Fear

Texas: An Abortion-For-Profit State

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For profit, surgical ambulatory centers.
For profit, surgical ambulatory centers.

So, HB2 passed in the Texas Senate last Friday. I did not watch the live stream or go to the Capitol. I didn’t see the point to be honest. At that point, it was over. I spent that evening feeling depressed and wondering what the realities of this bill mean for Texas women.

I think that House Bill 2 is purely a profit driven bill. It has nothing to do with life. It’s all about money, greed, and ugly power over women in desperate situations.

So, let’s take a look at this and really see what will be the outcome.

Abortions are going to become more expensive. That’s it.

I could be totally wrong, but I think it’s almost guaranteed that they will. And here’s why. The new guidelines are going to cost the clinics more. Not only are the clinics required to upgrade to become  ambulatory surgical centers, which will cost millions, but they also must give any woman having an abortion at the clinic access to a physician 24 hours a day. That means more on-call staffing at every clinic.

If the clinics don’t upgrade to become ambulatory surgical centers, what happens then? There are 422 current ambulatory surgical centers in Texas. Will they begin performing abortions? My guess is that at least some of them will. And they will cost a pretty penny.

I took a look at the list of ambulatory surgery centers in Texas. You can find the excel file here. 

Take a look at it. And something will suddenly jump out at you. They are for profit centers. I didn’t examine all 422 centers, but it jumps right out at you as you scan the file. Those two ugly words up against Planned Parenthood and any other free/low cost health clinics that are non-profits.

Also, Milla Perry Jones, Gov. Rick Perry’s sister is the vice-president of government affairs of United Surgical Partners International, based in Addison, TX.  She is also on the board of the Texas Ambulatory Surgical Center Society. Media reports that there is no direct correlation, but let’s get real, perhaps this link didn’t directly originate in the governor’s office, but we’re not stupid folks. This is huge. Government is one of the most incestuous businesses in the world.

This isn’t about life. This is about money. And it’s a disgusting way to get it, by closing access to health care for poor women and putting a price on an unplanned and unwanted pregnancy. It’s quite despicable.

Honestly, it’s even worse than fighting over ideology. At least that, I can stomach. I can understand that many people abhor the taking of a life. But in this case, Texas legislators aren’t interested in saving lives, they just want to be paid for the ones they help get rid of.

 

Run Away Brown Child: I Told My 5-Year-Old About Trayvon Martin’s Murder Because She Needs to Know

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trayvonsmamaThis morning when I awoke and read that George Zimmerman had been found not guilty of murdering Trayvon Martin I was stunned. And I decided to tell my daughter about his murder, even though she’s only 5. Even though we live in liberal, happy-go-lucky Austin, Texas. I’d been wondering when I would need to start this conversation with her, about racist acts. And suddenly, I knew. The time was right.

I wasn’t so surprised about the verdict. After all, it is Florida. (Yes I know that’s offensive, I don’t give a shit. I’m fucking pissed! Plus, I live in Texas, I hear that shit about us all the time, and you know what? They’re right.)

And after all, you know, he’s a black male so he must’ve been doing SOMETHING wrong walking around a white neighborhood. (That’s sarcasm, in case there’s a troll reading.)

As I got up and wandered into the kitchen with my squeaky 5-year-old, a child with brown skin and curly black hair. A beautiful child. An innocent child. A child that was once Trayvon Martin.

I looked at her and I didn’t so much as think, but I began to feel fear. I knew within a millisecond before I opened my mouth that I was going to start down a treacherous path with her. One that needs to start now. Because if I wait, she might not know enough in time to save her life.

I am not being dramatic. (That’s also for the trolls.) That’s the worst part of this conversation.

So, I said to her as we prepared to make banana pancakes, “Baby, I’m a little sad this morning.”

“Why mama?” as she colors in her coloring book.

So I began to tell her. I told her that a man who murdered a boy named Trayvon Martin was on trial. I told her that he got away with murdering Trayvon.

“Trayvon Martin had brown skin like you, baby. And he was walking in the dark, alone, and he was wearing a hoodie, you know a jacket with a hood? And this man thought he looked suspicious. Do you know what suspicious means? (Explain the meaning of suspicious, move on.) So this man picked a fight with Trayvon Martin and then he shot him in the chest with a gun. And Trayvon Martin died.”

trayvon-martin-father-640“I’m feeling really sad for his mama and daddy right now, because their son died last year. And today, the man who murdered him is going to walk free.”

I choked up a little as I spoke to her, surprising even myself. I am not a very openly emotional person. But as I sat down next to her, she put her arms around me and said, “Don’t worry mama, that won’t happen to me.”

God. She gets it. She fucking gets it! She cut right to the chase.

It was downright chilling.

I wondered immediately and even during the moment if I was doing the right thing by telling her about Trayvon’s murder.

I went on to tell her that I didn’t want her to worry. And that part of the reason he was killed was because he was alone and in the dark. He’s older than you, 17. And I also told her that he should have run.

He should have run.

I wish we didn’t live in a world where we need to tell our brown skinned children that they can’t stay and fight. But that they must run.

Run away. You have brown skin. Run. Away.

 

New Fears About Mothering

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Biracial child.
She's already so tentative. Or maybe it's just me.

I know that by now Trayvon Martin is yesterday’s news to many, but the fact remains, he is still dead and his parents will have to live with that for the rest of their lives.

No matter what happens, George Zimmerman killed their son. If he goes to prison or if he goes free, Trayvon’s parents will still have lost their child.

I can’t stop thinking about them. About him. But mostly about them. Because while he is gone, they must still wonder every day if they could have done something differently in their parenting that would have saved him. Maybe his father wishes he had driven Trayvon to the store that night. Maybe he wishes he would have told his son these things about being a young, black man. Or maybe he did, and he’s thinking that he missed some other teaching moments.

Now, I’m not saying that they did anything wrong. Not in the slightest. But if it were me, I’d probably obsess over these details for years.

Parents tend to believe they can safeguard their children from everything if only we tell them all the stuff they need to know.

I think this. At least, I tell myself regularly that if only I make sure to mention this thing to Annika, yes, then she will be okay. Her life will be good.

But I worry. I worry that I won’t have a clue what to tell her about race or about being a black woman in the United States. And Toyin won’t know all that stuff either, because he’s a man.

Trayvon Martin’s murder was a huge wake up call to me. After reading articles about all the things we need to tell black boys about being a black male in the U.S. I started to wonder, “But what do we tell the girls?”

I used to plan and think of all the ways I could ensure her happiness and contented life. Now, I wonder what things I need to stress to her so that she will just stay alive, and/or without suffering an assault.

Maybe it’s selfish of me. But I don’t have a boy. I have a girl. What do I tell her?

I don’t know. I have vague memories of learning such things about black people, black women, when I was young, but I have forgotten them all. They came from a place of ignorance, immaturity, and just plain stupidity. I came to learn that they were not true. I forgot them. And I am sure that with a new generation of youngsters, there are probably many things I have never even known.

I am that place of mid-life where past memories have become hazy and new information is not always so easily accessible. It’s a dangerous place to be when you are the mother of a child of color.

I need to know these things. Or at least, I need to find out how Annika can learn about them.

Annika will grow up having to learn much of these things on her own, from friends, from relatives, but not from me. Sure, I can ask around. I can assist. But I do not know what it feels like to have certain stereotypes put on me. I think that I’m not even sure what they are, and even if I do know some of them, I don’t know what it feels like to be in those shoes.

It worries me. And for the first time since becoming a parent, I feel completely absorbed with the not knowing.

Before, and especially when she an infant, I told myself there would be time. I could learn it all. But there comes a time when you are faced with the fact that there are just certain things you will not be able to protect your child from. And there are some things you will never even know.

Strangers Taking Pictures, Okay? Or Not Okay?

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I'm a stranger taking a picture of your child. Unless you know me. Then you know that I'm just strange.

Recently, I was at a coffee shop playgroup with friends and a man whom none of us knew pulled out his camera and took a picture of three of our girls.

It’s not quite as sordid as it sounds. He had a preschool aged boy with him. The boy, he said, was his son. I didn’t doubt that the kid was his son, as he said, but I didn’t get the feeling that he was regularly involved in his son’s life. Not that this particular observation really makes much of a difference to my story.

Our initial interaction with him was his son sitting down to play with our group of kids and doing something that made one of our friends cry. Not really a big deal, kids cry all the time at that age, 3-4. Our friend comforted her child and took care of the matter. The man, sat back and stared at the scene. I wondered why he didn’t even come over and ask what had happened or see if his son had done something wrong. Or even to see if his son was okay.

Then the kids all ran over to another part of the coffee shop. It’s a large warehouse-type place so all the other moms weren’t aware of what he was doing.

As I was walking in their direction, I noticed him snapping a photo. Before he could take a second picture, I went up to him and quickly said, “I don’t want you to take any pictures of my daughter.”

I wasn’t particularly friendly about it, although, I don’t think I was mean, just matter-of-fact. I hadn’t thought through how he might react, but when he got snippy with me, I was surprised.

“That’s my son right there,” he said pointing at the boy whom I had already assumed was his kid.

“I know that, but I don’t want you to take pictures of my daughter,” I repeated.

“Look,” he said, showing me the blurry photo of the three girls. During the quick flash, I couldn’t even see his son in the picture. “I can email it to you.”

“No thanks,” I responded.

“Well, I tried,” he muttered, putting his camera away.

I was kind of surprised at his reaction. Sure, he can think I’m being overprotective or bitchy, but overall, I pretty much assume that most parents will cater to the parents’ requests when it comes to their kids. As far as I’m concerned, it’s irrelevant what my reasoning is, I don’t want some stranger having access to personal photos of my daughter.

Considering that I’m a blogger and I regularly post photos of my daughter on the internet, it may seem strange.

Honestly,  it seems a bit strange, even to me, why the idea of a stranger taking a picture of my daughter bothers me. Anyone with a computer and a slight bit of technical knowledge could easily pull photos of Annika off of my blog or Facebook and have them for all eternity. I’ve considered that when posting the photos.

For me it’s about respecting the boundaries of another parent.

When I told Toyin about it, I figured he’d tell me I was overreacting. So I was surprised when he agreed with me.

“The kid could be a cover,” he said. That was a thought that hadn’t even occurred to me.

Then I asked him what he would do if that had happened to him, as the person taking a photo. He said he would immediately delete the photos in front of the mom and apologize. However, he also said he wouldn’t take a picture of a child he didn’t know in the first place.

And to clarify it wasn’t even that this person was a man.

It happened once before when Annika was barely a toddler. A woman, a grandmother even, while we were playing at a park, snapped a picture of Annika with her grandson and then offered to email it to me. She didn’t ask me first if I minded her taking the picture.

At the time, I felt uneasy about it, that a stranger was taking photos of my child. I didn’t feel comfortable enough to say anything to her though. But I filed it in the back of my head and this is the first time since that it’s come up.

So I wonder, what do you all think? Does it bother you for a stranger to take pictures of your child without your permission? In this day and age, does it even matter considering that photos of children are easily accessed all over the place?

Hey, if you like my blog, you might also like to follow my Fan page on Facebook.

Me and Gayle King on Inebriated Moms

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This morning I logged into my email and was aghast to find an email from the producer of The Gayle King Show. She wanted to know if I would be interested in being interviewed for a segment on tomorrow’s show about moms who drink wine or smoke marijuana to relax.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

That was pretty much my reaction.

Then I started to breathe again.

Up front I just want to say that I don’t smoke pot. Now. I have though, in the past. Not since becoming a mom, but I can understand why some moms do.

I do drink alcohol. But not to excess anymore, and have written about it, which is why I got the email.

Alas, after about an hour she reported back to me that they had found an in-studio guest so I would not be needed. But dang, that was exciting even if only for a few minutes. I was going to be on national television!

Even so, the topic is intriguing to me and before my interview was squashed, I had already begun to think about what I would say.

Mothering is stressful and yet, our society and/or the people in our lives don’t often acknowledge the real and often high stressors of being a mother, stay-at-home or otherwise. Additionally, we live in a society that approves of people using alcohol to relax, so why are moms given a double standard? So, it’s okay to use booze to chill out or have a good time before you’re a mom, but once you become a mom and encounter the most stressful time of your life, it’s not okay?

This the article that sparked (pun intended) the idea for the segment on the show.

Apparently pot smoking moms are on the upswing in New York.  However, I’d say that for the most part, it’s more likely that moms are drinking alcohol than lighting up joints every night.

I know lots of moms who have no qualms mentioning that they had a few drinks the night before. The use of alcohol to unwind is discussed in mom circles almost as casually these days, as it might have been back in our college days.


We Need Something to Help Us Unwind From a Stressful Job

Moms are still people. We, as a society, condone the use of alcohol to unwind, for most adults. The commercials say to, “Drink responsibly.” In general, most moms I know are some of most responsible people I’ve ever met. Shouldn’t they be allowed to make the choice to drink or smoke responsibly?

I’m conflicted on the pot argument since it’s illegal, if you smoke it, your children are likely to figure that out eventually. It sends a poor message to your kids that you can do something responsibly that is illegal.

But on the other hand, my pre-motherhood thoughts on the matter are that marijuana should be legal.

I think that marijuana is much less hard on your body and makes for less uninhibited behavior. Pot just mellows you out. You rarely do things while high that you wouldn’t do sober, your reactions are just slower. I have zero data to back this up, but I’d say that marijuana is probably not much more dangerous than many legal drugs. Hell, it’s probably way less dangerous than a lot of legal drugs.

Alcohol, on the other hand, if consumed irresponsibly can make you do things that you regret. Not that I think moms who are having a glass of wine in the evening after their kids are in bed are making regrettable choices while inebriated. At worst, they might start up arguments with their spouse that they regret in the morning. At best, they might say things on Facebook that they wish they hadn’t. To me, these are the worst sins that typical moms who are, in general, being good and responsible moms day-to-day.


The Reason For Alcohol and Drug Use

Fact: Mothering is stressful. Not only is it stressful, it often goes unacknowledged by our partners and families, especially in this day and age.

The onus for our children’s well-being weighs heavily on the mom side.

We get all the blame and none of the praise.

We are at fault if they are too skinny or too fat; if they are developmentally slow; if they are obnoxious; if they pick their nose in public; if they use swear words; if they are shy and clingy; if they are too outgoing; if they run away; if they are rude; if they are weird; if they are hyperactive; if they have mental disease; if they take too long to potty train; if they are picky eaters. If they eat too much. If they fight with their friends.

On the other hand, if they are super smart, or polite, or developmentally early, well, that’s just genetics.

And dads, well, they get high fives left and right just for hanging out with their kids.

I don’t know how many times I’ve been told how astounding Toyin is because he was willing to move to Austin and be a dad to his kid. Nobody’s ever congratulated me for not having an abortion or giving Annika up for adoption. (Not that either of those was ever on the table.)

The obvious thing with moms and alcohol and/or marijuana is that it’s one of the few tools that we have to relax. Sure, eat right, exercise, meditate, read a book, spend time with friends, go see a movie. It’s easy to tell moms to go do that stuff instead of having a glass of wine.

But who the hell hast the time to do all that shit on a regular basis when we are busy making sure our kids aren’t too fat or too skinny; they aren’t developmentally slow or obnoxious. That they aren’t picking their nose in public or using swear words. Figuring out why they are too shy and clingy. Making sure they become independent, all the while, ensuring that their needs are met. Teaching them manners; figuring out why they are weird or hyperactive. Taking them to appointments to cure their mental disease. Potty training and making special food for picky eaters, controlling sugar and fat intake all the while negotiating arguments with their friends.

Societal Woes

This whole thing is a non-issue. I highly doubt that there’s many more people getting high or drinking than before. Maybe because it’s becoming legalized in various areas for medical purposes, the stigma is slowly lifting. Maybe we, as a society, are just becoming less puritanical.

Truth of the matter is, moms are people. We have a really fucking stressful job. And for the most part, it’s not our only job. And even the moms who don’t have a job outside of being a mom, still have to do all the other stuff that comes with running a household, like cooking, grocery shopping, taxes, bill payments, cleaning, etc.

I know, I know. People are always saying stuff like, “Well, people who don’t have kids have to do that stuff too.”

Yes, but people who don’t have kids don’t have to cook dinner and run back to wipe someone else’s ass while the chicken is cooking. They don’t have to scrape Playdough off the carpet, or worse, human feces. People without kids don’t spend half of their time cleaning up the house only to turn around and find that the majority of their work was undone when they were in the bathroom. People without kids don’t have to argue with another human being to get them to do something that is for the benefit of the OTHER person. Example: one of my mama friends recently made the observation that she was incredulous that she has to cajole her 3-year-old into getting ready to head out the door to go swimming, which he says he wants to do.

It’s fucking exhausting. Just thinking about it all, I need a drink.

And it starts all over again tomorrow. Bottoms up.

Pukity, puke, puke, puke

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After mentioning twice in the last two weeks that I recently got vomited on, it made me remember the last (and first) time I was vomited on, which was in fifth grade.

I was standing in line behind this kid, I’ll call him Jeff — because that was his name — when he turned around, and hurled. Right all over my leg.

Of course, everyone in our class howled and shrieked about how gross I was. Somehow I was the one implicated as being the disgusting one, even though my only sin was standing near the puker. Ah, the joys of public school. And 10-year-olds.

Other than having thrown up on me, this kid’s only other sin was wearing one of those T-shirts that looked like a tuxedo shirt, all the time. He wore that damn shirt regularly until like eighth grade. I know he did because I can’t even remember all my elementary school teachers’ names, but I can still picture him in that T-shirt.

That is completely irrelevant to the story. Except for the fact that when I think of that day, I picture him in the shirt. And it makes me want to puke.

The worst part of that day was, believe it or not, not having been vomited on.

Let me break it down for you.

Exhibit A: I was wearing my favorite red corduroys with my favorite pair of tennis shoes.

Exhibit B: My mother was called so that she could bring me some fresh clothing to put on.

By the time she got to school, my pants had been rinsed out and dried. I don’t remember the state of my shoes. But when I looked inside the bag she had brought and saw the clothing, I cringed. I stood in the bathroom stall trying to decide which was worse. Wearing clothes that had been puked on and being made fun of, again for being gross. Or putting on the clothes my mother had brought, which were the worst possible combination she could have put together.

And being made fun of for being a huge dork.

I knew that I couldn’t keep those clothes on. I would have to explain why I had not changed, thus drawing attention to the clothes and then be mocked for wearing puked on clothing, and still being a huge dork.

It was most definitely, a lose, lose situation.

Mortified, I changed my clothing, dreading the certain second round of humiliation I would have to endure that day.

Exhibit C: I wore high waters and beaded moccasins for the rest of the day.

If anything, this memory serves as a reminder that I should:

A) Never buy shoes for my daughter without her approval once she hits a certain age.

And B) Always make sure that the clothing in her drawers fits her.

The end.

Sometimes the Universe Gives Very Clear Signs

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Earlier this week I noticed this on my refrigerator:

I found it amusing and wondered if possibly my ex-husband had died and come back to haunt me. He used to have a Zippo lighter with this exact engraving on it. It was his basic life philosophy.

Now, I’m not exactly a glass half-full kind of gal. I have my moments when I am positive and upbeat, but in general, my go-to attitude is gloom and doom with occasional sparks of sunshine. I have to remind myself all the time that life doesn’t have to suck. That life can be joyful and happy. That we don’t “have” to do anything we don’t really want to. We have choices. We are the masters of our own destiny.

But sometimes karma just gives you a little kick in the ass and gives you a clear cut sign that you are not always in control.

A few days after I noticed this cosmic giving of the finger, Annika got sicker than she’s ever gotten before in her life. I had a nasty philosophical parenting/life disagreement with Toyin.

And then last night I noticed that someone had stolen the painted rocks Annika and I had put in front of our door in our little “rock garden.”

I had painted the word “Happiness” on one of them, as a an affirmation to my Happiness Project.

Someone stole my happiness. Ain’t that a bitch.

Well, F.U. too, world.

Sing a song of swastikas

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Two days before Christmas I came home one afternoon to find a swastika drawn on the small wooden table next to my front door. It had been drawn in yellow chalk, the same chalk I keep in a box on that table for Annika to draw on the concrete with.

Completely out of character, I didn’t even contemplate the drawing, but quickly ran inside to get a sponge and wipe it clean. I told myself that it was just some punk kids. Surely it didn’t mean anything. I am surprised at myself that I didn’t stop to take a picture.

As a writer, I document things. Even during events where my mind should be elsewhere, I will stop to think about how I would describe the scene. I’ve done this during mind-blowing sex. I did it during labor. I even took a picture of the placenta after Annika was born.

But anyway, yeah, somebody drew a swastika on my table with my 2-year-old’s chalk that we use to draw hopscotch and hearts on the cement with.

With last minute preparations before the holiday, I didn’t give it another thought until it just popped out of my mouth the next day as I found myself mentioning it to Toyin. He agreed that it was probably just stupid kids being mean.

Then Christmas night as Annika sat in the bathtub, playing with her new Elmo and Ernie submarine toy, it hit me. Nazis hate mixing of the races. I began to wonder, was the swastika meant to send a message? Surely not, I told myself. It was just kids.

That swastika may or may not have meant anything. But the idea of it meaning something hateful eroded a tiny hole in my feeling of safety in the world. It’s a feeling I’ve never really felt, as a white person.

I waited so long to post this because I didn’t want it to be this overblown thing or sound like I’m freaked out and scared for my life. I am not.

I have no idea what it meant or who did it. But what I thought was important to share was the uncertainty it brought. It was not an overt threat. Nothing has happened since then, and I don’t expect it to. But what I thought was important to share was the feeling of uncertainty about the possibility that there is someone nearby who might hate me simply for what I, and my daughter, look like together. That’s something, like I said before, and bears repeating, that I’ve never felt as a white person.

Live and left live, a look back at my early days of parenting

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I have been scrolling through some of my old posts from when I began blogging oh so long ago, back in 2009, and I thought it would be fun to re-post this one since I think all of three people read it.

I had forgotten how unbelievably concerned I was over this, which just goes to show you how anal new mothers can be. I’m sure I will look back in a few years on some of my recent posts and laugh at myself then too.

It has recently come to light in my own head that I am way more controlling and a super tight ass than I have let myself believe. In my head I am pretty laid back, non-judgmental, open-minded, yada, yada, yada.

Since becoming a mother, I have been so intent on ensuring a happy and carefree childhood for Annika I have taken over the job of controlling everything around her and forgotten that I am not the only parent here.

Last week Toyin and I began having this same old argument we’ve been having on and off for some months. I don’t even remember when it started. But a while after Annika was born Toyin mentioned something about how he hoped Annika would be right-handed. Not only did he hope this, but he intended to go about “encouraging” her to be right-handed because in some cultures, specifically Nigerian culture, left-handededness is seen as a negative trait.

Now, I am left-handed, a huge minority in the world, to be left-handed, and even more of a minority to be a left-handed female.

Toyin is right-handed.

It pissed me off royally that Toyin would try to sway her handedness. I worried that if he was successful she might have learning difficulties. And even more so, I guess there is a little part of me that hopes she will be left-handed because I think being a lefty is just the bees knees.

But Toyin’s take on it is different. He says that we should encourage her to be right-handed because it could potentially ease some cultural divides. He says that Annika already has a lot of strikes against her being a Black woman and all, so we should try to ease the things that we can.

At first I tried to reason with him by telling him he was being stupid. He refused to see my point.

Then I tried to use reverse psychology on him.

The conversation went something like this. (I took some creative license with the paraphrasing.)

Me: “So you want to sway Annika to be right-handed by trying to get her to use her right hand more?”

Him: “Yes, I’ll encourage her. I’m not going to try to force it. But I’ve done some research on this. Handedness is mostly genetics, but it’s partially environmental. I think that it would make life easier on her, especially in Nigerian culture since it is still seen as rude or bad luck to use the left hand. Did you know that in some cultures they will throw you out of their house if you try to shake hands using your left hand?”

Me: “Oh yeah? Well if you do that, I’m going to start straightening her hair! Maybe I’ll even bleach her skin!”

Him: “You aren’t going to do that. Be reasonable.”

Me: “Go fuck yourself!”

After that particularly enlightening conversation I started doing some research, which mostly consisted of me reading the Wikipedia page on left-handedness.

Here’s some of the information that struck me as the most interesting.

It is considered rude in Semitic cultures to shake with the left hand. In Muslim and Indian culture the left hand is traditionally used to clean oneself after defecating. In Christianity the left hand is used as a metaphor to shame society.

The root of the word sinister originally meant left, but eventually was changed to mean evil.

Left is often used to describe awkwardness, example: two left feet. In Mandarin, left means improper.

The word ambidextrous comes from the root word, dexter, which, ironically, means right.

Then after I learned everything I never wanted to know about being left-handed, I started writing this post, determined to find some sort of meaning in this potentially useless and time-consuming-waste-of-space argument.

It took me a couple of days, then I found the significance of this argument.

I started out by telling Toyin that he should just live and let live. Then I realized that I was not doing that.

I told him that he needed to leave it alone and let Annika be who she is going to be.

But as much as I’d like Annika to turn out to be a carbon copy of me and wonderfulness that is ME, she is not just my daughter. Toyin is her dad and that means he will have just as much influence on her life as I do.

Freaky.

Setting intentions can make this ordinary life beautiful

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Every single choice we make affects our lives for the long-term. This is a lesson that has been hard for me to grasp. I’m a procrastinator. I’ve spent much of my life thinking of the someday. Well, someday never happens unless you make a choice. Someday isn’t going to just happen.

We can make our lives ordinary by settling. Or we can make our lives beautiful, by setting our intentions toward our life goals.

Let me explain.

I had a recent stint as an Avon lady. Stint is probably over-selling it a tad. I signed up, avoided it for a month and a half. Went to two training session where the leader of the group pronounced jewelry as jewrree. Then I bought several bottles of lotion, shower gel, nail polish, and bubble bath, thinking I’d just sell it out and about.

Then I decided to quit.

Not because there’s anything wrong with selling Avon. Not at all. I signed up because a close friend of mine had signed up to do it and for a brief moment, it seemed like a good idea. I figured it’d be easy. I mean, who can’t sell lotion and shit? Right?

Ummm, me.

For those of you who know me in real life, or if you’ve been reading my blog for very long, you’re probably having quite a chuckle right now. That’s okay. Go ahead. When I announced it to a group of my friends, they laughed. I laughed along with them. I mean, what the fuck? Me, selling fucking Avon? It’s wrong on so many levels. Not that I can’t sell. I can. But I can’t do it unless I believe in what I’m selling. And ladies, I just can’t sell wrinkle filler. Can’t do it. Plus, this shit’s priced higher than I would personally pay for that kind of stuff. I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do with these $8 bottles of lotion. I guess everyone knows what they’re getting for Christmas.

The reason I’m telling y’all about this is because it totally fits with last Sunday’s talk at my Buddhist program at Miira Suniita. The group leader spoke about the beauty of preciousness of ordinary life.

She talked about how our intentions are all we need to ensure that our lives reflect our goals.

The fact is that selling Avon doesn’t reflect any part of my life goals and it is a poor intention for me.

In order to live your life every day, the way you want, you set your intentions. She suggested setting weekly intentions. And even intentions for your sleep, right before you go to bed.

So that’s what I did this week. I made a list of all concrete things I’d need to do this week to set me down a path of goals that have been hovering around my brain for months, years, hell, some of them, all my life. I set intentions in my head for having good sleep and productive dreams.

Last Sunday, our group leader talked about how powerful our brains are, we imagine our lives. She said how very important it is to maintain a positive mind, because a positive mind will lead us down the path toward our intentions. A negative mind is something to be avoided.

I couldn’t agree more. I’ve spent way too many years allowing the negative thoughts to control my life. Thoughts like, “Oh, it sure would be nice to have that, but I can’t afford it.” Or, “Well, I’d love to do that, but it would be too hard.” Then I forget it. It’s done. See how a negative mind shuts down dreams?

Not trying is worse than trying and failing. Because at least if you try and fail, you’ve learned something.

As she spoke I thought about how easy it is to shut down my own dreams and wishes with one fell swoop. I wondered if I allowed myself to have that dream. To say, “It sure would be nice to have that thing that I want. I can’t afford it right now. But someday, maybe I will.” Or even better, “It sure would be nice to do that thing, It’s going to be hard, but I wonder what I would need to do to make it happen.”

Because really, our lives are pretty damn amazing. We have everything we need. No matter where we live or how much money we have in the bank. We live in a free country, where we have so much power. We have control of our government (in theory). We have power as consumers. We have free speech. We have freedom of religion. We have an almost absurd amount of choices in what we eat, drink, wear, and do. We can change our lives without any interference from anyone.

I think that in itself can be a problem. When you have an infinity of choices, it can be paralyzing. So much so that we often give ourselves excuses of why we can’t do it, simply so we won’t have to make any decisions.

Decision making is hard. It paralyzes me over and over. All the what ifs get in the way of making clear choices.

But what ifs aren’t concrete. They aren’t bold statements. They are possibilities. And possibilities aren’t that great unless you make a choice and move forward into a clear path.

I’ve settled for mediocrity too many times because I was afraid of the “bad” what ifs. Taken jobs I really didn’t want because I thought it was all I could get and I was afraid of getting behind on bills. So, I got what I intended. I set my intentions. I just didn’t realize what I was doing. I thought I had time to change. I thought I had time to make things different. I was just settling, “for now.”

But what I was really doing was making habits for myself. Steering myself away from rejection. Playing it safe.

When I signed up to sell Avon, it was just another way of avoiding what I really want. Because it’s scary, to define yourself with what you really want in life. Because if you fail, then you’ve lost your dream. Failure to sell Avon isn’t taking a chance. Because I can blame the product, or the lack of availability of customers. Or a poor economy. It was a safe choice straight into failure.

What I really want in life is to make it as a writer. To get paid to write. And I don’t want to just settle for writing mediocre mass-produced crap. I want to write things that really make a difference to people when they read it. I want to step boldly into new territory, and make possibilities spring to life. I want to give gifts to world with my writing.

And hell, if I lose my dream. Maybe I’ll find another one. Life is full of choices. Because, as cliche as it is, if you don’t try. You’ll never know what could have happened.

In the mean time, while I come up with world changing topics to write about, I’m offloading some overpriced lotion and shower gel. Let me know if you want some. (See? Just can’t do it.)