Baby, I'm Back (Kinda)!

While I'm working on new posts for my regular site, I've compiled some of the funnier stories from the pregnancy journal I kept.  Check me out at http://thesweetestbrownie.blogspot.com/ for updates on all things baby!

Class is in Session

My cousin and I were discussing his involvement in a youth empowerment camp this summer. In his travels cross country to cater to high profile clients, he sometimes takes the opportunity to give back to the little people – specifically, those under 5 feet tall. His adventures are more than often, hectic, but they’re always good for a story or two so I wanted to hear all about it. He’d asked me earlier this summer if I wanted to participate in said camp, but for some reason as the fetus inside me grows larger, my tolerance for others’ children has lessened. I figure, if my feeding tube isn’t connected to you – I don’t really want to have anything to do with you. Some may call this pregnancy hormones, I call it Wednesday.

Anywho…he was describing some of the children’s activities and mentioned a panel discussion where local business leaders came in for an inspiring talk on asserting oneself and realizing your potential. I asked if the audience seemed especially taken with this message and his reply was, “Yes. The young ladies did – they seemed especially taken…with the moderators.”

He laughed as he recounted how these pubescent girls were attempting to flirt with men twenty years their senior. “It was like one of those Hot Girls episodes on Maury.”

I didn’t see the humor, “That’s pathetic. Those babies don’t know any better though. If they think that behavior is appropriate with grown men, it’s totally the parents’ fault.” He shrugged me off and we soon jumped to more important topics, namely, the new season of Real Housewives of Atlanta.

I thought of that conversation, though, this week as I listened to a news report on a nearby county’s initiative to crack down on truancy. It was a simple idea that’s been met with much controversy. Parents of chronically absent students are now subject to arrest (Educational Neglect being a misdemeanor) and a fine of up to $1,000. Genius, I thought to myself. That’s a good way to put fire under some people’s booties.

But then the segment cut to a parent of a troubled student. She was an older woman (a grandmother I think) raising a 15 year old that cut class regularly. The woman looked the newscaster in the eye and put her hand on her hip defiantly, “A thousand dollars?! That’s crazy. Who has that kinda money? I do all I can to keep that child in school, if she ain’t gon’ go, I can’t make her! And I ain’t goin’ to jail behind nobody…’specially no child.” Fairly, I had to admit her matter of fact response made sense too.

I sat back and pondered. While thinking of the type of parent I’ll become over these past few months, the most daunting idea has been that of total responsibility. You have this kid that’s been given to you and you’re completely in charge of making sure they grow up right; that they have morals and use common sense, that they want to be more than just some bum on the corner their entire life. How overwhelming is that? I’m lucky I have a partner at the ready who can assist me on this parental journey. Everyone’s situation is different, though. How much harder must it be for some single parent to make ends meet and still make time to mentor and guide their children down the right path? Sure, it’s possible, but once other factors come into play (additional children, crazy work schedules or more than one job, neighborhood influences, etc.) you start to realize that maybe there’s only so much that can be done after a certain point.

I was so ready to put the blame on the parents of those pre-teens that were throwing themselves at father figures that I guess I never took the time to think that at some point, the girls have to know to make better decisions. The grandmother of that 15 year old seemed to care enough to have tried to make sure the girl went to class, but how much can one woman do between work and real life?

The type of children that regularly skip school don’t usually have a healthy fear of their home life or a respect for the sacrifices of their caregivers. What if fines and jail time for her grandmother did nothing but offer this girl another easy way out? Doesn’t it just allow her to yet again put off the consequences of her own actions?

Today’s thought is, when do young adults become responsible for their own deeds? Is it fair to expect the same of children that have had strong role models throughout their life versus those that have pretty much had to raise themselves? Can’t it be argued that if the parents didn’t guide them early on that they don’t know any better?

Nondisclosure

Yesterday, while tuned into the Tom Joyner Morning Show on my way to work, I listened as the opinionated DJs chimed in on their Entertainment Correspondent’s latest tidbit of gossip. Breaking news reported that American Idol songstress and Oscar winner Jennifer Hudson had been thrown a baby shower in her hometown of Chicago. The top secret gathering was an intimate celebration for only family and a small number of friends. Word got out though, as it so often seems to when cameras follow you around 24 hours of everyday, and media outlets soon went wild with the news of the pregnancy that had previously never been confirmed.

The morning show’s main host seemed directly offended throughout the course of yesterday’s conversation. You see Jennifer had, up until that point, flat-out denied her expectant state and dismissed inquiries from reporters and bloggers that offered proof. The host maintained that to outright deny facts the way she did, was sneaky on Jennifer’s part and ultimately irresponsible. His co-host argued that the singer may have only wanted to preserve some small bit of privacy for this very special part of her life.

Later on that day, I came across another gossip blog discussing the incident. In comments from readers, one subscriber questioned the timing of the pregnancy as it appeared to have fallen very quickly after the notorious murders of the singer’s family. The commenter implied that maybe Jennifer wasn’t as grieved as she should be if she had time to “sit up and make a baby.” As I perused the rest of the site, I was soon disgusted with much of the negative feedback offered.

All of this came back to me as I engaged in email banter with a friend from out of state. Reading my most recent blog a bit late, she offered me belated congratulations on my new baby.

“I haven’t talked to you in forever,” she said. “But I should’ve known, if I want to keep up with what’s happening with you, all I have to do is read your blog. Girl, you tell everything.”

I could picture her laughing as she typed. As we went on, I couldn’t help but take her comment to heart. It’s true that I’m open with much of my life when it comes to communicating with my audience here. Thankfully, my readership is comprised mainly of friends I interact with offline and those that I’ve gotten to know fairly well over the years I’ve blogged. But, with the forum, I’ve chosen there’s always room for an unknown to pop up.

Do I ever share too much?

I don’t think so. I give glimpses into my life and because I write, many experiences can be edited to best highlight what my point will be or to show my peers in the light that I choose. I love to write, and I love the freedom that comes from being able to give of myself and affect others.

What happens, though, when you’re able to do what you love but those that are receiving your gifts take more than you’d have them take?

Jennifer Hudson, or for that matter Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye or Sheryl Crowe, are amazing artists. To have a talent that others clamor for has to be an incredible feeling. You have an audience and fans that identify with you more readily than they do people they interact with daily. There’s a sense of expectancy though, I think, that people feel when they “love” you that much. It’s expected that as you become part of their life (through your art) that they should be able to become part of yours.

Jennifer isn’t Barack Obama or Rudy Guiliani – she didn’t ask to be a leader for us to follow (and consequently open to intense scrutiny). She’s simply doing what she loves and getting a chance to share that with others. But does simply being in the spotlight mean that others should be privy to your every move? Because you’re famous, does that give paparazzi the right to follow you to the doctor’s office or even questioned in national interviews about an impending divorce or the death of a loved one? Is fame an automatic forfeit of privacy?

What’s your opinion: when you offer one part of yourself to the masses, or are you allowed to hold anything back?

Lost in Translation

If there is one thing that’s been learned thus far in my 28 years of life, it’s that I have a way with words.

For good or for bad, I have a knack for saying things just so. The statements may not always be eloquent or even achieve the result that I’d desired, but most times, they’re memorable and more often than not, quite humorous. I try to relate to those around me in a common sense, practical manner but it doesn’t always come across that way. With that said, I usually find myself in one awkward situation or another based on the way I’ve relayed a certain topic.

Take for instance the follies that ensued when I was met with the task of informing my family of my recent pregnancy.

Note to the reader: This is an unusually long entry, I’ve attempted to divide it into sections (as bolded) so feel free to read at your own pace and catch up with my antics at a later time if you so choose.

Background

After weeks of discomfort and a mysteriously missing menstrual cycle, I figured I’d have a laugh and take a home pregnancy test. Better safe than sorry, I thought initially, though there was no way I could be pregnant. This, considering the fact that at a recent doctor’s appointment I was met with a somewhat negative outlook on my fertility and the opportunity I would have to conceive. Though not impossible, my gynecologist advised that when I was ready to begin “trying” that my husband and I should sit down and go through all of the ovulation charts and scientific hooha that accompanied eager moms-to-be. Negative Nancy had me a bit perturbed to say the least.

With that bit of a challenge in mind though, I went about my newlywed life and came to grips with the fact that expanding my family might take awhile. I wasn’t disappointed as my partner and I are only just now approaching two years of marriage (next week, as a matter of fact). Surely, baby-making would come in due time and so I resigned myself to what I thought would be months of waiting.

Imagine my surprise then, when two little blue lines appeared on the odd-looking plastic stick that sat on the bathroom counter. Standing in front of the mirror in a pair of panties with my jeans around my ankles and a wrinkled t-shirt on, I laughed. I’d only just spritzed the applicator, the real results (according to the instructions) would come in a whopping two minutes. These were probably just the fake ones. That second line, I reasoned, might disappear all together. I stood there looking down at it, counting to 120 (very slowly) in my head.

Because you’re reading this, you may have already assumed that the line, in fact, did not disappear.
For 3 days I walked around the house getting myself accustomed to the idea of being a mommy. I looked up several recipes on baking bread, I didn’t swear aloud when the curling iron burned my neck and I swept and dusted much to my husband’s surprise (this last act proved counterproductive as I ended up sick from my blossoming allergies meeting all of the dust mites in the air). I say all this to say, that I tried to put forth what effort I thought went into the whole parenting thing. I’d finally gotten to place where I seemed comfortable with the idea of a growing seed in my belly, so the only thing left to do was to let the unknowing dad in on the surprise.

The Husband

I’d told myself that the best way to broach this topic with my spouse would be to inform him gaily on the eve of our anniversary after a 3-day weekend of happy go lucky couple’s time. My sometimes overly dramatic nature was tested, however, after a particularly depressing season finale of Grey’s Anatomy. What do doctors Steamy & McDreamy have to do with my procreation you ask? Well, just about everything it turns out. After two moving near-death scenes, the show’s narrator reiterated the importance of seizing the day. She solemnly spoke of appreciating the nearness of your loved ones while they were here, because sometimes (and very regularly on this soap-operaish drama) people can disappear.

With tears in my eyes and the remote in my hand, I choked up at the thought that my husband might go out to get the mail just then (no matter that it was already 10 o’clock at night) and that a semi-truck might derail from the main street near our home and run him over for no reason. This was my thinking people, I’m not saying it made sense, just follow my train of thought.

I jumped up determined not to let him die without knowing about my warming bun in the oven. With a scarf around my head and pimple cream dotting my cheeks I flew to the darkened living room, awakening him as he dozed in front of the Lakers game.

“What’s wrong,” he coughed, groggily.

I sat next to him and grabbed his hand, placing it softly in mine, “I love you.”

“Love you too, babe,” he said and turned up the volume on the television.

I smiled and turned it down, “You’re such a great husband.”

“Yep,” he said to the television, as a neon glow flashed across his face.

I waited for him to turn back to me but eventually tired of staring at his profile. “Sweetie,” I began, “what’s the best gift I could give you right now?”

He smirked and I won’t repeat what profane thing he mentioned because I’m a freakin’ lady and someday our kid is gonna read this blog.

I narrowed my eyes, “Thank you for that.”

He sat, pleased with himself, still tuned in to the men racing across the basketball court.

Peeved, I finally announced, “Well, I just wanted to tell you that you’ve officially staked the claim to my womb.”

He didn’t move.

“Babe,” I tried again, “did you hear me? You’ve hit a homerun in the baseball park of my ovaries.”

“Is this part of one of your stories,” he finally asked turning to me, confused.

Desperately I held his face, “You’ve planted the generational seed!”

He looked closely at me, peering for signs that I’d taken too much allergy medicine again.

“Oh, here. Good grief!” I thrust the pregnancy test at him in the dark.

“Why are you giving me a tampon?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Are you wearing your contacts?” I said, exasperated. My husband’s natural eyesight can be likened to that of New York Governor David Patterson’s.

“No,” he said annoyed, “I’m about to go to sleep, I took ‘em out.”

Fuming I retorted, “Can you go put the freakin’ contacts back in?!”

“For what,” he spit, “I don’t want your tampon!”

“It is not a tampon, you idiot! Why, in the world, would I be handing you a tampon?!”

“That’s what I’m asking,” he screamed.

I grabbed a throw pillow from the arm of the couch and pushed my face into it shrieking, “You are so messing this up now! The people on TV never have this much trouble telling folks they’re pregnant, you mess everything up! You are so stupid!”

“What,” he asked and I felt him grip the other side of the pillow. “What did you say?”

“No,” I said as the tears flowed again, “you messed it up, just forget it!”

“You’re pregnant,” he said quietly and pulled the pillow down. “Like, really pregnant?”

I paused from the theatrics. “Yes,” I said quietly.

He kissed my cheek and stared at me for a long time. I waited as he slowly smiled. Our eyes locked and I saw his face light up, this delighted me to no end and I felt a calm rush over me. Just as I was about to place my arms around his neck, he jumped from the couch and ran to the large mirror framing the room.

Miming what could only have been some variation of the 1970s Hustle, he thrust his hips back and forth rapidly, “Oh yeah, my boys are swimming! I got some soldiers! Yeah boyeeeeee!”

I closed my eyes and turned the volume back up on the television. “I hate you right now,” I murmured over the roar of the crowd, “Hate you. Yep. Right now.”

Mom & Dad

If I learned nothing else from the instance with my husband, it was that the next time I informed a loved one, I should do it just as straightforward as possible. Apparently my literary euphemisms don’t go over as well in practice as they do in thought. So even though I liked my flowery terms just fine, I vowed to express my current state in a more forthright manner to the next recipients.

We’d only just set a date to meet with a doctor to confirm the pregnancy, but armed with a few positive home tests, we figured it was safe to at least share the news with our parents. Since I had dibs on 9 months of bloating, frequent urination and stretch marks – I got to tell my parents first.

I had to wait for them both to be in the same area at the same time (not a small feat as my parents generally avoid one another as a safety precaution). Luckily though, on the way home from a wedding Friday evening I managed to catch my mom going through bills in the kitchen as my father sat nearby in the living room.

Giggling, I advised her, “Ma, do me a favor and put your phone on speaker.”

“You know I don’t know how to work this phone,” she said dismissively. “You have something to tell Him? I’ll tell ‘im, what is it?”

“Ma,” I said, more seriously, “just put the phone on speaker, please.”

I heard her sigh, “Fine.”

What followed was a flurry of beeps and swear words, ending finally in, “[my dad], come here. Brittni wants me to put this on speaker, how do you work the speaker phone?”

I heard my dad clearly, “I don’t know how to work that phone. That’s your phone.”

“Mom,” I interrupted, “I can hear you guys.”

She ignored me, “So you can’t even look at the phone, [my dad]? How do you know you don’t know how to work it, you didn’t even look at it?”

“I don’t have to look at it,” I heard a gruff voice say, “it’s not my phone.”
“Guys,” I offered.

“Fine, don’t look at it,” my mother said and I heard more beeps and static.

“Ma,” I said louder, “I can hear you. It’s fine.”

“What,” she said, “Brittni I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, ma, I can hear you.” I was quickly losing my patience.

“Okay, I think it’s working. Ya daddy didn’t help me, but I think I got it. You can hear me okay?” She said shouting into the receiver.

“Ma,” I screamed, “not so loud.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said snippily, “you say you want me on the speaker, I’m just trying to talk into the speaker, I-”

“Mother!” I yelled, frustrated and trying to regain control as my husband laughed in the driver’s seat.

She finally quieted, though I could hear her complaining about her “rude child” under her breath.

Smoothing my hair and calming my mind, I said, “When do you think you guys can next get down here to Atlanta?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said slowly, “you know ya daddy don’t never wanna go nowhere.”

“It’s not me that don’t wanna go nowhere,” he retorted, “you just act like we gotta get up and go every 5 minutes. Sit down sometimes.”

“Mom,” I ignored them, “I was just gonna say…if you were planning on coming, it might be a good idea. So that you can visit me before the baby comes.”

She was silent.

“Before, uh, my baby comes.”

I waited.

“You see there, you got your daughter thinking you won’t be back down there until she has kids. That the kinda father you wanna be?”

“Here you go,” he yelled, each word jumping across the airwaves louder than the other.

“No, not here I go. This is you!” She said back.

The expletives that danced in my head faded quickly though, because just as I was about to join the argument, fate stepped in and the call dropped.

What. The. Hell.

“How’d that go,” my husband asked looking over as we passed beneath a streetlight.

I stared at the beeping phone silently.

He chuckled to himself, “Yep. That’s what I thought.”

Five minutes later when we’d entered a more satellite-friendly area, I called my home again, “Ma?”

“Hey baby. Your phone died? You out in them woods again?”

“Mother,” I said flatly, “is that all you have to say?”

“About you being in the woods,” she asked, “well you know that’s all yall got in Georgia is them woods. Just be careful, that’s what I say. It’s crazy folks out here these days.”

“Enough with the woods, woman,” I growled, “about me being pregnant!”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice rose, irritated.

“Mom, I’m pregnant.” I said again.

“Whaaaaaaaaat?!” She screamed. A loud thud sounded over the phone. In the background, “[my dad], she’s pregnant – my baby’s pregnant!”

“What,” my father sputtered and I heard footsteps approach. “Brittni, what is your mother talking about?”

“Where is mommy,” I said, no longer enthused. I heard a wail in the background. “Did she faint? Dad, don’t let her faint.” My mother is known for bouts of hysterics (as if there were any confusion as to where I inherited it). “She’s just gonna hurt herself.”

My father ignored me. “Brittni, you pregnant?” He asked again, sounding more like the man that caught me sneaking out of the house when I was 17.

“Yes, daddy,” I said evenly.

“Let me speak to that boy,” he said. After 5 years together, my father has progressed from calling my husband ‘Brian’ (not his name), to ‘Brittni’s fella’ to now (what I think is affectionately, for him anyway)‘the boy’.

My husband bristled as I passed my cell to him, “What’s he wanna talk to me for?”

I shook my head and thrust the phone at him anyway.

His next side of the conversation went, “Yes. [pause] Um, yes, sir. [pause] Well, um, yeah, I suppose I did it. [pause] Well thank you, I think. We’re excited too. [pause] Yes, I’m still employed. [pause] Okay, then. Goodnight.”

All in all, the most animated conversation they’ve had to date.

I took the phone back and listened as my father told me to go home and lay down. “Okay, daddy,” I said, “I’ll do that.”

“And don’t go walking into stuff, you might hurt yourself now.”

It’s well known in my family that I’m a bit of a klutz, so I appreciated his suggestion and thanked him for it. “Can, I speak to mommy again, though, dad?”

I heard him place the phone down, “Get up, [my mom]. She wants to talk to you.”

What I like to think my mother said next was something along the lines of, “My darling Brittni, I’m so proud of you and excited to share in this journey with you. There’s nothing like the bond between a mother and child and I know you’ll be an exceptional parent. I wish you the best on this new path, my beloved.”

But in actuality, what I heard was, “Brittni, ldjiafiougouioau gouaiojijojfujiojeioj oauiojiojfoijioj!” More sniffling, then, “laiudoiuouafjiouj aoiufoyfuheoj oguaoueioujj goueouu.”

“Ma,” I laughed, “I can’t understand you when you’re crying that hard.”

“Oh baby,” she started again, “aoufiu akfjioe alkjrije ldkji.”

“Ma, okay. Look, I’m gonna let you get yourself together and then I want you to call me back okay?”

She hiccupped what I thought was an affirmative response and I hung up the phone pressing my fingers against my temples.

“Great,” I said aloud, “now that I need a shot of tequila, I can’t even take one.”

My husband laughed and patted my hand, “Gotta love your folks.”

The In-Laws

When we finally arrived home, I was more than a little tired but still extremely excited to share the news. My parents’ antics were pretty typical of their usual nature, so while it irked me initially, I’d regrouped and was anxious to hear from the baby’s other set of grands.

My husband took the lead at this turn and as we sat down for a game of Phase 10 (what a happenin’ Friday night, I know), he dialed his parents. Oddly, he told me he got no reply.

We settled in for our game and before we knew it, I was winning by 50 points. I hit him with a few choice comments about the score and he dismissed me by picking up the phone again, “Whatever. I’m not even paying attention to this game. I’m waiting for my parents to call back.” He tried them again, but still there was no answer.

Twenty minutes later he called again, and was met with the same ringing phone.

“Don’t worry about it babe,” I said, shuffling the cards, “they’re probably at church.” My in-laws are heavily involved in ministerial duty in their home city and often, they could be found doing work at the chapel at odd hours if other parishioners were unavailable.

He pouted, “You got to tell your parents tonight. Shoot, I wanna tell mine.”

I shook my head and grabbed at my phone beneath the table. I dialed my mother-in-law’s cell to help him out, but it was to no avail.

Five minutes later, my phone vibrated against the countertop. I picked it up and beamed at him, “Here we go!”

“Hello, Mother [last name], how are you?” I said bouncing on my heels.

“That’s my mama,” my husband asked, standing.

I nodded.

“Gimme the phone,” he said like an ornery child.

He snatched the device from my hand. “Ma, how you callin’ Brittni and I called you!”

“I called her for you,” I whispered in his other ear.

He ignored me and went on, “…well, it’s a little hard for somebody not to feel slighted when they call somebody else 50 times and get no reply and then that somebody chooses to return another call first.”

My husband was the spoiled rotten only boy in his family of 4 siblings. His parents (mother, especially) doted on him for this fact and he sometimes slides back into the role of the petulant son when he doesn’t get his way.

I rolled my eyes at him to fend off any tantrums before they started. “Focus,” I hissed.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “mom, dad with you?”

She replied.

“Good. Look, we’ve got something to tell you. Guess what it is,” he shouted.

He held the phone out between our heads.

His dad chimed in, “Well, listen, you say it like that. It can only be one thing.”

“Well, of course,” his mother said giddily, “I know what it’s gotta be! Brittni’s pregnant?!”

My husband laughed and said yes.

“Praise the lord, praise the lord,” I heard loudly.

I smiled at their jubilance.

I waited as they congratulated their son on his accomplishment. “Well let me speak to my daughter in law,” his mother said happily.

I got back on the phone.

“Brittni girl, I just can’t believe this,” she started.

“I know, crazy right,” I said.

“Yes it is, lordy!”

You’d have to have spent any time with my mother in law to know this, but she’s as prim and proper a southern lady as they come. Whenever we speak by phone, I subconsciously get an image of her sitting on a porch swing with a pair of white gloves on her hand and a church hat all the while, “Closer My God to Thee,” is playing on a radio that can be heard from a farmhouse nearby. So as she said this, again, I envisioned an old school church fan fluttering in the breeze and a pretty brown woman with her eyes twinkling standing with her back to a cornfield. Again, my thoughts don’t have to make sense to you people, they’re just mine and I thought I’d share.

“We just can’t wait to start planning stuff,” I said.

“I know you can’t!” She sounded delighted, “Oooh, you know what would be nice? A May baby. You should have it in May! Can’t go wrong with a May baby.”

I looked at the calendar hanging in our kitchen, “Um, Mother [last name], unless I’m having some weird new elephant pregnancy I don’t think I can hold on to this kid for a whole year.”

“What’s that,” she asked. “Oh, no I suppose not,” she said somewhat sheepishly.

I hated that I was always so quick to respond to my inlaws with some fresh-mouthed city-girl retort. Since I felt bad for shooting down her idea so quickly, I instead replied, “But, you know what, a May baby would’ve been good. That was a very nice thought.”

And just like that, she was happy again, “It was a nice thought, wasn’t it?” I pictured her gloved fingers tapping the arm of her chair in delight.

Runner Ups

Other notable mentions for comments my big news was met with came from an aunt:

“Well, don’t go thinking you gon’ name it somethin’ ghetto either. There better not be any Benikarina-s, Corvellius-es or Shaquitima-s coming out of that house down there. I am not claimin’ some ghetto baby.”

A particularly vocal cousin:

“You’re pregnant? Thank God, I thought you were just gaining weight for no reason.”

And my brother, in the midst of his own recreational activities:

Inhale. “So, I thought of some names for your kid?”

I smiled. “Oh, yeah? That’s cool [Brother], hit me with ‘em.”

“Buster, Charlie & James.” Exhale.

Confused, “Buster?”

“Brown.” Snicker.

“Charlie.”

“Brown.” Snicker snicker.

“And James.”

“Brown.” Guffaw.

Deadpan, “Wow, dude, you’re hilarious. Really. Truly a comedian.”

Finally…

All in all though, I think the baby’s got a pretty good start to its little life. Hopefully I’ll work out this communication thing in the next 9 months so me and the kid can really bond, but until then, I’ll keep hitting you guys with all of my awkwardness in the interim.

Happy Wednesday, you guys – have a great week

Perception is Everything

On a lazy Sunday evening, as news reports on the outbreak of Swine Flu/H1N1 ran rampant, the hubby and I quickly grew antsy and decided to get out of the house to do something productive with ourselves. We’d noticed lone bales of hay blowing in the breeze of our refrigerator whenever we opened the door, so we figured it was time to stock up on more groceries. We went, of all places, to Wal-Mart.

Somehow spending the evening among hordes of Spanish speaking shoppers toting along 5 year olds in heels and flannel-wearing cholos seemed a smart choice when fleeing the deadly disease most say originated in Mexico. Go figure. Special Note: I’m not racist, by the way, I’ve just observed a disproportionate amount of Latinos at my nearby Wal-Mart. (Errr, Special Note 2: Most statements with the qualifier “I’m not racist…” usually are, in fact, racist.)


Shortly after entering the store, with my husband steering the shopping cart, we bumped into a couple in the Health & Beauty section. The woman, black with a medium build had her hair styled in tiny blondish braids that fell thickly and heavily ending at her lower back. She wore khaki shorts that hugged her behind and exposed the slightest bit of cheek with a plain t-shirt that, though stretched tight across a healthy bosom, didn’t stand out for any particular reason. Her lip was dotted with a small silver hoop and a daisy tattooed on her foot and bisected by the flip flops she wore were her only adornments. Her mate was white and had on worn cargo shorts and a Hawks t-shirt that was somewhat wrinkled.

As we passed them, she stated to her friend, “You know I can’t understand a word you say. Hand me the lotion.”

I heard a heavy French accent curse (I think) in a dismissive reply and then a heavy thump sounded into their cart as I assume her Jergens had found a home. I turned discretely to spy on them as we exited the aisle and I saw her grope her breasts awkwardly and exclaim, “Weird. My boobs feel heavy today.” Her partner nodded noncommittally and continued walking.

Snickering, I turned to my husband, “Did you see that girl? She was touching herself.”

He grinned, “Lucky her.”

I rolled my eyes and tried to spot her again across a floor display.

“Stop being nosey,” he chided as he nudged me toward the pharmacy. I frowned and faced forward again.

“She was a stripper,” I said without being asked.

He stopped then and swiveled around conspicuously angling his head in their direction, “You recognized her?”

I punched his arm, “No. You can just tell.”

He stopped then and gave me his regular Brittni Spouts Idiotic Logic look (not to be confused with the Brittni Insulted Our Middle Eastern Neighbors look or the Brittni Passed Gas Under the Covers Again look but very close, actually, to the Brittni’s Having Another Temper Tantrum in Target look).


He paused before asking, “And you can just tell she’s a stripper, how?”

I exhaled, “Please. It is so obvious. Look at her; the long hair, the big boobs…the piercing.”

“Oh yeah,” he said walking again, “people with garish body decorations are totally strippers. His eyes travelled to the mannish sizeable tattoo on my wrist.

I blushed, “Well that’s not it! What about Frenchie that she’s with? He barely speaks English. He probably met her at a club and became enamored with her – she’s some hot, sexy young thing and you know those foreigners love black women. She’s probably lookin’ for more money, so she decided that she’d hook up with him if he buys her groceries. They’re friends…with benefits. It’s so obvious.”

“You,” he said turning toward the frozen foods, “need Jesus.” He smacked my hand playfully, “You are not supposed to go around judging people like that.”

I frowned, “I’m not judging, just observing.”

“Really? And what would people observe about you tonight? That you’re some homeless butt scratcher?”

I moved my hand, “I wasn’t scratching, I had a wedgie thank you very much!”

And then, as I looked down at my worn sneakers, wrinkled jeans and felt the messy ponytail in my hair, it occurred to me that first impressions really are everything. But what if we’re not intending on impressing anyone? How often do you encounter people on the street and think that you have a pretty good idea of who they are and what they’re about? It’s ingrained in us that we should always present a certain image, is that fair though, to feel like you have to be ‘on point’ every minute of every day?

What does your every day outer appearance say about you? And how often do you catch yourself judging a book by its cover?

Right of Way

When I was 8 years old, my mom brought me along on a quick run to the supermarket. We’d trotted up and down the aisles looking for some mystery spice and a box of noodles that were needed for dinner that night. Bored nearly to tears, I ambled along silently until eventually we headed toward the check-out counter.



Before I go on, note that in the eyes of a child there are very few things that elicit true desire in your typical grocery store. Freezing your little butt off in frozen foods, being denied the pleasure of testing the springiness of buns and rolls in the bread aisle and slinking past the unpleasant smell that accompanies the seafood counter all add up to make the supermarket very low on a kid’s list of Top 10 Places to Be on a Thursday Night. There are, however, three key places that undeniably cause a twinkle in the eye of most adolescents forced on this particular errand run: the toy aisle, the cookie/cake section and heaven of heavens, the check-out counter. There was nothing better to me than being surrounded by the check-out counter’s rows of carefully marketed bars and hard candy right at my own little eye level. The brightly colored packages and strong chocolatey aromas permeated the small area from the end of the conveyer belt all the way to the cash register.

More than anything though, I loved the check-out counter because I knew that it was my last chance to acquire a treat of some kind before we’d leave the grocery store. More often than not, I could talk my mom into a roll of Smarties, some Raisinets or even a pack of Twizzlers if I’d been good on our outing. That we were so near to the exit seemed to cause in her a leniency she rarely exhibited and she’d pick up a sugary bribe just to shut me up for the last few minutes she needed in the store – whining was hardly even necessary, it was a bonus for all.


This day was no different and as she loaded her two or three items onto the belt I held up a bag of M&Ms in what I hoped was a pleading manner.

“Put it back,” she said dismissively.

I patted her butt softly (it was the closest body part). “Please,” I offered, thinking I’d missed some cue the first time.

“Girl, we’re about to eat in 20 minutes. Put that candy down.”

So resolute was she in her statement, I knew there was no further persuading that could be done. She’d rejected me and there was nothing I could do. Or was there?

Thinking quickly with what I deemed to be the sneakiest mind of any 8 year old north of the Mississippi, I looked around theatrically and stuffed the entire bag of M&Ms into the pocket of my very best stone-washed denim jeans. I smiled triumphantly. I was going to get my candy and mommy wasn’t going to have to pay for it – fantastic!

Now, if only I could get my heart to stop beating so hard, its rhythmic thump echoed loudly in my ears. Surely the sound was audible to man with the basket behind me and the cashier only now greeting mommy up ahead. Why was this check-out taking so long? Was it rocket science to ring up a package of penne pasta? I watched as my mother reached behind her blindly to urge me forward so that the next patron could begin unloading. The long, slender fingers of her hand seemed alien as they summoned me onward. I swallowed as my mouth went dry and dared a glance up at her. She didn’t seem to sense anything amiss, could theft really be this easy? I stepped up tentatively.

The cash register dinged momentarily. “Will there be anything else?” The pimply faced associate asked.

“No,” my mother said, “that’s all.”

I exhaled, finally, we were done. Just a few short steps and we’d be out! But as is the case in most fairy tales, the heroine’s heroic escape at this time was thwarted once again by the evil wicked witch.

As she was handed her receipt, my mother turned to grab my hand. Looking down, she noticed the obvious bulge in my front pocket. “What’s that?” she quizzed me.

I panicked as blood drained from my face, “Nothing.”

She rolled her eyes and bent down, snatching the candy from my pocket and holding it up for everyone. “Brittni,” she said annoyed and shaking her head.

Mumbling to herself, she reached behind me and put the candy back on the shelf as the next customer snickered. “Kids,” he said.

My mother smiled, “I know it.”

The cashier looked up idiotically, “That’s funny. Thought she was slick, huh?”

And with that, they all burst out laughing. Guffawing, really - at me, in front of me, about me! I nearly died on the spot of embarrassment. Surely this humiliation was worse than any physical punishment for a shy child like myself. My eyes stung with tears and my breathing slowly quickened as shame spread through me. My mother had turned me in and I would never, ever forgive her for as long as I lived.

Though my vendetta against mommy lasted, if I recall, a mere 45 minutes that day I was reminded of that episode last weekend as we talked on the phone. I’d told her about a case that’s been dominating the headlines here in Atlanta since Easter. A family of four and a 9 year old girl were killed in a horrific car accident involving 3 vehicles. All passengers in one car, and the child never made it home that day. For days, police searched for the 3rd vehicle, thought to have set off the events that led to the crash. The driver had fled and there was a massive hunt to find this “demon” that could leave such destruction in his wake.

Ten days and scores of phoned in tips later and the police were led to a 22 year old female college student that owned the sought-after BMW, she was brought in and booked on charges relating to that day. As the story progressed, Atlantans also learned that her mother would be charged as well. Her crime? It seems that when her daughter told of her of what happened (2 days later), the mother helped get the car fixed to hide any incriminating damage.

My mother’s response was, “That poor woman.”

I was struck by her sympathy. “You think it was right what the mom did?” I asked.

“That’s her baby, she was trying to help,” she replied.

“But you always told us to ‘fess up when something goes wrong. Shoot, sometimes you did it for us when we didn’t want to.” I retorted. It’s not that I disagree with mom, I just like to hear her rationale.

She paused, “I did tell you guys that and I want you to be stand up, honest individuals but that woman knew that her daughter risked being put away for a very long time for that accident…she had to do what she could. It’s different when it’s your child.”

We teach our kids to be honest and forthright when they make mistakes. We hope that those in our family uphold a certain set of morals in everyday life and that they stay true to a common code of ethics. But is it ever right to tolerate someone you love breaking a law, or hurting others? I’ve seen cases on the news of parents turning in their children who were wanted for murder. I don’t think they love their children any less than the mother of this Easter driver but they wanted to do “what was right.” Would the issue be different if the girl in question hadn’t caused the accident, maybe only been apart of it and been scared to go back, would it have been ok for her mom to help her then?

Can a line be drawn between protecting your loved one and doing the right thing? What would you have done in this case?