What am I Paying You For?

Dr. Mama Esq.4 Comments

You place your children in their care for more than 8 hours a day. You trust them with your most precious possession; those little bodies that you nurtured and grew inside of you for nine months; or else waited patiently for months, maybe years to become their mama. Many of you came out of the workforce, or chose occupations so that you could avoid having to give them your children. I’ve heard plenty of mamas say, “I didn’t want a day care raising my kids.”

But for the rest of us, who by necessity, or by choice (it’s both for me), day care, nursery school, preschool, whatever you want to call it does play a large role in raising our children. We go to great strides to pick out the best ones. When they were younger, I wanted a place were they would be loved all over and safe. Just safe. They were with a wonderful Ghanaian woman who I still keep in contact with who had a family day care. But the drive was 20 minutes both ways, and when I started the law school portion of my program, and my fibromyalgia got bad, I couldn’t do the drive anymore.

So then God sent us “GaGa,” one of my best friend’s mother, who came over every day and was more like a grandmother than a nanny. And Big A (my almost 5 year old) went to a very reputable half-day laboratory preschool twice a week that cost as much as we paid our Ghanaian care provider for full time care. But everyone said how great it was. And it was.

Big A’s vocabulary tripled that year. He became so independent. I loved the way he was growing. Little A (my three year old) was always at home with GaGa, who loved her to pieces, and had known her since she was a baby. I was comfortable with the care my children were receiving – most of the time, they’d been with black women who were like family. If there was a disciplinary issue, they handled it. If there was an eating issue, they handled it. We were just on the same page. (Except when the Ghanaian was feeding Little A Vienna Sausages, canned meat product – I did have an issue with that.) Big A was just starting to venture into the “real” world, and he was doing great in it.

Fast forward to this year. The real world is hitting my kids like a wall of bricks. They have three care providers on a daily basis: one preschool in the morning, a babysitter that gives them lunch, and another preschool in the afternoon. Why? The short answer is GaGa is moving; the afternoon preschool is the “great” one that Big A started in two years ago and it just stuck; but it’s only half day so I needed to put them in something in the morning hence the other preschool; but there’s a 45 minute gap that neither school will allow the children to eat lunch at so hence the mid-day babysitter. *Sigh.*

And while the schedule isn’t so bad, as the children seem well adjusted to it, it’s more the, how do I say…issues that have been popping up that I’m not quite sure how to deal with. And this has been an issue for me in all service oriented things, not just day care. The question is this:

How do I tell someone that I’m paying, but who is performing really an invaluable service for me, that I’m not really appreciative of the way they are treating/talking to/assessing/simply coming at me with craziness and nonsense?

Case in point: A few days ago, we got a report that the Big A was eating too much snack at school. *Pause* *Blink* What? What do you mean he’s eating too much snack? My first thought was this: although we do get a generous scholarship, the Big A’s tuition is $11,000 a year, not including the summer. Yes, you read that correctly: $11K. And we bring snack everyday to share with the other children. Sooooooo….to me, he can eat as much snack as he wants! For $11K a year, y’all should be servin’ a meal!

And what added insult to injury, was not just that he’s eating too much, it was that he was “taking more than his fair share.”

He’s 4. (and three-quarters, to have him tell it. But you get what I’m saying.) Does he even have a concept of his “fair share”? Are are they just saying my boy is greedy?

And I can imagine it – him sitting there, eyes big at the rice cakes and bananas, oranges and string cheese. I know my child; he’s stuffing it all in his mouth like he doesn’t get fed at home….he’s coughing and gagging because he’s eating too fast…and he’s hungry because he didn’t eat his lunch, b/c he’s waiting for the snacks…yeah, all that.

And now I’m just mad. Mad because they are attributing these grown up concepts to my child who is just hungry. And mad because I also feel like this is a waste of my time, time that I’m paying them for. Is this really a parental problem that they should be bringing to me, with my $11K on the line? For $11K, y’all can’t handle that? (And again, let me say, we don’t pay $11K, due to generous donors and the scholarship fund. But that’s neither here nor there. We still pay a lot. And the teachers don’t know how much we pay.)

I just feel like we pay too much to have to deal with all this little stuff at the day care. I know that I am still raising my kids, even though they are at day care, but in all honesty, I’m paying for their help.  If they are coming to me to report every time the Big A eats too much snack – what do they expect me to do? I know some parents would come during snack time and sit with their child and see what’s going on – I’m not doing that.

The Big A and I talked about it, mostly to say that I was going to tell the teachers that he had to eat whatever was left in his lunchbox before he could have any snack. Easy. Case closed.

And you know what? He ate his entire lunch. I didn’t even ask them about snack today I was so annoyed, and figured that they were bold enough to tell us once, they’d be bold enough to say it again. But what are you going to do? I guess the lesson is when you ask for help, you can’t complain about the form in which it comes.

7:11 Sunday @ Library

Dr. Mama Esq.4 Comments

7:11 pm Pacific Time. 2nd floor Stanford Law Library. 3rd row carrel.

It’s packed in here. Exams start tomorrow. I’ve been here since 1:30, taking a 4 hour practice exam. It was hard – the first question said it would only take 60 minutes, but it took me 90. That was evil. Stressful. I’m done. No more. I know what I know.

Two weeks ago I told you I was going to try to kill my superwoman. I don’t know how I did because the time has just moved so fast that two weeks ago already feels like tomorrow. It’s finals time. Finals suck.

Did I offend you with that post? I worry that I did but I hope I didn’t. I really wasn’t trying to say how great I was, although I suppose it came off that way. We all fall down. I’m really trying to become “thoroughly unimpressed with myself.” Seriously. Nothing I do or am is because of anything I’ve done…I know that. I was more trying to make a point about how not loving me, taking care of me, cherishing me, simply being….me is killing me as I love, care, cherish everyone else because I wanted to impress you. You the world. How foolish of me.

Do you get it? I shouldn’t care, but I do.

Friday at church a woman had a CD release concert. She has a voice of an (alto) angel. I cried so hard that night. I laid it all out on that altar. I just fell on my knees and bowed my head and surrendered. All I have, everything I am, I laid it down. It felt like hours, but was only minutes, but I prayed for God’s will. And I prayed that his will not be my current circumstances. I killed my superwoman, but I haven’t replaced her with anything yet. I’m waiting, cause I don’t want just any ole body to show up, a lesser version of her, a mini-me.

I’m surrendered. I’m waiting for the Spirit to replace that Superwoman with an anointed version, an upgrade, LaToya 2.0. And while religion may be the opiate of the masses and was used to enslave my ancestors, I’m not trying to be trite when I say I don’t care. I do, because I’m there, I’m suffering, and I’m holding on to it so that I don’t fall. And I’m broken, in a million little pieces, but I’m here.

I can understand. I can understand when it feels like you have nothing left to live for how that praise song gets in you and holds you up just until you regain your strength to make it through the day. I can understand how just repeating the mantra of “Jesus” can get you up in the morning, into the shower, on with your clothes and able to face the day with a strength you feel in your bones is not your own and you are so thankful for it. I can understand being afraid of what’s before you and not knowing what’s going to happen but being comforted by the feeling that the Spirit has your back so worry can take a back seat. I know.

For the first time in my life, I’ve gone a year without a major depressive episode. Some anxiety, but that’s under control. A door closed, gently, cautiously. But now I’m having trouble eating. One door closes, another opens. I had pink eye and my eye hurts. One door closes, another opens. One of my best friends is graduating and leaving. Open. Family is coming for the holidays. Open. My dissertation proposal needs to be defended. Open. I’m interviewing for an internship. Open. I need to register for kindergarten. Open. I want to start them in gymnastics. Open. They need to go to the dentist. Open. So many open doors that I want to slam shut.

SLAM SHUT.

Deep breath returns me back to here and now. Leaving here now, I need to go to the supermarket. Hubby didn’t buy anything to drink when he went to the market earlier, and I’m growing kefir grains that need milk. Have a blessed week.

Keep A Child Alive

Benee1 Comment

Today is World AIDS Day

It is a day devoted to raising awareness for the global HIV/AIDS epidemic. It is a day when we reflect on those who have died and those who live with this virus and this disease. It is a day or sorrow for many… as is every day for those suffering with the virus.

It is a day most of us should be grateful… as most of us do not have children who are infected with HIV. Most of us do not have HIV/AIDS so we don’t worry about who will care for our children when we are gone. Most of us don’t even know someone up close and personally who lives with the virus. We should be grateful to be so unaffected.

At the same time, we cannot forget all of the mothers around the globe who ARE affected and infected. We cannot forget the 14.2 million children who have been made orphans by HIV/AIDS. We cannot forget the mothers ravaged by depression because they birthed HIV+ children. We cannot forget the efforts made by a few to curb the spread of HIV/AIDS with a few simple pills a day.

We cannot forget every mother around the world who wants nothing more than what most of us have: happy, healthy, disease-free children.

I have HIV+ friends. I’ve lost HIV+ loved ones. I’ve worked with HIV+ clientele, also mentally ill and/or homeless. I watched my own mother become heavily involved in AIDS organization after she lost her best friend in the 80s. Her work inspired me as I hope to inspire my son. I want him to be compassionate to the plight of other children. I want him to grow up with a passion in him to DO something. My son is among a generation born with no knowledge of a time without AIDS.

I can only hope his generation puts an end to it.

http://keepachildalive.org/

 

On Breast Ironing, Date Rape, and other Global Phenomena

ORJ6 Comments

I recently read an article about breast ironing, a practice that is increasingly common in Cameroon.  Mothers there, concerned about the early sexual maturity of their daughters, use hot stones to compress the developing breast tissue of their daughters, hoping to curb breast growth and, thereby, the attractiveness of their young girls to men who might impregnate them.  Video accompanying the article featured a girl crying and running away from her mother, who had ironed her breasts before.   At best, the practice physically violates.  At worst, it results in serious mental and physical damage, ranging from permanent physical deformities and burns to negative body image and unhealthy attitudes about sex and sexuality.   Breast ironing, and other practices like it, doesn’t teach girls agency, failing as it does to acknowledge that girls should be taught to make their own decisions about their bodies and exercise choice over whether to engage in sexual activity.  Moreover, breast ironing shames and blames girls for their sexuality, even as it fails to hold men and boys responsible for their role in premature sex and teenage pregnancy.

It’s easy to dismiss the practice as the product of a culturally backward society; not the type of thing that would be done in a “civilized” Western society.  And yet, the themes that underlie the practice in Cameroon are alive and well in American culture.  What else but a refusal to recognize female agency in sexual encounters informs the myopic “no sex before marriage” ethos in the United States, which, when applied under a double-standard—as is often the case, to the disadvantage of young girls—is not only ineffective (thank you, Bristol Palin) but also fails to teach girls how to either make well-informed decisions about their bodies or regulate the physical interactions that can lead to sex?

What else but a cultural exemption for men from sexual responsibility could be informing the lectures given to female college freshmen about how to prevent sexual assault: (1) never leave your drink unattended; (2) do not drink excessively in the company of men; (3) always go out in groups with other females, etc.  Where, in all of this, is the list for young college men?: (1) do not put something in somebody else’s drink, ever; (2) do not mix sexual encounters with alcohol; (3) if there is any confusion at all as to consent, cease all sexual activity immediately.  Lest we be fooled into thinking that men already know this, the evening news regularly reminds us that even grown-ass American males do not understand that coercive circumstances should never serve as the backdrop for sexual engagement (thank you, Ben Roethlisberger).

In the end, it is women and girls who are left suffering the consequences of cultural norms that frame sex as not only strictly for male pleasure, but also exclusively initiated at the behest of men, while placing responsibility for the sometimes negative consequences of sex strictly with females.  Unfortunately, the effects of these norms go beyond mere unplanned pregnancy, extending into abused and shattered female minds and bodies, at home and all around the world.

A Lesson in Responsibility

carolynedgar1 Comment

My daughter has been fiercely independent, literally from birth.  We first clashed when she was a day old.  She refused to nurse.  She was physically capable of nursing, she just wasn’t interested in working that hard for food. 

The lactation consultant told me to express a drop or two of milk on my nipple.  “The baby will smell the milk and be interested in taking the nipple,” she said. 

I tried it.  My day-old daughter opened her eyes (I swear she gave me the side eye), stuck out her tongue, licked the milk off, and closed her eyes again.  The attitude was palpable.  I didn’t know until that moment that it was possible to want to call a day-old infant a name that begins with the letter “b.”

I should have known right there that I was in for a rocky ride with this one.

My longstanding battle with my daughter over her desire for independence recently came to a head over the New York City public high school application process this year.  She had very firm ideas about what type of school she did and didn’t want to go to.  She wanted to make the final decision.

I was impressed by the level of her research about not only the specialized high schools, but other NYC public school options.  I decided to let her run with it.

My daughter looked up the open house schedules and signed up for the ones that interested her.  She found out about the admissions process for the specialized high schools and the other schools.  Over dinner one night, she gave me a very astute and perceptive breakdown of the differences among the schools that interested her.  She was very clear about her values and needs.

For my part, I wasn’t completely hands-off.  I asked around about the leading prep courses for the Specialized High School Admissions Test (SHSAT), the test that determines whether or not a student gains admission to one of eight high schools designated as “specialized high schools” by the New York City Department of Education (a ninth specialized school, LaGuardia, bases admission in part on student auditions, as well as grades and test scores).  I signed her up for the prep course that was said to be the best.  I attended some of the open houses with her (but not all).  I solicited feedback from alumni of the schools that were top on her list.  But mostly, this was her show.

Things seemed to be going well.  She ranked her school choices.  She took the SHSAT.  She signed up to interview with her top alternate school choices.

And then the wheels fell off.

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter asked me if I’d received an email with her interview date for one of her top ranked schools.  I checked my inbox and my spam folder.  I did not.

I called the school.  They had no record of her having completed an application.  She swore she did.  I asked her if she printed out either the application she completed, or the confirmation.  She did not.  It was our word against theirs.

She was devastated.  And I felt like the world’s worst mother.

I instantly thought of all the “should’ves”:  I should have done the online application, or stood over her shoulder while she did it.  I should have reminded her to print the confirmation.  I should have been more engaged in the process.

When I was in 8th grade, I knew, like my daughter, what high school I wanted to go to.  I got my mother to sign me up for the admissions test, I took it, and I got in.  I mostly did it without her help. 

But that was Detroit, not New York City, with its complicated system that makes applying to college look easy.  I never should have let her take this on, I told myself.  

For my daughter’s part, it was a lesson in learning what she could not handle.  Because ultimately, all she could do is beg me to “fix it, Mom!  Make them let me interview!”

I couldn’t promise her an interview.  I could only promise to try.  I spoke to a friendly person in the school’s admissions office, who gave me an email address to send a note to, explaining our situation.  I sent a follow-up email with the additional information they requested.  And I crossed my fingers, because there wasn’t much else I could do.  Not like I’m close friends with Mayor Bloomberg or Chancellor Joel Klein.

And then, miraculously, at the end of last week, I received an email with my daughter’s interview date. 

I don’t know if I actually “fixed” anything.  Maybe it was prayers answered.  Maybe it was leprechauns.  I have no idea.  I suspect they double-checked and found her application after all.  I’m just glad it worked out.

My daughter and I both learned valuable lessons in responsibility over this situation.  She did a great job, no question.  Her lesson was learning how much is too much for her to handle on her own. 

My lesson was that, even if I give her the freedom to make decisions, I still have to supervise and monitor the process closely so it doesn’t go off track.

Killing My Superwoman…I think

Dr. Mama Esq.3 Comments

I’m a Superwoman. But I don’t want to be.

But maybe I do.

The Superwoman concept, as applied to Black women, is often called a myth. As in it’s not really true. No one can do it all, really, people say. I beg to differ.

I am raising two children under the age of 5. Two boisterous, active, strong-willed, opinionated, brown beauties. I’m up at 6:30 am, with my kids doing dressing, breakfast, brushing of teeth, putting on of jackets, and the long, slow bike ride to day care every morning. I co-op at the day care at least once a week, three hour shifts taking care of not only my kids, but other peoples’ 3-5 year-olds as well. I don’t do it alone, I have the support of my wonderful husband, but we all know – in the early years, mommyhood is a 24-hour job.

I am a 4th year sociology PhD student and a law student. I am currently writing my dissertation proposal. When I defend it in January, I will be ABD. I don’t technically have to defend until May 2012, but my project requires collecting my own data over time, so defending early is necessary. I’m also taking law classes, at least two each quarter, six a year. Exams start next week. I do pro-bono work too, helping homeless people with disabilities get social security benefits.

Are you impressed yet?

I’m such a Superwoman, I simply have no time to take care of myself. Yoga? Meditation? Girl, by the end of the day, I am dog-tired, with all that mothering and student-ing I do all day. Eating better? Did I tell you about my stomach issues? Going to bed at a reasonable hour? But then how would I get to get in my twitter and facebook and nytimes and, my god, my TELEVISION time?

And furthermore, many of my needs are met by being a Superwoman. You are impressed, and I like impressing you. (Don’t act like you’re not.) You ask me, “how do you do it all?” and I can say, “I don’t know…” when I do know. It really feeds my ego. When I drop a ball, or a few, I have ready made excuses. Nothing is really ever my fault. I can fall apart and go to bed at 4pm and everyone understands. Or at least they should. And if they don’t understand, well, fuck ’em. I don’t care. (sniff.)

Don’t you see I need to be a Superwoman? I love Her.

She’s a superhero. For everyone.

Except me.

I have fibromyalgia, aches and pains over my entire body. And bipolar II, which is mostly depression in my case, with some highly damaging hypomanic episodes interspersed. I checked myself in the hospital 2 years ago. I have anxiety that grips my chest and makes me think I’m going to die. I have gastroparisis, where my stomach doesn’t empty in a normal way. It means I’m nauseous a lot, and have developed a fear of eating a lot of foods. I have to eat low fiber and low fat. That means I don’t eat a lot different foods. I have an irritable bladder, which means I have to pee constantly and it hurts, but I’m supposed to hold it to retrain my bladder. And I recently found out I have a virus that’s been suppressed for years but my immune system is weak so now its reared its ugly head.

My body is shutting down, saying its taking a break, forcing a time-out whether I want it or not. My Superwoman is killing me, from the inside out.

What will it take for me to kill my Superwoman, before She kills me? Obviously the fear of changing is greater than the pleasure derived from staying the same, even given the pain.

I want to change, be healthy, be the woman I urge other women to be. But if I kill Her, my Superwoman, who will I be?

Will you still be impressed with me?

Should I even care?

Imperfect

Benee9 Comments

We always knew something wasn’t quite right.

Every child has their quirks and growing pains, but something was very different about our son. We knew it, but maybe we lived in the kind of denial that convinces you that your child will just grow out of it. Isn’t that what children do, according to every expert, doctor, and book? They just grow out of it.

My son is overly fearful… of everything. Maybe not everything, but most things. Not in the normal sense of being a young, fearful child, but in the sense of almost irrationally fearful. Take hair for example. My son has an irrational fear of hair. It began about 2 years ago. He would see strands of hair and freak out. He’d scream, cry, start shaking, run away. If even the smallest hair was in his bathtub, he would move as far away from it and scream for me to remove it. Whenever I do my hair, he won’t come near me, even when I ask for a hug. He might tentatively come close, but if he sees a strand on my hand or arm or shoulder, he backs away and tells me to remove it. He does it with fear in his eyes… its trippy.

That’s just one example.

This is a problem because of school. In school, he has exhibited signs of terror and fear that concerns his teachers and the school social worker. My son’s eruptions have become so well known, most of the teachers and administrators know him by name.  He is not allowed to go on field trips unescorted because on the first trip to the Botannical Gardens, he bolted 3 times, trying to run home. He was terrified. They say they haven’t really seen his type of reactions much in their careers.

Is it crowds? Is it loud noise? These are the first two places I go to. He does well in locations he is used to like playgrounds, the book store, food shopping. I’m truly worried because this expression of fear began when we got rid of his stroller. I’d noticed he was tense even earlier, but I guess he relied on the safety of his stroller, so I didn’t pick up on it as easily.

The teacher called his father and I in to meet with her and the social worker.  They are concerned because his fear is preventing him from actively participating in important things. His school is unique in that they begin changing classes at the pre-K level. They go to different classes and teachers for social studies, music, dance, and art. He struggles with changing classes, less now than before, but some times, he tenses up and rebels.

His primary teacher says he clings to the teachers and doesn’t interact with the other children as much. He will tell us all about his new friends and their life stories, but he doesn’t actively engage with them. He sits on the sidelines. Or, he plays alongside them, not with him. I thought back and realized that he’s always been like that. In playgrounds, he’d run around alongside the other kids but never played WITH them.

They praise other things about him. They say he has the most expansive vocabulary and the greatest sense of humor. They say he is intelligent, witty, charming, creative ,and artistically talented. They say, however, that he shows little interest in engaging with the other children and that he has low self-esteem because when attention is focused on him, he pulls into himself and trembles… with fear.

Is it our fault?

We have combed his entire life trying to figure out how this developed. We are outspoken, fiery parents who have encouraged his self-expression in various forms. He has amazing energy and is extremely independent. But, like many children raised as only children (he has an older sister but sees her only occasionally), he keeps to himself, preferring imaginative play with himself.

They say he needs therapy. “Play therapy” specifically, because they fear he won’t “make it” in kindergarten. 3 teachers now, 1 teacher then plus several more children. They basically feel like this “fear” has to be treated before he can progress.  What parents wants to hear that his/her child needs any kind of therapy? Who wants to hear that your child is not the perfect little being you thought he was? It hit us like a ton of bricks, having outsiders, experts tell us that he needs help we can’t give him.

We’re going to do the best we can to get him the help that he needs. We are proactive parents and we’re going to have him assessed on various levels. We want to check everything from his hearing he has major issues with loud sounds) to cognition to his adaptive and coping skills. We will be there with him every step of the way, but part of me feels we’re partially to blame. He exhibited these signs before we split, but they’ve seemed heightened since we did. I feel like we’re putting him through SO much change at once: new school, new friends, new homes, etc. that it’s overwhelming him. While he should be adjusting to the normal growing pains of being a 4 y/o pre-schoolers, he has the added adjustments that come with being the child of divorced parents.

No, he isnt perfect, but that doesnt mean something is “wrong” with him. I’m trying to be strong, but when I look at that perfect smile and hear his goofy laugh… I can’t imagine him needing help that I can’t give him.

I’m struggling y’all…

fu!k Tyler Perry . . .

Tanji4 Comments

When I snuck and watched the film Friday (though I had previously sworn off any more TP movies), I sat thinking that you go see a for colored girls for all the collaborative, disciplined work of the black female actresses. You also go to see what can be considered the radical reality of having a black female playwright’s work be adapted for the Big Screen. It is this type of work that encourages these women, undoubtedly, to set aside their own critiques of TP, and of the overwhelmingly masculinst culture of Hollywood, and contribute to the only commercial feminist film production so far this millenium. There is no perfect feminism! Even if Shange had directed the work herself for a commercial audience she would have undoubtedly been plagued by some measure of heteronormativity (remember there are no alternative sexualities explicitly engaged in the play). She also may not have invoked any semblance of Diaspora (beyond the, arguably, Africanist religious practices of Alice/White in the film). She may; moreover, have likewise represented the fractured, discordant trajectories of black, brown, Ghanaian, Nigerian, refugee, African-American, Afro-American, hoodrat, babymama, buppie, butch . . . “colored” girls in a convenient, “framed” (as in frame story) social network, as if we all live in Harlem, by way of some African-American migration story, in a brownstone, or are seperated from a Harlem brownstone by one degree of separation at the most.

On the low, despite any warranted judgements of TP’s systematic Black Church narratives in all other films, I would like to suggest that Mr. Perry excercised a somewhat subversive move in the film. Piggybacking on Ntosake Shange’s assertion that “god” is a “her” (to be loved “fiercely”), I was struck by TP’s willingness to present all of the women together on the roof at the end, except Alice/White. He essentially ostracized the only outwardly religious character in the film.

Yes, there are ways in which Alice/White’s character did not represent traditional notions of Black Christianity in the play, particularly when she poured, “bacon grease,” as the woman sitting nearest to me in the theatre deciphered it to be, on to her daughter to pray over her. Yet, she was too holy to attend her daughter’s graduation party because they were playing the devil’s music. She also spent her days inundating Harlem residents with leaflets dutifully inviting them to her church. In her film poster, she literally totes the Bible. She is this new “colored” woman (there is no lady in white in the play) that TP deliberately includes to ultimately exclude.

Perhaps, after his “investment” in Precious, TP really is moving away from conservative Christian portrayals.

Tanji would like to apologize for purposely, and painfully, avoiding reading her colleague, LaToya’s post until today. Ironically, she was trying to avoid being “influenced” prior to her own screening of the film.

Learned Incompetence

ORJ4 Comments

“You don’t think any of it is genetic?  None of it has to do with inherent gender differences?  The ability to multi-task, even?”  This was the question I asked a colleague as we discussed an article that concluded, yet again, that women do more than their fair share of parenting, regardless of whether or not they work outside of the home.  This colleague is the only woman I know who seems to have gotten pretty close to a 50-50 parenting split with her husband.  Among other things, not only has she changed very few diapers, but she has also never given her 19-month old son a bath.  Never.  “Please,” she said.  “That very question—why men do less—is asked through a cultural lens.  It’s all learned incompetence.”

“Be careful about the patterns you set early in her life; they’ll be hard to undo later.”  Those words were spoken to me by another female colleague, warning me that my job flexibility would lend itself to a division of parenting between my husband and me that would tip in his favor.  One year into parenting, it turned out she was right; the scale did, indeed, favor him.  She’s wrong, however, that the pattern began early in my daughter’s life; rather, these are patterns that have been setting long before my daughter’s birth. There may, indeed, be a genetic basis for different brain wiring that make women better at multi-tasking, coordinating, or scheduling.  But the parenting imbalance we witness today in so many marriages is more nurture than nature.  It’s learned; learned incompetence on Dad’s part, and learned competence on Mom’s.

And so it is that my learned competence began 30 years ago, having witnessed my mother run our household without my father’s help.  She’s a consummate scheduler and meticulous planner.  She did all the food shopping, and coordinated all of our meals.  She did all of the school shopping, from new clothes to classroom supplies.  She signed all permission slips, orchestrated all doctor and dentist check-ups, shuttled us to all sporting events, signed us up for extra-curricular activities, and nurtured any new interests we had.  She kept track of our family life, our social life, and our academic life.  Although formally married for all of my childhood, functionally she was a single-parent from the start.  And she was damned good at it.

After having my own baby, I picked up where she left off.  My husband is not my father, and is eager to do his share, especially if I ask.  Nevertheless, I insisted on becoming the expert in baths and hair washings, mealtime and sleep time.  I made the toy and clothing purchases; I scheduled the doctor’s appointments and play dates.  Because my work schedule is fluid, I picked up the care-giving slack, pushing my work off to late nights and weekends.  And at the end of my daughter’s first year of life, I was out of balance because of it: tired, out of shape, and often resentful of my husband.

“I have to take responsibility for what I let happen in my relationship,” my mother says of her marriage.  I used to think it absurd that my colleague had never given her child a bath, but today I applaud her for refusing to become the expert in all matters of child-rearing.  I now recognize the brilliance of learned incompetence on Mom’s part.  My colleague was right: the patterns that I set, patterns that I began learning a long time ago, are indeed hard to break.  But my mother is also right; achieving balance in my parenting life is partly my responsibility.

The other part of the responsibility belongs to my husband, and despite the difficulty of breaking old habits, my partner and I are setting new patterns.  On most days, he takes care of our daughter for half of her waking hours all on his own, and in recent months he has given me a few tips about mealtime.  My learned incompetence has resulted in a better balance, and my well-being, as well as that of my family, has improved because of it.

Parenting Black Boys and the Persistent Achievement Gap

carolynedgar13 Comments

A recent New York Times article cited a recent report that showed African American boys lagging behind their white and Hispanic counterparts, even when socioeconomic status is taken into account. 

The most telling quotes from the article came from Dr. Ronald Ferguson, director of the Achievement Gap Initiative at Harvard, who spoke of early childhood parenting practices as key to understanding why these gaps persist. Dr. Ferguson said we “have to have conversations that people are unwilling to have” about black parenting, including “the activities that parents conduct with their 2-, 3- and 4-year-olds. How much we talk to them, the ways we talk to them, the ways we enforce discipline, the ways we encourage them to think and develop a sense of autonomy.”

Dr. Ferguson’s remarks about the way we discipline our children and encourage them to develop a sense of autonomy really resonated with me. 

For a lot of black parents, whether they live in the projects or are graduates of Ivy League schools, parenting means enforcing strict rules about propriety and good behavior and respect. No yelling, no backtalk, no questioning my judgment or my rules.  It’s my way or the highway.  Any hint of defiance –starting with baby’s first “No!”—is punished.

So we grow up to be adults who are really good at being obedient and following the rules, and less skilled at challenging authority.  Unfortunately, the ability to challenge and question authority and redefine the rules is one of the hallmarks of leadership.  I think there’s a direct correlation between the way we are raised and the difficulties we face later trying to break into senior leadership positions, in corporations, academia or elsewhere.

Although I often complain about my oppositional, defiant daughter, she broke me of a lot of the ingrained patterns I had unconsciously adopted from my own upbringing.  I tried to be the type of authoritarian, unyielding mother my own mother was, with nearly disastrous results.  My daughter simply wasn’t having it.  She refused to back down, refused to accept “Because I said so!” as a reasonable explanation for anything.  Escalating the punishment did nothing except make me feel like an abusive bully.  So I had to learn another way.

That “other way” involves talking to my children instead of at them, allowing them to ask “Why?” and expect an answer, and occasionally even giving in when they effectively argue in favor of something I’d originally rejected. 

My kids are not afraid to speak out and speak up.  They, especially my daughter, will risk a charge of insubordination if it means standing up for something they believe in or speaking out against a perceived injustice.  They are also independent thinkers.  I think this has helped them be more effective students and learners.

As a parent, having oppositional, defiant children can be extremely annoying.  But then I remember being a first year law student.  We black students would sit in class furiously scribbling notes and living in fear of the Socratic method.  Most of us didn’t want to be called on, even though we’d read and understood the cases.  We were afraid of saying something “wrong” and proving to the white kids that we were stupid.  That we really didn’t belong. 

We were blown away by how the white students readily engaged our professors in debate.  They “talked back,” sometimes in tones we found disrespectful. They argued positions that seemed flatly wrong.  “Why is this guy wasting our time?” was a common thought of mine during my first year classes.  “Can we get on with it?”

Except the professors loved this debate.  When they called on us, of course, we did just fine.  We never embarrassed ourselves.  And our professors inevitably said, “Ms./Mr. ______, you really should participate more in class.”  Some of us were emboldened and began to raise our hands in class.  We figured out that law school wasn’t about passive rote learning, but learning how to see, think about and understand both sides of an argument.  Others stayed quiet, and I often wonder how much they really got out of the law school experience.

There was one black man in our section who never stayed quiet.  From the first day of class, he would engage in animated debate with our professors, shaking his long, skinny fingers with each point.  We would roll our eyes and wish he’d shut up.  The professors loved him.  That man, Artur Davis, went on to become a U.S. Congressman in Alabama, a seat he held until he gave it up to unsuccessfully run for Governor of Alabama.  The seat Davis vacated is now held by Terri Sewell, another friend of mine from Harvard Law School who was equally unafraid to speak up and speak out.

We have to rethink how we discipline our children.  We need to teach them both how to play by the rules and to challenge authority – and it starts with allowing them, under appropriate circumstances, to challenge our authority as parents.  We need to allow our children to point out when we’re wrong, and we need to learn how to admit being wrong when we are.  It’s easier to raise obedient children, but our job as parents isn’t to raise obedient children.  It’s to raise the generations that will be in charge of things after we are gone.  If we want our children to have a place at the leadership table, we have to create a safe space at home where they can develop the skills they will need as they grow and develop.