Another year passes

Next week my daughters will turn six and nine.  Somehow it doesn’t seem possible.  How have nine years gone by since I first held Daysia in my arms?  It’s going by way too fast. 

Parents of older kids always say that things get easier as kids get older.  I don’t agree.  Sure I sleep more than I used to, and don’t have to pack a suitcase of crap before leaving the house, but I think things have only gotten harder.  Some days I would much rather be physically drained from 2am feedings than mentally drained from a 45 minute tantrum.  When they’re babies, they don’t talk back, don’t call you “mean mommy”, haven’t yet mastered which buttons to push.  There isn’t this constant battle over who is right.  Babies just trust that you know what you’re doing…. even if in reality you don’t have a clue. 

My oldest is in such a hurry to grow up.  I wish there was a way to slow her down. When I was nine, I played hopscotch and kick ball.  I rode my bike, jumped rope, and made forts in the woods.  My soon to be nine year old wants a cell phone, is boy crazy, and would rather play video games than be outdoors.  I’m dreading having two teenage girls on my hands.  What makes it worse is remembering what I was like as a teen.  I don’t know how my mom didn’t write me off. 

Since I can’t make time slow down, I will continue to make their childhoods as fun filled as I can.  I will play Polly Pockets and Littlest Pet Shop, even though it bores the hell out of me.  I will take them to all the kid functions that I can.  I will remind them daily how lucky they are to be young and carefree.  Having those girls was, and still is, the best thing that I ever decided to do.  Happy Birthday to my beautiful babies!

New beginnings

So I've been living the single life for four months now.  I never thought I would be here again.  My marriage was supposed to last forever.   In reality, my marriage failed.  We fell out of love.  The fairy tale had a different ending.

I've spent hours trying to figure out where things went wrong.  Truth is, they were never right.  Sure there were happier times, special moments, laughter shared.  It just wasn't enough to sustain us.  We weren't meant to be. 

I think I fell in love with the idea of marriage, of sharing my life with another person.  I wanted to have a family, have someone to nurture, have someone to love.  In the end, love didn't lead to happiness.  Love didn't prevail.

Now I'm thirty three and starting over again.  So much has changed.  Being a single parent is lonely.  My girls are angry and sad.  They need me, even though they don't always want to admit it.  Most of the time I'm able to hold it together.  Other times, when no ones around,  I fall apart.  

For many years, I lost sight of who I was.  I struggled to hold on to a man who was never mine to begin with.  I fought to hold on to myself.  Now I'm scared of being alone forever, of never again falling in love .  Despite the fear, I'm taking time to rediscover myself.  What I've learned is that I'm pretty damn amazing. 

It may take years for Mr. Right to come along.  I can patiently wait.  I deserve to be with someone who loves every single piece of me...even those that are damaged and broken.  I'm not going to settle for less.
I still believe in marriage, in living happily ever after.  Most importantly, I believe in me.

Broken record

Sometimes I feel like I’m a broken record. “Don’t touch the walls”, “Wash your hands”, “Stop annoying your sister”, “Put your pants back on”. It’s like being in that movie Groundhog Day. My alarm goes off, I get in the shower, I put my bra/underwear on (that’s as far as I usually get before chaos ensues), and take a deep breath.


About this time, the girls’ alarm has gone off. They are either arguing over who is going to use the bathroom first, or they are giggling their heads off over some inside joke. Either way, it seems to take them at least 20 minutes to get dressed and come downstairs. I feed them, do their hair, brush their teeth (they suck at this), make their lunches, pack their bags, and eventually get myself dressed. On a good day, we get out of the house about 10 minutes late. On a bad, about 20. From the time my first was born, I could no longer be anywhere on time. Either someone has to pee (again), can’t find their shoes, is crying, or simply refuses to leave.

People with older kids always say “Treasure these days. You will miss them when your kids are grown”. I know they’re right. On Wednesday I will put my baby on the school bus. It seems like just yesterday she was born. Soon my girls won’t need me as much. I won’t be the center of their universe. As annoying and demanding as things are at times, it will break my heart to let them go. For now I need to embrace the madness… to hold their hands while they still want to be seen with me.

Put down the scissors

I wore my hair either fully or partially up for 9 years. I’m glad that’s behind me.

Back in Junior High, I was so envious of girls with straight hair. I wanted so badly to have bangs that I could curl. One night I decided to cut my own bangs. Boy was that a terrible idea. I gathered hair from way too far back on my head and pulled it down over my eyes. I took the scissors and cut it. Immediately I could tell I had made a huge mistake.

You see, curly hair does not lie flat. Not only were the bangs uneven, but they raised up about 3 inches off of my head. I remember my mom saying “Oh no, what did you do”? It looked like a large animal had taken a dump on my head. There was no way to make the mass of thick, curly hair even closely resemble bangs.

The hair was so short that I couldn’t even pin it back. It stood at attention for months. Finally, it grew long enough to hold a barrette. I went from resembling a cockatoo to slick rick. I went through 4 years of high school without wearing my hair down. I got used to it. It seriously became my security blanket… something that I had control over. After high school I continued to wear it up. Four years of college past and almost no one saw it completely down.

It wasn’t until I moved back to Rochester that I finally let a hair stylist have her way with it. Let’s just say, she changed my life. For the 1st time in along time, I was comfortable with my mane. Sounds strange, but the curls (and my identity) needed to be rescued.

So in case you ever wondered, there you have it. Definitely not one of my smartest moments.

Wanna play

Making friends is so much harder now that I’m an adult. As a kid, it was easy. The conversation went something like this: “Hi I’m Amanda”. “Hi I’m Jenny”. “Wanna play?” “O.K.” Done. Why can’t adults be that way? Why do we care if someone has a higher degree, earns more money, drives a nicer car, lives in a bigger home? When do we lose our ability to see one another as equals?

People are automatically drawn to me. They tell me their life stories (sometimes while nude in the gym locker room). I often wonder if I wear a sign that says “Unload your troubles here”. Meeting people is not the problem. My issue lies in taking the next step, past shooting the breeze and actually getting to know them. I immediately start to wonder if we will have things in common, if we are on the same playing field, if I’m good enough.

Sometimes I wish I could see the world as a child again. To see the big picture, instead of all the compartments, classes, and cliques. From now on, I'm going to try and let my guard down.  To get to know others without worrying about their circumstances. 

Hi my name is Amanda. Do you want to play?

Bittersweet

Every now I then, I catch glimpses of what my daughters will be like as teenagers. I find those images terrifying. How will I protect them? What if they turn out like me?

It seems like just yesterday I was pregnant with Daysia. Where does the time go? On September11, 2001, Ed and I decided it was time to start trying to get pregnant. We were both confronted with the harsh reality that life is too short and far too precious to wait. A few months later, I was showing signs. I took one test, then two, then sent him out to buy more. They all were positive. I remember feeling thrilled and petrified. What if I miscarried, what if the baby got sick, what if it didn’t? Was I really ready to be a mom?

My pregnancy was pretty routine. Daysia, of course, took her time coming out. Two days after my due date, she was born. I instantly loved her deeply and couldn’t imagine what life was like before she entered it. Ed was instantly smitten. He spoke to her and she turned his way. For months he had talked to my stomach and now she seemed to recognize his voice. Having her was a very proud moment.

Three years later, we had Mariah. Before she was born, I worried that I wouldn’t love her the same way… that I wouldn’t have enough time to give her. Those worries instantly went away when I looked at her. She was so beautiful. At 11.2 pounds, she resembled a 5 month old. She could lift her head clear off of my chest and seemed very curious. I could tell that she was going to give us a run for our money.

Now the girls are 5 and 8. They are so independent and so smart. While I enjoy being able to come and go with ease, I wish I could slow down time a little. I’m already embarrassing when friends are around. Boys are already cute. Back talk is already common place. I never thought I would miss them watching Barney or playing with all those dang little people. Now they are interested in purses, and play makeup, and money.

For now I will cherish every game of hide and seek, every homemade art project, every sticky kiss. I will teach them how to love themselves and how to accept others. I will show them right from wrong. I will love them no matter where life leads them or what path they choose. I want nothing more than for them to be happy and healthy. I hope that someday they will look at their own newborns and feel the power of unconditional love. They bring so much joy and laughter to my life and are truly my greatest accomplishments.

Skin deep

It still amazes me how close minded some people can be. How they can judge someone solely on physical characteristics. How anyone who’s been in love can’t understand how a person could love someone physically different than themselves. Why is there so much fear in the unknown? Do hair texture, eye color, body shape, and skin color really make us different?


I am Irish/Italian, but grew up Italian. From very early on, I was taught that there were “us” and “them”. “Them” was made up of anyone who wasn’t Italian. Stereotypes were factual. Blacks were crooks, Jews were cheap, Polacks were dumb, Asians couldn’t drive, and the list goes on. We stuck to our own kind and rarely ventured into unfamiliar neighborhoods. When we did, car doors were locked and purses were clutched. When my grandma was mad at my grandpa, she would call him “Black”. That was the biggest insult there was. This is how they were raised and they were teaching me what they knew. It just never sat right with me. I would look at a kid and see a kid. We liked the same toys, had the same hobbies, and played the same games. They just happened to look different than me.

Growing up in a middle class suburb, there weren’t many minorities. It wasn’t until college that I started to hang around with kids of all different cultural and ethnic backgrounds. There was so much to learn about….so many stereotypes to disprove. I based my opinions of people on who they really were. If I liked you, I liked you. If I thought you were an asshole, you knew it.

People have asked me if I’m with my husband solely because he’s Black. That question is odd to me. Are they with their spouse solely because they are fat, or bald, or tall, or blond? Sure people are attracted to a certain type, but physical characteristics aren’t the reason they fall in love. There is more to it than that. Ed and I had alcoholic fathers, were raised by single moms, have older siblings, grew up Catholic, enjoy the same things, laugh at the same jokes, dream the same dreams……….oh and we just happen to have different skin colors. Why is that so hard to understand?

At least once a week, someone will ask me if my kids are mine. Look past the skin color asshole. Do you see how much they look like me? The big eyes, the freckles, the red streaks in their hair. I can’t begin to tell you how much that pisses me off. If I see dark haired parents who have a blond child, I would never ask if they are related. So why do people feel the need to call us out? Why don’t we fit the mold?

I will never regret my decision to follow my heart. It hasn’t been an easy rode. I’ve definitely been reminded that my lifestyle literally disgusts a lot of people. Fortunately those people aren’t anyone I would want in my life. They don’t deserve to be. My kids are being raised to judge people for who they are and not what they look like. It’s a small step in the right direction.