More Than a Gap and Knock-Knees

“I just love your gap!” A well-meaning person to whom I had just been introduced gushed the compliment. I was around twenty-three, and to tell you the truth, wasn’t even aware of this much-loved gap. A nervous giggle escaped as I politely said “thank you.” Later on after dinner, I pulled out my mirrored compact to reapply my lipstick, but that was a ruse. I was really checking to see if I indeed had a gap. I did. I do. In fact, just about everyone on mom’s side of the family has one. It’s hereditary.

Several years later, Jamie and I were a doting-dating-childless couple, strolling through the mall hand-in-hand. I tried on some jeans at a department store, and (quite uncharacteristically for me) did a little sexy model walk for him. I posed, expecting a wolf-whistle or a “how you doin?’” Instead I got: Are you knock-kneed?” Yes. Yes I am knock-kneed. First time I noticed it was in ballet class: the teacher told us to stand with our feet parallel, knees facing frontward – like headlights on a car. Well, my knees were like headlights but my toes were pointing at two opposite corners of the room. Yet another hereditary gift from mom.

Surely there’s got to be more to my ancestry than a diastema and messed up knees…right?

Well, lately, we’ve been watching Who Do You Think You Are? and Finding Your Roots. Both series are about ancestry research, and they’ve often called to mind the (sometimes hushed) stories about relatives in my own family tree. I decided to pick up my research where I left off a few years ago: on ancestry.com, although this time, I’ve actually signed on for a membership (was too cheap to do it before). The membership is key because it allows you access to census records going back to the 1700’s, Social Security information, immigration documentation, birth certificates, draft cards and even slave manifests.

I’m early in this journey, but so far have discovered my paternal great-great grandfather, as well as my mom’s great grandparents from both her mom and dad. This is a pretty big deal considering that today, both of my parents would be upwards of 85 years-old, and more than likely, their great-grandparents were born into slavery, being listed only by sex and age on slave manifests. But these folks did show up on censuses after the Emancipation Proclamation, and that’s partially how I found them.

What I’m really excited about is the fact that I’m discovering how my maternal ancestors are showing up – by name -- in the country’s history with drama, intrigue and mystery that I never imagined. Once I uncover more, I’ll definitely be blogging about it.

As a history buff, this entire exercise is tailor-made for me; and as a mom, this part of my history is relatively (no pun intended) new to me and I’m excited I can pass it on to my daughter.

That way she’ll have more to thank me for than just the knock-knees.

(and by the way - she’s got Fritsch teeth, so there’s no gap)

Confession: Dogs Are Smarter Than Me

Instead of the “usual” status updates (e.g. Look at the mac-n-cheese I made, or We're at the Jelly Belly factory, etc.), a Facebook friend of mine posts a Question of the Day.  I love the idea because not only is it a way to get to know each other better, but because it’s less Let me tell you about me and more I want to know more about you.  My friend’s question can be silly or serious, but it never fails to get my mind percolating.  Today’s question was: What was the best advice your mom ever gave you?”

Maybe its my way of keeping her alive, but I jump at any chance to talk about my mom, so the question was right up my alley. But she passed on so much wisdom in the 19 years I had with her, it was hard to decide. After a quick comb-through, it came to me:

Tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone.

Simple translation: Don’t drag your feet about finishing that project or your degree, or traveling if it’s your heart’s desire, or saying “I’m sorry” or “Thank you” or “I love you.” You or the person to whom you need to apologize, thank or love may not be here tomorrow.

Ouch. 

Perhaps it wasn’t an optimistic piece of advice, but you have to admit that it’s true. And besides, mom wasn’t one to mince words.

Later in the day, I saw this

Besides getting weepy and feeling thankful for the people who willingly put their lives on the line in military service, I realized that it’s taken me a few losses, more than a few bad decisions in my twenties, and a husband and a child to begin to grasp my mom’s sage advice while dogs seem to intuitively understand it.

Now, I don’t think the basis for dogs' excited expressions of love and welcome are rooted in their philosophic understanding of life's brevity.  All I know is this: when Charley sees my car pull up, his little tail frantically spins like a helicopter, he crouches down low, almost like he's trying not to burst from the joy inside; and by the time I cross the threshold, he’s so happy he dances. Sometimes the joy even dribbles out, bless his heart. 

That's all well and good, but here's the smart part of it: Charley doesn't care that he might have been scolded earlier in the day for bra-stealing (that’s another post) because grudges have no place in the message he's conveying in his doggie way. He doesn’t wait until he finds the perfect way to deliver his “Hi Momma Licks” or the right key in which to bark and yip. He smothers me with licks and yipping right then and there. Just like those dogs in the video.

It’s almost like they know that tomorrow isn’t promised.

Some Dreams are Garbage Bound

Once upon a time, long ago, I tried to be the Cool Chick. The unfortunate incident occurred during my mid-twenties, years before I had embraced my current Square Peg status. Here's what happened:

As I was perched railside at my favorite watering hole gabbing with my bartender friend, a tall, handsome stranger sauntered in. Our eyes met. Locked. I swear angels were singing. Instead of following my usual Square Peg M.O. of giggling like a schoolgirl because a cute guy was actually checking me out, I decided to become: the Cool Chick. I coquettishly raised my drink in slo-mo, never breaking my bewitching gaze (I thought it was bewitching anyway) with this debonair stranger and proceeded to sip it. From the straw….because that’s what cool chicks do. I tilted my head ever so slightly to greet the teeny tiny cocktail straw, eyes still locked with his and…

...missed my mouth completely and instead poked the teeny tiny straw halfway up my right nostril.

Needless to say, The Cool Chick dream was crushed right then and there in that bar, as was any prospect of ever dating that guy.  Listen, I’m more than happy with Jamie – he’s the love of my life, but geez – I swear I can still feel that straw up my nose every time I think about the time I tried to live the cool chick dream.

So why I tried to resurrect that dream again, I’ll never know.

This week is Spring Break -- a “Staycation.” Georgia and I decided to head over to Palermo’s Pizzeria in the Menomonee Valley for a factory tour (and a couple of slices).  I didn’t particularly feel like making myself presentable, after all, I was on vacation. On top of that I figured, I’m 42 years old. I’m married. I have a kid. I’m tired; and who the heck am I trying to impress anyway? But rather than just unleash my…um…Natural Self on unsuspecting people, I figured I’d at least go with the bare minimum of lip gloss and mascara.  But then I had another thought: Why not bust out those false eyelashes? They looked pretty good when I wore them to the Mad Men theme party a few weeks back.

It’s not like we’re on a schedule.  Why not?

Twenty minutes later I was ready.  Jamie looked at me: “So…you’re wearing your fake lashes?” No, my lashes grew a half inch in the past twenty minutes. [cue eye-rolling and internal DUH]  Then it was Georgia’s turn: “I think you look better without those.” Oh, how sweet. I love how kids think their moms are pretty no matter what. [cue warm fuzzies, kiss her on the head]

We headed out to Palermo’s. I greeted the front desk lady and she directed us to the café where we met our tour guide. I exchanged happy glances with parents of the other waiting families – about five – that were there for the tour. Then we went on the tour which was concluded with a pizza snack served family style. We sat with four other really nice ladies and chatted a bit. With the snack concluded, Georgia and I collected our souvenir shirts and hopped in the car.

I looked in the rearview mirror to back out and caught a glimpse of something not entirely unlike this:

If you happened to be on the Palermo’s tour that day and saw the Grinning Crazy Lady with Spiders on Her Eyes, please don’t hold it against me: I momentarily thought I could live the Cool Chick dream.  But I now realize that particular dream is far better off in the trash. The same place where I left those fake eyelashes. 

The Quiet Burden

It was nine years and a few months ago, but I clearly remember telling my OB that we didn’t want to find out the sex of prenatal Georgia. We said that we didn’t have a preference. All we wanted was a healthy baby, and that was true.  But not completely.

Deep down, I wanted a boy.

Not because I envisioned a star athlete, but because girls are talkers.  Sometimes even lippy.  I just didn’t think I was up for the task.  Didn’t think I had the chops for it.  More than that, I had reflected on my experience as a boy-crazy black teen in a predominately white school:  I was “too black” for some white kids and “too white” for some of the black kids.  So, there was no dating in high school. None. It did wonders for my self-esteem. Then I remembered being on the karaoke circuit back in the day (when I could stay awake past 10:00p) and having to tell deejays that, while I liked Aretha Franklin, my style was more Patsy Cline or Grace Slick. None of this bruised me for life, but I didn’t want my kid to go through it.

I thought of all this today because I read an article about a topic – no, a person -- that’s been blowing up in the Twitterverse.

Trayvon was a 17 year-old black boy who was visiting friends in a gated community. Upon seeing Trayvon, the community’s blockwatch captain called police about a suspicious person. He was told that a squad car was on the way. In the meantime, the boy and the blockwatch guy had a fight and boy ended up dead.  According to this article, Trayvon was armed only with Skittles and iced tea. The person who thought this boy was “suspicious,” the one who shot him, was white. This shooter hasn’t been charged with anything, and it seems like he won’t be, either.  Puzzling. Sad. And conversations about racial profiling are on again in full force.

Anyway, the article made me flash back to my mom’s routine talks with my older brothers about being careful when they went out for a night on the town. I can still hear her voice: “I don’t want you to end up like Ernest Lacey or Daniel Bell” and “I don’t ever want to get that call.”  Daniel Bell was stopped by the police in the 1958. Ernest Lacy was stopped in 1981.  Both ended up dead.  My brothers would "yes-mom" her with eyes-rolled. They’d kiss her and dash out the door; and it seemed as though her teeth were clenched until she knew they were back home safely -- no matter how late.

Back in the 1980’s, having a son stopped by police and "mysteriously" die while in custody were real fears for Milwaukee mothers of black sons. By 2002, I guess I was so far removed from that history that, despite having two brothers, I had forgotten this quiet burden carried someplace in the subconscious of all moms, but especially by moms of black sons.

If I could talk to my pregnant self, the one who secretly wanted a boy for all the wrong reasons, I’d ask that naïve mom-to-be if she had the strength to navigate the sometimes scary territory that moms of black boys travel.  But I’m not sure of what her answer would even be.

It’s something she never considered…until she read about Trayvon.