I remember a time when I was very little, riding in the car on MLK day with tons of tiny braids in my hair, wondering if it was ok for me as a white kid to be wearing that hairstyle on that day.
Braids are the poor man’s method of crimping your hair, and so as a child of the ’80’s, I grew up having my hair braided and practicing on myself and my sister.
I remember having my mind blown at around age 11 when I learned how to French braid.
I’ve had short hair for most of my adult life, but once I started having curly haired kids, I started braiding again with a vengeance.
It took a while to get the hang of straight parts and pulling hair tight enough to get a nice clean braid, and I’ve still got plenty of room for improvement, but I have gained some confidence. I have three girls, so I’ve gotten a fair amount of practice.
I started feeling a little insecure again when my son grew his hair out and started asking me to braid it. He shows me a photo from the internet that he wants me to copy, then mansplains what I’m looking at, but stops himself when he realizes what he’s doing.
Black History Month is a great opportunity to introduce yourself to some new literature, and these books are good as read-alouds or for silent reading.
The People Could Fly: American Black Folktales by Virginia Hamilton, illustrated by Leo and Diane Dillon.
Why is it easier to respond graciously to criticism when the person dispensing it isn’t close to us?
The ones who are most qualified to criticize, and do it with our best interest in mind, aren’t those acquaintances and even strangers who feel the need to make known how they feel about us and the way we choose to live. They are our loved ones, and if it isn’t safe for them to speak up when we’re not doing something right, then it might be time to re-examine priorities.
Yesterday, my second youngest turned three. The snow was falling softly outside and was coating our yard of frozen mud so that it was starting to look dreamy. I asked him if he would come outside with me for a birthday photo shoot, and he said yes.
(Photo Credit: Kimona Paramour Photography)
As parents, we like to eye roll and commiserate about our failings as parents.
We made an elaborate lunch to trick our toddler into eating vegetables. Not only won’t he eat it, he later finds and raids your Super Secret Stash of Snickers, leaving a trail chocolate smears and wrappers through the house.
You forget to check to see what your kid is wearing before they leave for something and find out too late they are wearing something wildly inappropriate for the occasion or the weather.
The kids learn something about life from your behavior that you didn’t intend to teach them and then share it in public at the worst time.
But nobody is dying. No one’s life is in danger.
We wear those kind of fails as badges of honor, a series of moments where we glorify in the funny, embarrassing times when our kids shine a light on our humanity.
It’s harder to talk about the times when we actually mess up.
