I really do try to get on the bandwagon but most instances find me half a mile behind. It reminds me of being the 2nd best runner in school right behind my sister, Erin, who was like the wind. I haven’t ever won in a foot race against her but since she’s had that knee surgery I might take the lead for once. Would it be in poor taste to challenge her now?

Kristen of Great Hair Fame asked if I would participate in this Virtual Baby Shower for Her Bad Mother, Mrs. Chicky, and Mrs. Chicken. Of course, I was too busy to reply to her and then missed the deadline for winning any kind of prize, but that matters not. I’m here to offer advice.

And since I haven’t forced any of my children into a headlock this week, I feel pretty qualified to give it.

This advice has to come with a disclaimer: I’ve never been that mom who frets over the things that experienced mothers fretted about and that’s because I had my daughter at 15 and my first son at age 20. By the time I was 23 I was done having babies and that is never more present than right now when I realize my daughter is about to be 22. When my friends remind me that I could be a grandmother right now I put them into a headlock. Purple nurples and wet willies are also known to be given for such a suggestion.

Mallory cried when she found out that Mason was a boy, but she wanted very much to feel a part of this newly formed family we were creating so I allowed her to help as much as she wanted. At times, she asked to help bathe the baby or put lotion on his face and she was an excellent burper. What I learned was that she just wanted to be a part of what was going on and even if we thought it was scary that she hold him or rock him to sleep, we put all the necessary precautions in place and then allowed her to help with the new baby. It was, however, more difficult to persuade her to change poopy diapers.

May you all experience fabulous learning opportunities with your children. Love and hug and kiss and sniff and eat baby toes as much as possible. Then, when they’re both old enough to beat in a footrace, challenge them. Let them know who’s boss.

Many moons ago when I started writing I frequented the site of a guy named Elden. That’s his given Christian name, but he goes by Fatty. And he’s not. Not at all. Unless you are discussing his huge heart for his family and specifically, his wife Susan. She’s battled breast cancer for some time now and it’s looking like they are holding hands toward some end that will not be at all what their family is hopeful for, but he is pressing onward like a soldier who refuses to give up the fight. He is, simply, a good egg and their love story is one for the books.

In yesterday’s post he posed the question of “What would you do if you only had six months to live?”

We’ve all played that game before and his answer is to record his wife’s voice in conversations they’ve had so he can replay them to honor her. Elden’s writing is spectacular and I urge you to read him. He mentions in that post a donation button he’s put up for anyone to donate. While I feel led to do so I know that it’s not a possibility for everyone. In the past, I’ve done my own donation collecting and it felt so wonderful to be able to do something for someone else. The intrinsic rewards are difficult to detail.

Since I wouldn’t pressure people to give I will ask three things here:

1. Visit Elden’s site.

2. Say a prayer for Elden and Susan and their four children and extended family and friends.

3. Leave a comment here in 6 words only about what you’d do in your final 6 months and I will use the number of comments to determine how much money I will donate.

Now go kiss your wife or mother or daughter and love the heck out of them. Do it tenderly.

*Thanks, Botched Experiment, for the urging to do something to support Fatty.

COMMENTS ARE NOW CLOSED. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE.

I am one tired woman and while I could list the amazing, unbelievable and slightly incredible things I’d had to deal with just today I fear I’d get tired all over again. After school today I had a consulting job an hour away, three hours of consulting, and then another hour drive home. Who’s tired besides me? Yeah, I’m feelin’ ya.

Your questions and comments and emails are astoundingly and generously kind. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say this: wow - some of y’all really DO use my personal email and, for some reason, I’m always shocked when you do, but in a happy way unless you’re telling me to shove off in which case might I suggest that little option you always have of not reading? But I really do love all the ones I have gotten lately, so send me your fax number and you’ll have a faxed pony and a yacht by the morning.

Enough of the love fest. I wouldn’t want readers to get the wrong idea.

Onto some of the questions and answers. If they don’t make sense, I’d like to remind you that I’m tired. Like, waking up daily at 3:30 a.m. and having my brain turn on kind of tired but I don’t want to leave you hanging.

From the email file, Beth asked How do you tell the difference between someone who does not care about your race and someone who does?

I really liked that question because I can see how it presents itself as a sort of litmus test for sensitivity for racial issues. You have to take this on a case-by-case basis. When there is a problem, do people point to a character flaw first? Do they suggest that someone is simply just an asshole? Or do they blame race for all those things? This has to be answered individually and it’s not always an easy process.

Ben says that he gets questions like, “Does it take a long time to braid her hair?”

Supposing there are a lot of braids, wouldn’t one guess that the answer is yes. I’m going to err on the side of curiosity here and suppose that the question has more to do with the HOW do you manage to get those braids done and is it worth the time? As a little girl I cried every single time I got braids but it was worth it not to have the trouble of doing it daily. Wrap in scarf at night, set to go! That opens up more conversation about the products and tools it takes to do the hair and I think that, like Wendy mentioned, it allows us to delve deeper into other topics. Hair can be a safe place to begin and used as a jumping off point.

My Aussie friend, Yvonne, asked why people are so afraid of offending others. Many of the comments actually sort of answered that question: people have gotten burned before and are trying hard to make sense of this mucky muck of race until we are afraid to even ask questions again. Part of this was experienced by Dana in her post because she wants to back off of political writings for another reason entirely, but the fear is there. It’s the same fearful response that we want to back away from, but I try to remember that there is a human being on the other side so if I put in the time to experience a relationship with them that fear begins to dissipate and we’re more likely to get somewhere.

Did I mention that I’m tired? Because when I look over this post I’m beginning to wonder if my answers are making sense.

The Caffeinated Librarian asks: Do we mean a culture or a skin color or are we talking about genetics…or some weird, constantly shifting version of all three?

It is my guess and opinion that the two of those three we mesh together in conversations tend to be about culture and skin color, but mostly we are talking about culture. But my answer would probably be the same as the previous one because, again, the human aspect of the people we’re talking about/with is forgotten.

Mrs. RW asks: When I am at a family gathering where older (and sometimes not-so-older) relatives make racial jokes or use terms that are derogatory to people of color, is it incumbant upon me to tell them what idiots/assholes/racist pigs they are to their face - or is thinking it just enough

This is the touchiest one because it’s so painful to think that our family members believe such hateful things that they’d let slip their nasty thoughts. It’s also painful to hear, “But my Granny grew up in a different time. Things were DIFFERENT back then.” May I just give an example of something I’ve used before as a response to that? I always like to point out that my grandmother on my mom’s side is White and she grew up in that same different time and she isn’t like that. When people say that it sounds like such an excuse, but it wasn’t everyone. My mom wasn’t the first person to marry a Black man and I can’t let that one slide. When my sisters and I told my dad that his aunt called us “half-breeds” and made us sit on the porch while all the other Black cousins watched tv in the air-conditioned house, he didn’t let her off the hook. It was the last we saw of her because he didn’t let her treat us that way.

Betsy and Kelliqua asked similar questions about the race boxes we check and the races to which we refer ourselves to.

Here’s how tired I am. I don’t care about ending that sentence with a preposition. I’m a writer! I’m creative! I’m e e cummings!

Let me tell another story. My mom, when giving birth to me and my sisters, was in a South Side Chicago hospital and the White nurse told her that there was no such thing as “mixed” and that she had to mark “White” on our birth certificates because my mother is White. Up until college I traded off which ones I checked and “Mixed Race” wasn’t even an option so one day, while at the admissions office, I stopped by to ask when that would be a choice.

“Just choose one or the other. We don’t have both.”

“Yes, I know, that’s my point. If I want to classify as both, why can’t I? Aren’t you smarter than the computer that spit this out? Can’t you make a new box?”

She wasn’t very amused by my questions and brushed me off so I asked if I were allowed to change my race whenever I wanted to and she said, “Sure. It’ll change every time you put in a request, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

When I walked out of the office that day I was Hispanic. The following semester I was Asian. I was every single box they offered until I graduated and that lady in the admissions office was SICK OF ME COMING IN but I was trying to make a point. The semester after I graduated a friend told me that “Mixed Race” was an option finally and I felt satisfied.

What I realized about how I was identifying, however, was that I felt ok with choosing. I also realized that so many people in our historic American heritage were classified as “Black” but had one White parent. Somehow, it gave me permission to say that I felt comfortable in my Black skin when so much of what I’d come up against was as Black. That’s not to say I haven’t felt the sting of “not Black enough” and boy, can I ever identify with Obama.

I can’t possibly tackle Please explain ebonics. Is is a real language? yet. Can I get a pass on that one until I get more sleep?

3:30 a.m. will be here soon enough.

Listen. There are hundreds of women descending on the city of my birth and youth in a few days. If you would, please, I am looking for this other Chicagoan. He sings my current favorite song which I’ll be playing ad nauseam on my jaunty drive to The City. Mostly I refer to him as My Boyfriend, Common. You can keep that other trash to yourselves if you want, but no matter because he’ll be hanging out in the suburban malls trolling for teens anyway.

But this one? Tackle him or put on a Body Bind Curse or use some Jedi Mind Trick to detain him until I arrive.

Put the coffee cup sign in the air when it happens a la Batman, mmkaythanks?

I’ve been struggling with what to reveal about this unforeseen charitable event I’ve fallen into, and some of it came after a conversation with my friend Juli after she sent me a check in the mail. I began to wonder all sorts of things about next steps. What do people expect from me after sending in money? I most certainly cannot take pictures of the kids because it’s unethical for me to post photographs of students, especially if they’re minors.

Another issue is whether or not they feel comfortable being photographed not to mention the fact that it would appear that I’m somehow getting something out of taking pictures of them and posting them. Would photographing them seem a gratuitous move?

What if they’re embarrassed receiving gifts from me and a group of people? Even Mallory suggested we show up and give them gifts on their doorstep to which I replied, “I don’t really want the recognition. I don’t need to hear a thank you.”

Then, there is the issue of getting receipts to people which I suggested in the unbelievable discourse of e-mail exchange that’s been going on lately. Many people replied that it wasn’t necessary, that they’re fine with the children getting what they need and don’t require “proof.”

In continuing my conversation with Juli on the phone, it even came up that I could have them write thank you notes and then post them online. In one regard, that could be the “receipt” for people. But forcing them to write notes just so that I could put them online would seem as if I still expected something from them in return. Yet, I’m not in charge of making people feel thankful. I can at least tell you this much: when Tiffany went shopping with my friend Carrie yesterday while I was out sick, she was very appreciative. Carrie made sure to tell me that Tiffany wanted me to know how grateful she was to be getting new clothes.

Karma is some good stuff, you know that? I knew I contacted the perfect person to take her shopping when Carrie e-mailed me to say that she found a $10 gift certificate to JCPenney that would expire this weekend. Then, when she went over the amount by about $20, Carrie kicked in and refused to let me give her more money even though I had more from donations that continue to come in the mail. Last night I got an mesage from Jean that she’s sending me a gift certificate for teacher supplies and I’m handing it right over to Carrie.

Some of things I bought with the money can be seen in a set of flickr pictures here. Other things I bought online from a Target e-card are pictured below, even though they haven’t all been delivered yet. Since I wanted them to have some choice in the matter, each one also got a $50 gift card to Target in case they wanted to purchase gifts for friends and family. Gift cards are wonderful things, aren’t they? The gas cards for Donnell will come in handy, too.
All this buying and wrapping and positive energy really is sustaining me through this nasty bug that’s knocked me on my ass the last few days. It started small and has turned into something quite phenomenal. $127 plus a lotta internet love equals a donation total that requires a comma which will provide for a student fund that will continue. It is my hope that I can highlight a student each month to help with the selling of t-shirts and coffee mugs.

Maybe it’s simple, but while I was home sick these last few days I caught an episode of Mr. Rogers that seemed to get me RIGHT HERE. My head was pounding and I needed a soothing voice while spread out on the couch surrounded by tissues and medicine. He said, “It gives people a really good feeling to share what they have. Especially when the person you’re sharing it with really loves what you give. It’s like…they really love you.”

I’ve never loved a comma so much in my life. Thank you. Merry Christmas.

For Christian:

For Donnell:

For Tiffany: