It’s been far too long since I’ve dedicated myself to that blissful cuppa that begins my day. Grind fresh beans. Use clean, filtered water. Brew slowly. Inhale deeply. Smile wickedly. Taste the love.

I no longer pull out glue sticks and finger paints to do activities with my children. They’re just getting too old for that so our time is spent doing other things. We play family friendly video games at times, play Guess That Movie By This String Of Quotes I Have Memorized, and once in a while we will play cricket in the backyard or basketball in the front. All things that have incorporated my love of sporting and competition, but that have been something I have learned to love.

For a long time I considered myself the Mom Of A Girl because for a while it was just Mallory and me. Having sons later on became something I probably struggled more with than I ever admitted because I grew up with all girls and boy stuff was lost on me.

When it came time to discuss girly delicate issues with my daughter I didn’t have any problem whatsoever, but that was because as a young parent who didn’t know any different, I just talked to her about everything. Sometimes she was the only being around and if I didn’t have anyone else to talk to then I would turn to this infant and just start rambling about everything. That’s probably why she learned to talk early and used the word “narcissistic” as soon as was possible. She liked the sound of that word when I read Greek Mythology to her. That was mostly because I was studying English Lit and didn’t have time to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to her so she was subjected to whatever courses I signed up for.

Basically, I have no problem communicating with my kids because I tend to blurt things out and then shrug my shoulders when they give me the “God, You Are THE STUPIDEST PERSON IN THIS HEMISPHERE, Mom” look. That’s not really been a concern of mine, but what I’ve been trying to say in my wordy writing today is that I say just about anything in front of my kids.

For example, when the onset of menses came for my daughter I encouraged her to talk about it. Tell her dad. Let him know that she’d become a woman. She caught him as he was coming out of the bathroom on a Sunday morning. The fact that I spurred her on in this didn’t lesson the shock he had upon hearing it.

Uhhh. Well. Ok.

A stellar moment in my parenting, forcing my daughter to talk about such things with such an uninterested party.

From then on we agreed as parents that I would do the girl stuff, the “tampon” discussions and he would do everything with the boys. He would be stuck with morning wood, wet dreams, and the creative uses of socks so I felt it was all fair. Unfortunately, my daughter has taken after me in those monthly times because if her brothers or father ask her why she’s so crabby she is none to happy to let them in on the cause.

My uterus is sloughing itself off. Happy now?

Last night Morgan informed us that it’s probably time for him to protect his goods during karate and could he please have a cup? Since dad was busy and couldn’t get around to it and I needed to hit the sports store anyway for a few things I agreed to do it.

Mom. I will need a cup.

Fine. Tell dad we’re leaving now.

I think the incredulity of my taking him shopping for this object scared his father because he sat up straight in his recliner.

What? You’re taking him? You. You are taking him. You. Do you know anything about what you’re getting?

Yes. It’s not like I’ll take him to a dressing room and force him to come out and SHOW ME.

Do you even know what it is?

Yeah, it’s the thingie with the straps that don’t cover your butt and you step into it.

I started to doubt myself at this point.

Right?

Well, yeah, but what about how it stays on, Kelly?

Umm. I guess he needs a (demonstrating for the family at this point) thingie that has like a pocket that you … umm … tuck it into. Right?

Oh, Lord. This should be fun.

After going to Dick’s Sporting Goods (no, really, I can’t even make the obvious joke here) we determined that, yes, he would need a large size (Well done. To all his future girlfriends, you’re welcome) and he wouldn’t have to put it on for real until tonight when he has his Black Belt Training class.

But he isn’t one to struggle with inhibitions. He came home and took a shower and walked downstairs where I was watching television and knocked on his crotch.

Oh. So you’re going to wear it to bed, then?

Nah. I just wanted to try it on.

Uh huh. Is your butt hanging out of the back?

Yeah. That’s funny. Wanna see?

No thanks, son. Just sit here and watch some tv with me.

Mission accomplished and awkward conversations avoided.

He did, however, spend the rest of the night knocking on his crotch. While sitting on the couch. Next to the Tampon and Cup Queen.

Historians run in my family. I come by this honestly as witnessed by my sister, Tracy, who mentioned her role as a historian (Do you have a historian as a friend, dear reader? Because they are worth knowing. Go on and get you a sister who KNOWS EVERYTHING. Ok, I kid. My sister teaches me a lot. All the time. And she’s younger than me, which is sort of sweet but ultimately annoying that she knows so damn much. The fact that she’s pretty doesn’t bother me at all. Nope. Nuu huhhhhh.) in yesterday’s comments.

Why isn’t anyone doing a better job of keeping me on task?

Oh, before I get back to the seriousness of historianism (not even a word, folks, because my new version of WordPress underlined it in red so I won’t even bother checking, but hey! It has also underlined the word WordPress so what the hell does it know?) I have to let you know about this picture from Passive Aggressive Notes that I commented on in flickr just now.

I’m cracking me up today. (And the parenthetical statements are OUT OF CONTROL. It’s that lack of nectar of the gods.)

While my official job title is “Guidance Dean” I find it refreshing that I can take the “guidance” part as far as I want and yesterday I had the opportunity to bring in a student and show him the slide show of Dorothy Counts. He has been, for the better part of a week, working against everyone who is trying to help him be successful in school. Me included. I brought in my friend, another dean, to act as Black Male Role Model to drive the point home, something I realize is another delicate gift I have been given for I know not everyone can talk to students in the manner I do and I try not to abuse that power. We counseled him for about 20 minutes and when his reaction to our encouragement was that “school is fun, and I like to laugh and be funny” I had tired of his clowning as had all of the teachers who referred him to me, including the one who suggested he not be in an Honors class. I have been trying to go to bat for this kid and he is finding it all “funny.”

That doesn’t sit well with me and it makes me feel icky and yucky and gross.

Do you think this woman and all the others before her went to school and faced THIS so you could clown in class? So you could be “funny” and failing this early in the school year?

I don’t know if that worked, but I will keep trying because he’s worth it. He’s just exhausting me right now.

My best friend from college is a history teacher at another high school in town and she worked with students over the summer at the Abraham Lincoln Library to produce these banners to commemorate the Springfield Race Riots of 1908. Tammy and her high school students worked tirelessly with archivists and library officials to bring this piece of history to light. We took our sons downtown last weekend to see them and talk about the events that prompted the formation of the NAACP.

They were formed in such a way that you could walk amongst them and read them in any order to still capture the effect of their words.

They left us with a sense of understanding events while still being puzzled as to how this could have gotten so completely out of control.

Family trips like these aren’t always what I would call jolly good rollicking recreation, but they are necessary. They are icky and yucky and gross and that is my brilliant assessment of looking at the ugly part of American History. Mason, in particular, has a fascinating mind and we often talk about What he considers himself in cultural contexts of race. I’m exceedingly tickled that he says “Black” more often than not. (A whole other writing topic in and of itself, no?)

Why does this tickle me? you ask. Have you seen my son? The fruit of my looms? The one who came out of my own vaginal cavity looking all slimy gooey with blotchy skin with red hair?

It is for that child and my other children and my school children that I do the history thing. I hope to encourage all of them to be historians someday and to remember these things, though they are painful. Maybe what it will do, and what I ultimately am hopeful for, is support and inspire them for what they are learning about being people who will make good neighbors someday. People who will let me borrow their epilady when I can’t find my razor. People who will let me have some of the beef stew they are boiling when the scent wafts over to my house and I pretend to just be “dropping by”. People who will collect my newspapers when I go on vacation and return them to me in the proper order. Basically, people I want to live with on this planet.

My sisters. My sons. My daughters. My students.

They are all worth it.

Two days with no coffee. Two days of not getting enough sleep and not getting up in time to make coffee and not having time to stop before work. Two. Crappy. Days. Send help.

There once was a girl and she was little. Not in the sense of her height. In fact, in that sense she was not little at all. She held her head high and it made her seem all the more colossal. She was little in age, but again, not in her wisdom. She was a mere 15.

The story of Dorothy Counts is haunting me and has ever since my gal Libby over at the Caffeinated Librarian (Do you have a librarian as a friend, dear reader? Because they are worth knowing. Go on and get you a friend who is an expert in periodicals!) mentioned her to me in an e-mail that she thought I’d be interested. Of course, after that, I was hooked, trying to read every single thing on Dorothy that’s been written after laying eyes on these poignant and evocative photographs of her. (Especially numbers 5 and 10. I love number 10 where she’s smiling.)

She was just 15. A baby. A little girl.

In looking at her pictures and reading the many accounts written of that day, this piece written about her makes me want to know the author, to sit down with her to view the reaction Dorothy had to reading that editorial about herself. Here it is in its entirety:

A head needs no face for expression.

The way it is carried upon the neck tells all.

If it is too high it shows defiance.

If it is low and twists from side to side with a forward thrust of the neck it is full of shame.

Between these extremes is the posture of dignity and confidence and a certain blend of humility and pride.

And that is the way she carried her head.

They spat and she was covered with it.

Spittle dripped from the hem of her dress.

It clung to her neck and her arms and she wore it.

They spat and they jeered and screamed.

A boy tumbled out of the crowd and hit her in the back with his fist.

Debris fell on her shoulders and around her feet.

And the posture of the head was unchanged.

That was the remarkable thing.

And if her skin was brown you had to admit that her courage was royal purple.

For how many of us could have taken that walk — to and from a school?

That’s all I want you to remember. That she was just a girl. Walking to school. Changing history forever.