I have wondered that myself because when I first became a mother I didn’t do any “real” planning.  I wanted to, I had planned to plan.  It was sorta-kinda planned because my boyfriend at the time (rest his soul) gave me an engagement ring and then prodded me to run down to the Justice of the Peace so we could sign the papers, take the vows and I could move with him to the Naval base in Chicago and there would be no more bi-weekend trips for him to visit me here in Cincinnati.  I said okay, I can marry you.  Then two months later I urinated on a stick that turned blue.  Or was it pink?  It was hazy, I cant’ remember I just remember running out of the apartment as if running around the block and coming back inside could change my fate like Superman changed the fate of the world by flying around the globe to save Lois Lane’s life.

It didn’t.

To tell the truth, I had a dreams of my daughter before she was born.  Three years before,  when I was seventeen, I had a dream of being in a park and holding a brown baby girl with almond eyes just like mine looking back at me.  I woke up from that dream with a quick pulse and twisted stomach.  Being a junior in high school and pregnant was a nightmare for me.

Fast forward to the summer of 89 a month before I got pregnant I had another dream that I was going to get pregnant.  I was engaged at that time and in love so I didn’t think anything of it, it was just a dream.  Lapaz was insistent that we start a family right away but I was talking about going on birth control.  A month after I found out I was pregnant I again had the same dream I had when I was 17 of a baby girl but this time I was left with a feeling of tranquility, which is odd since at that time I knew I could never marry Lapaz.  After becoming pregnant it became suddenly clear that we were not right for each other.  He wanted me to become a SAHM with a gaggle of children before I hit my 30s.  I wanted a career and was feeling like he was becoming one of the children I would have to care for.  We parted not on friendly terms.  My friends wanted me to hate him but I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t.  He left me but he gifted me the greatest thing: Cricket.

I loved her the moment I pushed her out.  No, I take it back.  I loved her the minute she began communicating with me from the womb. She was my alarm clock when it was time to get up for work.  When I put my hand on my stomach she would sometimes reach back or kick back depending on whether she wanted to be bothered or not.  When she was born I was besotted;  I could not see myself loving any other child as much as I loved her.  She is literally my dream daughter.  If I could have keyed in personality, character, attributes into a machine for a child she is the person I would have created.  Now that she is a woman making her own way into the world I love the person she has become.

This time I did begin to plan for a child.  Well, J and I planned for a child.  More succinctly, J said, not now let’s wait and I said you are right.  Now isn’t the time.  I was the calendar watcher, the one with the tracking my time when it was right by the ticking of my body clock.  But the time never did seem right: Cricket was entering her junior year and preparing for a European trip, then J started graduate school and J2 –well, he’s really always been just J2 with random spurts of “Damn, really?  You did that?  What the (bleep) wrong with you?”

So I was just as guilty of ignoring the signs –even more so– than J because mine were internal.  But I wanted to believe that I was still youthful.

And I was waiting for the dream.

But the dream never came.

Or dreams did come, but I ignored them because they weren’t the signs I was looking for.  Like there was the dream that scared me of having a toddler daughter and Cricket and both died on me.  There were the dreams of being around friends who were pregnant but my arms were empty.  Then I had a dream of my close friend Grace holding a baby girl and I realized it was my daughter although the child didn’t resemble either me or J.

I puzzled, trying to find different meanings into the images my body was obviously trying to send me at night.  The dream that was the clincher came the night before my appointment with the fertility specialist.  I dreamt I was looking into a pitch dark, long tunnel, that was winding and deep.  The next day in the doctor’s office I sat with a long telescopic wand in my womb in search for eggs.  I looked over at the screen, wondering what eggs would look like inside the Fallopian.  The assistant marked little x’s on the screen but finally I began to recognize the black area she seemed to be exploring –my fallopian tubes looked like the dark tunnel in my dream from the night before.  And just like the tunnel of my dreams the tubes were dark and empty.  That is what was going through my head as I barely heard the doctor tell his assistant to end it, there was nothing to count or harvest.

I leave the doctor’s office thinking about dreams, babies and how things turn out.  I wonder when we can evolve to the point where women can begin their fertility journey later in life and extend it later –without too much medical intervention.  I think about how dreams are not harbingers of things to come and how much can I really put on them?  Or even science for that matter?

Although statistically science has a better track record than my dreams.

But with both results in it leaves me with very few options on becoming a mother for the second time.  Well, third time since the 2nd was a marital acquisition.  And now I have to figure out which ones are the best for me or not good for me at all.  :-/

J said, “Why?”

I said, “So I can talk to Pastor Park.  Maybe he might know…” I stumble for words.  “Maybe he can counsel me or know of a blasian child that is up for adoption.”

J said, “Ohhhh…”  He was reflective for a moment, only a moment.  Then he quickly changed gears, “Is it going to be a free baby?”

I said, “I don’t know.  I don’t think we can get a “free baby”–”

J said, “Because I don’t want to pay 10,000 dollars for a baby.”

I said, “I don’t know if it’s that much?  Is that how much they paid for you?”

J said, “I want a free baby.  If he can find us a free baby, then you should talk to him.”

I look at J and roll my eyes.  I was going to say, but you wanted to wait but decided it was not a fair line of discussion because what is done is done.  Instead I said, “Babies aren’t free.  You have to pay something.”

J said, “It’s like slavery, paying 10,000 dollars for a baby.”  I wanted to remind him that going through South Korea it could cost at least 20,000.  It could be more.

J said, “What if we were in Korea and some woman walked up to you and said, “I see you are American!  Take my baby!  You can give Ki-hua a good life in America!”  He sounded like a Korean Mrs. Doubtfire.  I was going to admonish him but he sounded so funny I had to laugh. 

I said, “No woman is going to walk up to me in Korea and ask me to take their child.”

J said, “No, they’ll walk up to me because they will see I’m American.”

I said, “Is that right?”

J said,” Yeah, that’s right.”

I said,” Why wouldn’t they think you were just another Korean?”

J said,”Because I look American.  And they’ll give us their child for free.”

Then J began to go off on a tangent, wondering how a person could get birth certificate for an imaginary free baby and why the price of adoption was so high. 

I’m still wondering if this is the journey we should take.  Adoption is not something to enter into lightly;  there are pros and cons that I’ve been listing in my head.  Pro: I can have a young  one to love and raise; share my love of books and music.  Con: just because I do all that it doesn’t guarantee love back.  Pro: I have someone I can guide into adulthood.  Con: I’m not passing on my genes, the child won’t be a visual reflection of me or J, nor an inheritor of our quirks and other personality traits.  Pro: the child will be different from us and not have our issues.  Con: the child may never see us as it’s true parents.  Con: The child hates us for taking him/her away from their homeland.  Con: The child never bonds to us.

I never thought about these problems when it came to having my daughter.  I thought J did either when his son was born. There was no guarantee they’d love us, that they’d come out alright.  That we could have a good relationship.    But now with age I can see  the nuances, especially with a phantom parent who could be across the sea; always impossibly perfect compared to the parent that is in person.

I said, “We should pray for guidance.  If it’s to be it”ll happen.” 

J said, “For a free child?”

I said,” Yeah, for free.”

But the Js really, really love it.  They bond over it –I know, I mentioned it before.  They constantly talk about past matches, upcoming matches, who sucks, who to beat, and where everyone stands. 

Right now J2 can’t wrestle because he has cauliflower ear . I never knew it was a real condition, I’ve only heard it mentioned on cartoons.  It’s been drained but he has to take a brief hiatus from the sport to let it heal.  Instead the J’s have to content themselves with WWF or WWC or whatever that soap opera wrestling federation is called and the movie down below.

During the 2008 holiday season my son was very young. I didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and beyond the obligatory photos with Santa, I really didn’t do anything for Xmas either. In 2009 I started thinking how to add aspects from my son’s three cultures so we can celebrate more as a family.

Last year, I still didn’t follow the American custom for Thanksgiving. Instead I wanted to start a tradition of awareness about the Native American Indian and Alaska Native during this time. After some research, I found out about the exhibition IndiVisible: African-Native American Lives in the Americas .  I decided to take my son to The National Museum of the American Indian here in NYC to see their current exhibit.  While he’s young and cant fully understand, it’s about starting our own tradition for the holidays. Besides he had fun =)

While changing traditions for Thanksgiving was simple enough, how to tackle Xmas since the whole family wants to be involved and celebrate with Daniel. To their credit my family knows that I try to do my own cultural things with my son. They may not fully understand why, but they’ll indulge me as long as they can spend time with Daniel. LOL

For Xmas 2009, we didn’t do alot of the American Xmas things. We had no tree, no xmas decorations, no exchange of presents. But we did have the family gathering, eating, drinking and most important oral story telling. My family shared stories of life back in Guyana, the funny things family members did as children and finally their memories of my son life. I was really touched as each person shared their memory of my son from birth till now.

My son has forever changed the racial makeup of our family tree. My sons children will have African Caribbean, African American and Korean ancestors to remember. Yes, my son’s biracial link to his fathers culture makes him unique within my somewhat monoracial family, but his story will always be added to the family tradition of remembrance.

“I can’t use it,” I said, handing him the package.  “You need to take it back.”

He looked at me as if I sprung two heads.  He leaned back, cocking his head to the side, and said,”You better use it.  I’m not taking it back.”

See, I knew I should have had a canned dinner.

It was my idea at the beginning of the week to just purchased prepackaged, pre-prepared food for Thanksgiving.  I thought of it after I dropped off our big box of canned goods and frozen turkey for the poor to the church this year.  J and I bought the food together, picking up a big box of generic stove top stuffing and then a store brand of canned corn.  At first I felt guilty and thought, maybe I should get a brand name of canned vegetables but then thought “Why?”  All canned food is gross anyway.  Once you eat fresh, in season fruit and vegetables you get spoiled and you don’t really want a canned substitute.  But I’m getting that for the poor.  I felt bad and wanted to put the stuff back on the shelf and head over to the produce aisle to get some kale and string beans for the folks.  But it wasn’t on the list and I didn’t know how long the fresh food would sit in the box so I got the canned food instead.

But carrots and potatoes were on the list.  What sense did that make when I couldn’t buy milk or butter?  How can someone make mashed potatoes without fresh milk or butter?

So after I dropped off the food at church with frozen turkey I thought, maybe this is the way to go.  Some family was going to be happy to get those things to feed their family and just be together on the holiday.  And as far as I knew it was just going to be me and J for the day.  Cricket was staying over at college and wouldn’t be back until Christmas and J2 was going to be spending the holiday in Cleveland.   It seemed redunkulous to do all that cooking just for two people.  I was making plans to find a restaurant open that day or hop from relative to relative to get fed.

But then J2 got a reprieve from his mother, so it ends up that it would be three instead of two.  That’s when I got the bright idea for canned Thanksgiving dinner.

“But J2 likes your cooking,” J whined.

“No, he doesn’t.  J2 doesn’t know the difference between biscuits from scratch and those refrigerator biscuits you buy.”

“But you like to cook–”

“No I don’t.  I hate it.  I just do it because I want to eat healthy, but at Thanksgiving no one eats healthy.”

“You want to cook it.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t.”

J and I went around and around like that for a minute.  “You know you want to cook it.”

“No, I don’t.  Cricket won’t be home.  She’s my sous chef.”  It would also be my first Thanksgiving dinner without her in 19 years.  It was weird to not have her around.   And, really, the Js eat too damn much.  I didn’t want to take that on by myself.

“I’ll help you cook.  Whatever you want.”

“You lie,” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“No, I will help, whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.”

“And you wont’ complain?”

“I promise.  Just make your dinner.”

I know, I’m stupid.  A man will make desperate promises when they are either horny or hungry, you can never trust them when either one is in play.  I gave in and planned a southern style dinner: rosemary turkey,  cornbread dressing with sausage,  balsamic collard greens with sundried tomatoes, buttery garlic Brussel sprouts, buttermilk garlic mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry-persimmon sauce, turkey ham (that’s already cooked, I just preheat)  sweet potato biscuits, rosemary rolls.    I even planned dessert, and I rarely make dessert, which was sweet potato pie and applesauce spice cake.

On Thanksgiving Eve I made the desserts, cranberry sauce and greens.  I should have known then to scrap the whole idea and just go get some cans.  After I made the cake and had it in the oven I needed J to washed the dishes so I called him in the kitchen.

“I’ll do them tomorrow!” he called out.

“No! ” I called back.  “Tonight!  You need to do it now!”

J stomped into the kitchen, grumbling.  He did it several more times as I asked him to wash after the other things.  He was mad that I was cutting into his study time although he was studying in front of the TV and toggling back and forth between a video game and his paper on the computer.

I washed the last of the dishes and finished the pies by 2am.  I was tired and J had already gone to bed.  But I was up by 7am to make the rolls and then the biscuits.  By 9:30 I had the cornbread in the oven and was making croutons when J came downstairs looking like who did it and what for. 

“Coffee,” he mumbled.  “I need coffee.”

There were a few bowls in the sink so I said,” I need you to wash those.”  J spun around.  “I just woke up.” he whined.  “Let me get some coffee first.”

“Go ahead,” I said.  And he did.  By 10am he was caffeinated, mouthy and ready to supervise.

“Why isn’t the turkey in the oven?  What?  When did you plan to make it?  We won’t be eating until 10 tonight!  It takes forever to cook!”

I turned my back to him as I placed some rolls on the cooking sheet.  “J shut up.  And if you are really worried about it why don’t you wash some dishes.”   I turned around and he was gone.

We need a dishwasher instead we just have a small sink with a dish tub.  We can’t just let the dishes pile up because there isn’t any room for it, although it not like J hasn’t tried.  But in keeping the meal moving I can’t let the dishes get out of hand so I go and retrieve him. 

J melts down, “You don’t respect me being in graduate school.  I don’t have time to do all of these dishes.  I was in the middle of a thought and now it’s gone.”

That crazy ass Korean!  He was in the middle of watching a football game.  I was 10 seconds from drop kicking his behind into the flat screen.  Through clenched teeth I said,  ”Just wash the dishes.”

He grumbled, traisping over the the sink, mad.  “I don’t see why you need all these dishes…. why did you make all these rolls, no one wants rolls… “

“You wanted me to cook; I wanted canned food.”

“I didn’t want ro-ollls”, he said splashing in the water.  I think instead of turkey we should have roasted J instead.  I think of how I could have my own segment on TLC’s Snapped.  It would be really creative.  The sheriff would say, “I never seen anyone truss a 220lb man before and stuff him in the oven, but she did.  He even had a nice golden glaze, it held up well as evidence.”

J stomps out the room after the dishes are washed.  I go to him, take his hand and look him in his eyes, “Is your mantrum over?”

“I wasn’t throwing a mantrum.” 

I decide to overlook the obvious.  I apologize for cutting into his study time (although I note he’s still watching TV) and ask him to go to the store to buy eggs, flour, fresh rosemary and butter.

“You have flour,” he says.

“It’s almost gone.”

“You don’t need it.”

“Yes, I do.”  He leaves, grumbling out the door.

J2 stays in his room most of the day, out of the way.  He doesn’t know how to wash dishes because J thinks he’s too klutzy and will break them instead of washing them.  He hasn’t eaten anything all day and I suspect that he’s going on a morning fast just so he can eat more when the meal is done.

By the time J comes back home I have turkey is nearly ready to go in the oven, I only need the fresh rosemary to make a quick paste.  After that I spend the rest of the afternoon basting the turkey every 15 minutes along with making  the brussel sprouts and dressing.  The turkey is done by 3:30.  I bake the rest of the food and we were ready to eat by 5pm.

Except me.  After I laid out all the food on the dining room table I realized I made way too much for just three people.  We live so far out that my nephews, niece and cousins wouldn’t just drop in for a plate of food –the nephew who came last year I had to go pick up.  And I was tired.  I sat down while the Js attacked the table, happy I decided to go the usual formalities of making them say what they were thankful for.  I was drifting in and out of sleep by 5:30.

J woke me up.  “Thank you,” he said sweetly.  He was on his 2nd plate.  He give him a frown as I try to drift back to sleep.  He’s a damn spoiled ass. 

It’s been just a few days and there isnt’ much left of the meal.  J2 ate both sweet potato pies by himself and J has set aside pieces of cake for the women in his store.  He even said the little old ladies are awaiting the assortment of muffins that I made a few years ago.

“I can’t make it with the self rising dough,” I said.

“Yes you can.”

“No, I can’t.  You don’t bake you don’t know.”

“Just make the muffins for them. ”

“It’s too much work.  Cricket isnt’ here to help me and I can’t use the flour.”

“I’ll take the flour.”

“It’s still too much work–”

“I’ll help you.”

Where did I hear that before?

It started two weeks ago, over the weekend.  I felt like crap and my mucous membranes were itchy to I figured it was just allergies.  On Sunday I was feeling a bit dizzy and was unable to accomplish anything so the next day on Monday I called in sick.   I could have made it into work, but I was tired and had some writing I needed to finish.  On Tuesday I still needed to write and I didn’t feel any better so I threw that day in, too.

The week before J was complaining of feeling sick but it never panned out.  It never does.  He’s a carrier and when anyone is sick in the house I look at him as patient 0.  That Friday he went out and bought a bottle of whiskey, allegedly to make hot toddies.  He poured some whisky in glass and then added some lukewarm tap water.

“That’s not a hot toddy,” I told him.

“Yeah it is.”

When I succumbed to feeling bad he made me real toddies with hot water, lemon, and honey added to the whiskey.  He was even sweet enough to bring it to me in bed.  I know it was only a shot of alcohol but it knocked me out within an hour of drinking the elixir.

By Wednesday I was feeling worse but I had to go in since I worked in the evening.  The only thing that got me through the hours was Dayquil, Benadryl and coffee (to offset the Benadryl).  When I got home I asked for J to make me another hot toddy.

“You’re drinking up all my whiskey!” he whined but made me one anyway.  He made himself one, too.

II

Thursday my throat was starting to hurt but not bad enough to take off from work.  I was  willing myself to get better because my friend Tony was in town and I was determined to meet him at the clubs.  Saturday I could barely lift my head off the pillow.  When I could finally roll out of bed I was moving slow. 

“What are you making for dinner?” J asked.

“I don’t think I can make dinner,” I said and then snorted to keep the mucous from dripping down to my lip.

“Blow your nose!” J yelled.  “Blow your nose!”

“Shut up!” I rolled my eyes.  “Just order dinner tonight.  I’m going to take a nap so I can be ready to go out tonight.”

“You’re not going out,” J said with a stentorian voice.  Who is he, my daddy?

“Oh, I’m going out,” I countered.  “I haven’t seen Tone in years. I’m going out.  Do you want to come?”

“No, I’m not going and you aren’t going, either.”

I twisted my lips and raised my eyebrow.  “Oh, I’m going.”

The food came and I could barely eat it. J brought me a hot toddy and asked me to drink a little to clear my chest.   I fell asleep and woke up during the Boondocks for a few minutes only to fall asleep again.  I wondered if her drugged me.

III

Monday came and I was without my voice.  J was happy I was without my voice. 

“Pick me up at 5,” I barely whispered. 

J knitted his brows and looked puzzled.  “You heard me!” I growled but it was lower than before.

“No I didn’t,” J said.

“You did!  Stop playing!” 

He frowned and looked quizzical again.  I swear I’m going to punch him.

Now I am coughing up phlegm.  I take it as a sign that I am getting better, but J doesn’t.  By Wednesday morning J is prognosing me.

“Go to the doctor,” J said.  “You have H1N1.”

“I don’t have H1N1, it’s just a cold,” I said.  “Besides, I don’t have a primary doc anymore.  He moved.”

“Go to the doctor we all go to,” J said.  Cricket, J2 and James all go to the doctor on the square.  It’s about .2 miles away from our home. 

“I’m getting better,” I whisper.

“No you aren’t.  Do you hear yourself?  Go to the doctor.”

I’m quiet, stewing that I knew I was on an upswing.

“Did you hear me?”  J nudges me, I won’t respond.  “Okay, just make sure your insurance is paid up so I can get paid once you die.  Do you wanna die?”

“Okay, I’ll make an appointment.” I growl between my teeth.

I couldn’t get in that day so I went on Thursday.  At first I resented J for being paranoid but as the day progressed I was steadily getting worse.  I began to wonder myself if I might have H1N1 because by then I had coughed up a river of phlegm.

The next day at the doctor’s office I get checked out.  Listening to my symptoms, checking my temperature, and looking at my history she surmised I didn’t have a virus but that my allergies had gotten out of control.  She prescribed a Z-pack,  gave me an inhaler and told me to try Zyrtec D instead of Benadryl.  I kind of doubted that it was allergies but after using the inhaler once I had to admit that it helped to open my lungs. 

J comes home and asks what I was going to make for dinner.  He and J2 have been eating take out for the last several days and both were getting  of it.  It’s okay for the to sneak and eat take out when I’m not looking but too much take out is not cool.   On Wednesday night J called me up to ask me what I was going to make for dinner.

“I’m at work, J”  I said. 

“Yeah, but what about dinner?” he asked.  When I work 1-9 I make dinner before I leave but this whole week I thought it best to stay out of the kitchen because I did not want to be Typhoid Mary.

“You know what, you can make dinner.  Or you can order something.”  He groaned in the phone but then said he would make noodles with ground turkey.  When I came home he had ordered out instead of cooking. 

So after being diagnosed with just atomic allergies I figured I’d make the Js homemade Cincinnati Chili.  They were both happy.

IV

Today my throat hurts.  I figure its from the draining sinuses.  My chest is a bit tight, but other than that it’s better than before.   My voice is coming back, too, but since I can cook again J figures it’s a trade off.

To soothe my throat I gargled with salt water but an hour ago J decided to go to the store and I went with him to get some sucrets.  I never had them before and opened up the package as soon as I left the store.

They taste horrible.  With each passing minute it got worse and worse.  I sat in the passenger seat with my hands covering my face.

“Oh my God,” I said.  “Oh my God, oh my God.”

“What’s wrong?” J asked.

“These sucrets are horrible,” I said.  “They are so nasty.  I am about to spit this out and just deal with a sore throat.”

“Stop being a baby,” J said.  “Let me have one, I love sucrets.”

He really does.  He eats cough drops like candy and loves the taste of cough medicine.  When I first got sick he mistakenly brought home Hall’s Refreshers instead of regular cough drops.  He didn’t believe they weren’t cough drops until I pointed out the printed words hard candy in the corner.

“They made it for people like me, who love cough drops!” he said happy with his purchase. 

Now J took the package of sucrets, pushed one out and popped it in his mouth.  “Mmmmm,” he said.  “It’s minty cold.” he blew out some breath as if he expected icicles to for on the car’s windshield.

I was rocking back and forth, wishing the stupid thing would melt faster and not leave an after taste.  It was like robitussin in candy form.  Who would find that appealing?

Oh… yeah.

Daniel C

Euphoria Luv didn’t give a shout out on this blog but I’m going to do it for her to let everyone know they need to vote for some of the babies in this year’s baby contest which includes her son, Daniel.

To vote for Daniel click here.

Julia K

And another mom let me know that her daughter answered the casting call.   She is too adorable.  So cast your vote for Julia K.

Click the link here.

And if anyone else has a Blasian baby that’s in the contest let us know.

You have to register with Disney family to cast your vote but after that you can vote as many times as you want to.  You can vote once as day, every day through November 17.

And I considered it.  Considered it hard.  They are just as cute as J2 and the food I feed them they’d definitely earn back with their enormous talent. 

Then I’d miss all the jokes I crack on wrestling at J2′s expense so I have to decline.

But if they are ever out Natti way I’d love to set up a playdate and be a Midwest mom to them.  Hopefully, as Midwest Mom they’d let me score some free tickets to their concert.  They probably won’t be coming my way for a while, but if you are out in LA check them out on Nov 13 as part of the AfroPunk tour.

Gabi Wilson: The next big thing?

Disney is looking for the next big tween star and Gabi Wilson is hoping it’s her.

You have probably seen her on NBC’s Today show singing a rendition of an Alicia Keys song.  She has also appeared on Maury’s Talented Kids and Showtime at the Apollo.

You probably said, damn that kid is talented!  And she is.  Along with singing and playing the piano, she plays guitar and writes poetry.

And you probably said, wow, she’s looks Blasian.  Yep, dad is black and mom is Asian.

So you now you are probably saying,  I think she’s the next big thing, let me vote for her.

Well….

The first round of voting ended in early October but we get a second chance so mark your calendar to vote for her December 2-9.  In the meantime check out her page  and listen to her music on Radio Disney.