky. He has noticed that most of his friends don’t talk to their parents. It is just HI and BYE. Everybody is in such a rush to get to school, work etc. There is no time for chit chat in the morning.

I make a lesson out of whatever I feel needs talking about. Years ago, I didn’t know when to shut up. People and my children would get very annoyed. Last year I started to time myself as if I were doing a monologue for the stage.

As a parent it is always a word choice game anyway. The challenge is to use the most colorful words to communicate your theory as quick as possible. Leaving time for feedback.

Why go through all of this? Because… children don’t think, feel and do what we say strictly because we say so. 

We are always running late around my house. I am sorry to all the schools, jobs, dinners and people who like to start on time, but I need to say my monologue when I feel it is necessary. Some things can’t wait until evening. Especially with children. 

Last week one of my nieces tried to commit suicide.

If she had of been successful I would have blamed myself because I knew that she was depressed.

The last time I saw her, we were all at my uncles. I had brought beets, carrots, apples, dark lettuce, cup cakes, and roasted chicken- all from Whole Foods Market. Everything was organic and crisp with freshness. 

All of the children gathered around the aromatic herbs and were curious to taste the raw vegetables. Making the salad was great but there just wasn’t time to talk to my troubled niece alone. 

After dinner I stretched out on my Aunt’s bed to nurse my baby girl. Before I knew it I was over powered by sleep. When I woke up my nieces had gone home.  

It took two days for me to be able to write about teen suicide. I still have not spoken directly to my niece- she in a facility and participating in group therapy.

The thought of my world without her was too painful to put into words. When she able to speak on the phone I want to be comfortable that I can communicate my love helpfully. I’ve done some online research and found these websites to be helpful. www.GirlsAndBoystown.org. They also have a hotline 1 800- 448- 3000. I tested the number and my call was answered quickly.

The other site is www.kidshealth.org/parent/emotions/behavior/suicide.html

Aside from seeking help, I’ve found that learning how to ask questions and listen to our children is very helpful while trying to rear them.

I don’t think of myself as my children’s boss. There is not a power trip between me and them. I am not shy of my weaknesses and I’m not afraid to fight for their needs and rights. This has not been easy. Actually I’ve sacrificed in many ways for them to be able to experience a better life than I had growing up.

Art has always been one of my tools of self counsel and I encourage young people to write and draw to express themselves. Find a hobby that you enjoy that helps time go by. Reading is a marvelous escape from your environment.

Life can be beautiful. Call someone before you give up.   

           

Broken Meters

Every city has it’s own flavor. In Chicago broken parking meters are dressed in Jewel plastic bags. Sometimes you may see a parking meter wearing a black plastic bag.  I have never seen a parking meter covered with plastic Whole Foods Market bag.

The other day I was lucky enough to catch up with a meter maid in Pilsen as she searched for unfed meters. I did not tell her my questions were for my blog.

I appealed to her like a concerned citizen who just wants to do the right thing. After all, I was struggling to keep her pace, talk, and at the same time balance the pop out car baby carrier.

” What’s the deal with broken parking meters? Can we park there?” I asked.

” You can park but look under the bag to make sure that the meter says FAIL. Some people try and be slick and stick a bag over their meter. The meter maid will check to make sure that the meter is actually broken.

If you happen to get a ticket on a meter that is broken, write down the meter number and the city will have a technician come out to verify that it was broken at the time of your ticket.”

 Gosh, I never knew that parking meters had numbers! Now that the numbered tiny plate has been pointed out, I can’t help but wonder how long it has been since the meters got their numbers.

Focus and Curious George

Perhaps the reason I am not rich and famous is because my mind is an invisible acrobat. When my six year old flips around the living room it reflects the energy blasts that I need to harness under my own hat.

As the saying goes, apples don’t fall far from the tree. I enroll my little monkey in gymnastics whenever I can afford a session.

Chicago is full of places to experience positive sportsmanship and get challenged. Real classes teach technique. It is worth the financial sacrifice and time commitment.

My stepfather is a math teacher, he tutored some of the children for Jesse White Tumblers. He thought Raj could make the team if he tried out. Try explaining (to a six year old) how priceless learning to become a team player is.

Auditions are held only twice a year. We went in January. After about a week of preparation, I decided to make the drive out south to Ada Park for the tryout. If you think that this may be for you check out www.jessewhitetumblingteam.com !

The weather was unseasonably warm for late January. I recall being grateful that the ice was melting on the sidewalks. My body was still sore from birthing 7lbs and 13 ounces of girgling joy. Falling down would have really sucked! 

Driving was a big production with a newborn. By the grace of God, we made it. There wasn’t anyone available to ride co pilot so I was stuck lugging the baby carrier and diaper bag full of juices. There were extra juices packed because my body was just getting use to milk production. If I let myself get thirsty, I noticed that my energy level took a nose dive. Not pretty. 

Raj was so nervous that he was quiet for the entire ride and brisk walk to the Ada Park field-house. I didn’t ask him to carry anything except his water bottle.

I won’t pretend to know anything about gymnastics. ( I can’t even do a handstand) The sport looks like it takes a very weightless mind frame,  loose spirit yet extreme focus and control over every muscle.

When watching gymnastics my belief structure is arrested in a happy sort of way. The aerial dancer seem to have made friends with the wind and gravity.

If Raj ever becomes a gymnasts, he would be the first on my side of the family. We are creating history and attempting to document it along the way. 

After everything that I put into it, Raj did not make the team. He could not do a flip flop. It turns out that his fearlessness goes only as far as he can see. Thankfully he wasn’t born with eyes in the back of his head.

Poor little guy was dazed when he returned from doing his thing in front of the Jesse White Tumbers. I could tell by the look on his face and by the fact that he came out so quickly that things didn’t go as he expected.

“They only gave me one chance and then they said that I could go.” Raj said as his eyes darted from side to ceiling. He fought back the tears. I wanted to hung him but my arms were full of new baby. So I tried to embrace him with my words.

“It will be alright. It is okay if you didn’t make it. You’ll do better the next time.” I said.

“The next time? I’m never coming back to this place again.” He mumbled. 

” I don’t want to be around people that only give a guy one chance, that’s it, one little chance! Why?” He stammered. 

Sportmanship Communication should be a high school elective. As far as the pros go some are learning to be better communicators. Media coverage is everywhere from the locker room to the field. Heaven help you if there is personal trouble. The media is right there. I know I would be if someone gave me a press pass!

So when does this ‘training’ begin? Not how to kick the ball, or when to swing, but what to say when a microphone is shoved in your face. 

Raj stood before me face to face, his big brown eyes searching my soul and waiting for an explanation. I was unprepared for his question and emotional due to our joint disappointment.

” There are probably more than one hundred children trying out for the team and there is only one day to see them all. So everyone only gets one chance to do there best. You did your best and I am proud of you.”

That is probably the hardest comeback I ever needed to dream up. In retrospect it sounds simple and like the only thing to say but, at that moment, there seemed to be so much riding on my response. 

Raj wasn’t quite a happy go lucky little monkey around the house for weeks after not making the team. We encouraged him to talk about his experience. With every recount the story got bigger and better. It wasn’t long before he began to add his charm to the chain of events to get more laughs. 

Maybe this kid won’t be in the Olympics 2016 but he will be able to tell a heck of a story.     

Stuck on Blogging

Whew! That was really dreadful. My internet explorer is out. I have not been able to connect for a week. I didn’t realize that Blogging had become such an outlet until it was gone.  I went through all of the grief stages:Shock, Denial, Anger, Saddness. 

Everything seemed so incredible in the world around me. There was a story that was escaping my blog commentary in every event, meal, verbal exchange and dream

Tech support was a merry- go- round. I had a very difficult time understanding the very thick Indian accent of the support geek . The session took over an hour and afterwards I only had a case number. I had to hang up before being transferred to the highest level of support. My ‘me’ morning time had been burnt away- it was time to take my son to school.  

What emptiness. The void was like quicksand. At an emotional lost, I hoped that I could at least get out of the house in time to catch Tom Joyner’s Morning show- It’s Your World. 

My son is learning Black phrases and praise songs on our 20 minute drive to his school. 

Instead of racing home to blog after dropping my son at school, I stopped off at Bite Cafe on Western Ave. for some one on one time with my favorite waiter and his breakfast club of sound guys, travelers and teachers.

I always feel smarter and closer to the cutting edge after chowing down besides a bunch of dusty intellectuals.

It was cozy  

Obama: the New Black Superman?

First of all, he is black enough. 

Did yall see the paper today? They chose a very solemn photograph of Obama. As if to say he was regretful.

After reading the Sun- Times front page STUMBLE I really got to thinking: Wow what a stretch! Can’t get anything solid against the man, huh?

After reading the entire article on page 14, I am thinking:

SO WHAT! 

So what if he doesn’t want to respond to everybody elses crisis and comments. Perhaps he is too busy thinking about world issues and world politics to zoom in on his church.

So what! Obama is a God loving man. He answers questions directed toward Who he is and what HE stands for. He answers these questions by offering solutions that appeal to people as citizens of the world and builders of community.

Obama secured my vote when he said that we should teach our children to be useful.    

Stray Cat Strut

This morning I cooked 4 turkey sausage links. My six year old turned his nose up as if he had bit down on something sour. So I took his pieces back. No sense in arguing with him,  he had eaten his fresh papaya and flax waffle without a fuss. He does not need to eat his meat.

Self said: ‘ cut the kid some slack. Be a mother and a friend. ‘

I am trying to keep on this baby weight. Most moms are trying to loose weight. At 5’3 inches, there would be a womanly shape on my bones if I could stay around 120lbs.  

One, two, three I began to count aloud the turkey pieces as I plopped them onto a clean paper plate. My 3 month old girl baby was amused. My mouth watered for those extra juicy pieces.

and then like a plea for help, insistant, down trodded, desperate

meow

meeeoooooooow!  

I said I wouldn’t do it.

I gave up on cats a long time ago. I’m a dog person now. 

Meowww.

Don’t cry to me. Please go away. I’m allergic to cats, found that out the hard way six years ago.

In the kitchen window stood my 1st floor neighborbor’s kicked out cat. Flush to my serving table where we all munched down our breakfast. Iron bars and glass were the only thing separating us from the hungry feline. 

The weather man got his turn on the morning show. I tried to turn my son towards the news.

‘ look, its going to be sunny tomorrow!’

‘ momma, why does that cat come here and meow at our window?’

Cloudy and cold with the chance of snow showers.

Meowwwww.

Well Self do you really think we will miss a few pieces of turkey sausage? How far do I go, Self? Do I check and see if that neighbor got that cat his shots and fixed before she kicked him out? Do I make him a comfortable bed on my deck. Should I strap a flea collar to his neck come Spring?

Careful Self the six year old is getting a lesson in responsibility here.

Do I really want this cat around?

Ahhh, what the heck. I don’t want to teach my son how to turn his back on strays or do I?

Time to Google. What else is a wanna be know it all to do?

Well to my delight I’m not the only one concerned about Stray Cats. I enjoyed my romp through www.alleycat.org. I found the site to be very easy to navigate and all my questions were answered.

If you have strays around that you would like to help. Ask the experts at www.alleycat.org!   

    

Wild Bill Stanton

I watched Dateline tonight with my six year old. We both thought Wild Bill Deserved a holla. It amazing that he has found a way to educate people and a launch his own celebrity.

For those of you who have never heard of Wild Bill Stanton, there is always Google. In short he is a New Yorker, ex cop, turned private investigator and self appointed public safty educator. He wants us to know what he knows about staying safe! 

Very helpful

Wild Bill Stanton is a rocking Cowboy!

God Bless America. 

Don’t Mess with the Post Office

This morning I learned that the United States Postal Service is a business. Just as every business has policies, so does the Post Office. The policy that I learned today is as follows: the postal carrier delivers mail to mail receptacles. Under no circumstances will mail be handed through the window at the post office to a customer.

This policy would be no concern of mine if my mailbox wasn’t broken. It has been broken for over three months. At first it was thought to be the postal lock that was broken. The postal maintenance department was notified and serviced the box around December 5th but neglected to tell my post office of their findings. I was put on a three way call with one of the supervisors of my neighborhood post office and a rep from consumer affairs, who apologized for the mix up. 

When the maintenance department serviced the mailbox in December they decided that the problem was not with the postal lock but the mailbox itself hence it wasn’t their problem. The responsibility sat with the landlord of my building. Remember, their findings were not communicated until the supervisor of my post office investigated the problem because I kept calling and complaining about my mail being stuck in the wrought iron fence, someone elses’ mailbox or held the post office.  

I rent an apartment in a handsome- on- the- outside graystone in Douglas Park. It is a neighborhood in transition. Painly said, yuppies are buying property here and thugs are being chased out. Last week the police department put a camera at the end of the block. 

When I moved my family into this westside apartment, I was hoping for an affordable, rodent, roach free and dog friendly dwelling.  I am neither thug nor yuppy- so I didn’t have a ton of cash on hand to move into an upscale apartment in an upscale neighborhood. So I settled for the basics and felt lucky to find a 3 bedroom that included heat on craigslist. 

Never did I think it would be such a problem receiving my mail. Today, March 7th this situation went from bad to worse.

My eldest son goes to school in Minnesota. Like a teenager he forgot to pack his winter boots when he returned to Minneapolis after Christmas break. So I promised to pack them up and mail them to him along with some extra slacks and thermal shirts that I picked up from the Family Thrift on Milwaukee Avenue.

He grows so fast and is hard on shirts. It is difficult to keep him descent during growth spurts and broom hockey. Most of his clothes are bought second hand.

After two months (winter is just about over) I’d collected all the things that he requested. It took so long because I always had the baby with me.

The baby carrier is awkward and heavy. The weather has been blowing snow and icy. Not every business shovels their walkway and parking lot. It is absolutely too dangerous and cold to take a small baby in and out of the car. So my eldest son’s box had to wait and my picking up my mail had to wait until this morning.

Last night, I decided rain or shine, I would bite the bullet and go to the post office with the baby and the box. I said: ‘self, this foolishness and wimpyness must stop. So what if I have to walk two blocks to the post office entrance. This errand must be done!’

First I circled the post office in Wicker Park hoping a meter in front would open up. After twenty minutes I started driving south west to the Otis Grant Collins Station praying that I would have better luck at that location.

Well, I found a legal parking spot about 3/4 of a block away- within eye shot of the doorway of the Collins Station. Nervously, I left the baby in the car until I could run the box to the doorway. On the way to the doorway I worried that someone would smash my window and grab my baby.

On the way back to the car, I worried that my box with my son’s doc Martins would be stolen, after all it looked like a ceramic space heater because it wasn’t wrapped in brown paper yet.  I’d put my tape etc. in the box and had planned to wrap it according to the post office requirrements once we were inside.

The long car ride had put the baby to sleep. She slept until I put the last strip of tape on the box. I put the box in the stainless steal square. The postal worker opened her door on the other side to remove it. I thought to myself about the extreme security measures taken to build a wall between the customer and the postal worker. It did seem extreme. The office in Wicker Park isn’t like that. 

When picking up or mailing packages in Wicker Park on Division, you place your package on a white counter. The worker is directly on the otherside of the counter. There isn’t a bullet proof glass or steal compartments to place packages.

Perhaps if I had a one track mind I would not note such things. Once the mailing of the box was complete, the postal worker asked if there would be anything else. I said yes, I need to pick up my mail.

Suddenly the air stiffened and the postal worker assumed a different tone. An attitude of suspicion made her questions sound more like an interrogation.

‘and why do you need to pick up your mail,’ she asked.

I went back over the train of events that led up to the fact that after 3 months my mailbox was still broken.

The worker told me that a supervisor would speak to me if I stepped to the last bullet proof window.

By now my baby was wailing and would not be consoled by her pacifer. My breast began to leak after tightening and letting down. I  unravelled as the supervisor began her interrogation. At first I thought she was just planning to have me tell her my story over again.

Somewhere in the mist of her questioning I said, ‘look my baby is crying, I just need my mail!’

Her words were crisp and clear.

‘No, it is the postal policy not to hand mail to customers. When your mailbox is fixed, your mail will be delivered.’

I explained that I had time sensitive mail and my daughter’s medical card perhaps in the stack of mail she was holding. 

She laughed at me. It wasn’t an uncomfortable laugh that people do when they feel bad and don’t know else to do. It was a SO WHAT sort of smirk. She took pleasure in my problem.         

She stood behind the glass, unmoved, hands folded and repeated the postal policy and added that I should not pay my rent until my mailbox is fixed. 

When I got home I called the post master who repeated the policy and said that my mail should not have been given to me the other times I’d gone to the post office since my mailbox has been broken.

We got on another 3 way call with another supervisor of my neighborhood post office who apologized for the sign for the postal parking lot not being hung clear. He said that along the wall parking is allowed for post office customers. 

Perhaps when this neighborhood is completely turned over and becomes Up and Coming the sign will be obvious that parking is allowed. As it stands now, it looks as though it is for the postal trucks only.

My landlord placed the new mailbox into the mailbox holder. He said that he was waiting to be notified by the post office to tell him when the lock would be installed. He did not want to hang the new mailbox without a lock for fear that it would be stolen.

After all of this mess, he put it there hoping that the postal maintenance department will put the postal lock on the box before it gets tampered with by thugs. 

As for me, it is just another day in the hood without my mail.     

10 minutes til Spring

Oseh will be 3 months soon. She’s becoming more of a person everyday. She loves to stand on my lap as I blog. This afternoon we went to the Target in search of a stroller. I want to be ready for that first beautiful day. Walking is free but I think you need a peddlers license to sell anything along the way.

Lately I have been desperately brainstorming for new ways to make a living without having to leave Oseh with a sitter. Even licensed sitters are scary. I’ve tried some out and have been disappointed. Evidently it is easier to get a license for a home daycare than a peddler’s license in Chicago. Maybe not, I’ll post it.

When I was a student at the Art Institute, there were tons of street performers downtown. Hopefully, I won’t be limited to street fairs and such. I want to be able to get that warm gooy feeling when I wake up on any given morning: TODAY IS A GREAT PERFORMANCE DAY! and then get to work in those clown shoes anywhere I chose.

My children will probably be embarassed and want to go to the babysitter and not ‘work’ with me.