The drive to school in the morning is usually a very eventful one.  I recall a few years ago when I could actually hear myself think.  I knew the lyrics to my favorite songs, and could listen to an entire track without interruption.  Although the drive is approximately forty-five minutes, enjoying the sounds or peace and quiet allowed me to arrive to work, settled and sane.

“GO OVER, DUDE! Why are you always on MY side? MOOOMMMM!!!!” My eldest screamed one day.

“Mommy said WE DON’T HAVE A SIDE AND THE CAR BELONGS TO HER!” His brother screamed back.  The argument starts from the moment they are both alert to the minute I beg them to exit my car upon pulling up to the front of their school.  It is a never-ending battle of personally invaded space wars to games of annoyance for the feeling of pure exhilaration. Why?  No, WHY ME?

While on the way to work one day, the argument began with my youngest looking at my eldest the wrong way. After all, one’s eyes must be properly trained to look directly to the side of someone’s face; not connect with their pupils.

“What are you lookin’ at?” You could sense the irritation, as it is accompanied by the grinding of teeth that probably had not been brushed that morning. “I swear if you look at me one more time, I am going to knock your head off!”

The youngest child always has a Sampson complex, believing that he could defeat any man who stands in his way, and would dare you to find his weakness.  “Hmmm. I would like to see you try that.  No, seriously! I really would!” Adding a sarcastic twist of the neck and sticking out a pink tongue (one that was probably not brushed that morning), the explosion ensues.

“THAT’S IT! I AM SICK AND TIRED OF HAVING A LITTLE BROTHER! YOU ARE THE MOST ANNOYING…”

I calmly reach for the radio knob, knowing this is my one and only attempt at peace, and blast my Bose stereo system to MAX.  Frightening myself with how powerful a sound is emitted, I hear nothing, but see two young people holding their ears in the back seat, squinting down as though in tremendous pain.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Being the most outspoken, and very forgetful of how swift my backhand could be, my eldest lets out a dramatic screech, complete with the contorted facial expressions and oncoming tears. “Mommy! Are you trying to burst our eardrums? That was cruel!”

“NO!” I could not believe my ears (and mine were perfectly fine, by the way.)  “What’s cruel is forcing me to listen to the two of you argue all the way to work without a break! What’s cruel is the fact that I have not been able to enjoy one song the whole way through without one of you screaming for the other to stop! What’s cruel is I am having this conversation and it will be completely forgotten in the next thirty seconds! THAT’S WHAT’S CRUEL!”

(Silence of my lambs.)

In the softest voice he could muster, the little innocent one speaks. “Well, could we listen to something together, but not as loud?”

“Sure. Not a problem!”  I turned the station to find Steve Harvey on his morning show, conducting a count down of ten things men should not say to their wives. Since he is a little more tactful than other radio personalities, we all tuned in to hear his advice.  Not realizing they were being so attentive, we continued to listen as Steve went through his list.

“Number three!” He started. “Men, don’t EVER say to your wife, are you pregnant or did you just eat a lot?” Before I knew it, we had all burst into laughter.  My eldest held his stomach from laughing so hard while my youngest just shook his head. Tears had formed in his eyes and his protective shield emerged.

“Mommy, that’s why I don’t want you to get married! ‘Cause if anybody says that to you, I would knock him out!” His face was hard as a rock. He meant that. He then turned to his brother.  “And I would punch you in the face if you laughed, too!”

“WHAT?!” His brother stopped mid-laughter. “  AND I WOULD KICK YOU IN YOUR TEETH!”

I would like to say that it was the end of the conversation and we were back to enjoying The Steve Harvey Show, but that would be a shameful lie.  And lying is an entirely different lesson. They made it to the thirty seconds I expected.  Luckily, I turned on to Tucker Drive and politely bid them a good day.

Laugh, people. It’s good for the soul.

Yes, I am one of the parents who decided (and possibly shouted) from the pit of my gut that my child has absolutely no need for a cell phone at such a young age. Yes, I glared at parents who had added their children to their phone plans, wondering what in the world they were thinking.  I also admit that I called those children spoiled and rotten, because they probably begged for the phone for months before the weak-backed parent just gave in to the pressure.

I’m sorry.  I join with you as we silently sing “Kum-ba-ya.”

When my children and I moved to a new area a few years ago, it was a fresh and exciting adventure for us.  There were new places to eat, shop, play and attend school.  So, being the daring parent that I often think I am, I enrolled the boys into a school nearby and decided to figure out the details as it got closer to the first day of class.  Oh, it was cake for the first two weeks.  I could drop them off and pick them up without incident. After all, my school district did not start until mid-September.  At the time I realized I would have to leave them and drive forty-five minutes away to work, things didn’t appear as adventurous as initially stated.

“Mom, you’re gonna have to get me a phone.” My oldest was wise beyond his years and noticed that I was very perplexed about my current predicament.  “I can call you when we get to school and then call you when we get hone.  It’s a win-win!” He shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

“Really? And who do you think is going to pay for a phone for you, lil’ boy?  You are only seven!” I refused to receive the glares from other mothers at the mall.

“Well,” my youngest began, “if you get him a phone, you know you have to get me one too, right mommy?”  (The devil is so busy!)

“That would be a negative. When you learn how to keep track of your back pack, then you can keep track of a phone!”  I pondered it for a few days until I found myself standing at the counter of the Sprint store.

“May I help you?” He seemed sincere, but knew that I was vulnerable and would be an easy sale. “We have several phones on special right now. You seem like a Blackberry sort of woman.”

And you seem like a brown-nosing sort of man, but I am so not here to judge.

“Yes, I love the Blackberry!” (Umph. He got me.) “However, I am not looking for a phone for myself but for my son.  He is only seven, so I don’t need anything fancy.” I would stand my ground. He would get a phone that opens, closes, dials a few numbers and charges when dead. That was it!

A few hours later, my son learned how to place a code on his new device.  He took several pictures of the back of my head and passing traffic.  He played a game for twenty minutes as we drove home.  Several times I heard him say, “Oh wow!” as he discovered yet one more thing his phone could perform. I shook my head the whole time, oblivious that I had just added his phone to a two-year contract with mine, because it only cost $9.99.  I could write a dissertation on the genius behind hidden fees, but I digress.

To pronounce my own vindication, my son had to use the phone three times during an emergency when he found that his younger brother had not gotten on the school bus.  I must also concede that I have lost my own phone more than he has lost his own.  He guarded it as the prized possession that it was.

“Mom, can I make a bargain with you?” He asked. He was approaching his birthday, and bargains were always attached to special days.

“It depends.  What is it?” I asked.

“Well, since I have been responsible with my phone, can I get a new one for my birthday and give this one to Corey?” He had recalled the salesman’s conversation of how long the phone would last and the possibility of passing it along to his brother when he was ready. The kid was good.

“I’ll think about it.”

My youngest, glued to the television, joined the negotiations.  “If you think a little bit faster,mommy,  my birthday is in twenty days!”

SMH. (Shakin’ my head.)

Laugh, people. It’s good for the soul!

As a child, I believed in Santa.  I grew up in the Bahamas, and it didn’t register to me that Santa was always a white dude in a big red suit. He was Santa.  One day I saw one who happened to be of the ebony persuasion and actually got a bit puzzled.  I don’t recall openly questioning Santa’s race, because it really didn’t matter. As long as he had the stuff that I asked for, we would be just fine!

I couldn’t wait to have kids to carry on the same mythical traditions that I grew up with over the years.  The tooth fairy has been to my house on several occasions, but my children’s fairy wasn’t as cheap as the one I had.  Sometimes, my tooth fairy just flat-out forgot the darn tooth had even fallen out of my mouth.  Her existence was sporadic and I didn’t trust in her too much after not becoming wealthy. (My other friends did!)

As parents, we have to force our children to look forward to the next big event.  In translation, it is a way to keep their behavior well maintained so we don’t go insane. Don’t believe me?  At the beginning of the year, my children look forward to their birthdays. So, there is an immediate incentive in place for them to do well in school and get along at home, because if they don’t, they jeopardize celebrating the days of their birth.  Fair enough, right?  So from January to

March 31^st, I am good.  After the celebrations, we have to look forward to what we want to do for the summer, and besides, that means three more months of good behavior I must manipulate.  So, I set the calendar and come up with something monumental that they would have a meltdown over if it didn’t come to pass. It is usually an amusement park of some sort. For months I work my magical connections, because I refuse to pay full price for anything!

After the summer is over, it is a long haul to get to Christmas! So, our weekend date nights hold tremendous weight until the big man comes to town.  The lists begin during the month of September, and being a mommy who is in tune to their whining, I keep a mental note of everything that they scream they want and must have, otherwise their lives will cease to continue.

“Mommy!” My eldest cried out one day. “Did you know that the Bakugan that I want is only $30.00?”

“No way!” I responded.  “Is that it?”  That particular Bakugan would never make it to my house, because I couldn’t buy just one. He forgot he had a copycat brother who would want one the same size but in a different color.  Next!

“Ohhhh!” My youngest continued. “But I want a DS, and this one is the last one they will ever have!” He pointed at the red box, not noticing that behind it were stacked forty more of the same.

“Really?” I exclaimed. “Are you sure?  Cause if it’s the last one, we better make sure they put some more in the store for other parents to get their kids one too!”

My children never knew how to read my sarcasm when they were young.  It was the most fun I had ever experienced with them, constantly making fun of their innocence.  Wait. Is that bad parenting? What isn’t in America?

During the month of November a few years ago, my children were out of control.  They were fighting more than they normally did, and it was driving me to drink!  By the end of the month, I got a clever idea.  I figured that Santa would have to write them a letter to let them know that he was watching their every move.  After Thanksgiving, Santa was livid and exhausted, so the letter had to be delivered.  With the Christmas tree up and nothing under it as yet, Santa got to writing.

In the morning, the boys got up and they could be heard running downstairs to grab something to eat.  All of a sudden, my eldest released a gasp so audible, the elves took notice at the North Pole.

“Oh…My….God!  Dude! Santa left us a note!” My eldest grabbed the note. I stood in the stairwell to hear their discourse.

“Huh? He knows how to write? What did he say?” The little one was a bit anxious because he was still learning how to read.

With his eyes widening, my eldest read out loud:

Dear Sean and Corey,

Your mother has told me that you two have been fighting and not getting along. That is not good. She is not happy and when mommies are not happy, Santa is not happy.  There are some things on your Christmas list that you want this year and if you do not get better at loving each other, your list will be given to other little boys who live in your complex. Starting today, please start to do better.  Clean up your room, listen to your mommy, and most of all, love each other and stop fighting.

Love,

Santa.

“Oh, man! This is all your fault, Corey! You keep fighting with me, and now Santa knows!”  Sean was not happy and Corey stood there, confused.

“Me?  NO! You fight with me too!” He was wise enough to know that it took two of them to mess this up.

“”OK! Look, we need to stop arguing because we won’t get any gifts! Got it?” Sean said.

“Got it!” His younger brother agreed and nodded his head.

I wondered how long it would last but was pleasantly surprised. The room remained clean, hugs increased and the overall atmosphere of peace reigned for a month.  I can not explain to you what took place immediately following Christmas Day; that would spoil the story.  I thanked Santa for being brilliant enough to think of such a clever intervention.  Even though the arguing ensued, the fighting was reinstated and the room became a tornado once again, I knew what they didn’t.   Birthdays were around the corner!

Laugh, people.  It’s good for the soul!

I don’t drink.  I might have a casual apple martini about once every three months, but alcohol and I are not the best of friends.  One day, attempting to fit in with a group of friends, I decided that I could hang with the big girls and have a drink or two. We were at a restaurant, and while waiting for our dinner to arrive, I ordered a strawberry daiquiri.  Since I usually ordered mine as a virgin, my friend reminded the waitress to make it that way.

“No.  I don’t want a virgin one, thank you! I’m grown!”  How embarrassing!

“Well, well, well!” She mocked in her most facetious tone. “And that you are!”

“I can hold my liquor, missy.” She knew me well, and understood the very first time I took a drink, we were in Vegas and the drink was the size of my head. You know how they do it out there.  Let’s give them a drink that will last for six hours. They will drink, lose all sense of self and logical reasoning, gamble every dollar they own, and not realize the error of their ways until morning. It’s great marketing!

The young lady came back a few minutes later holding my drink in her hand, topped with a cute umbrella.

“Here you go! One strawberry daiquiri, one Bahama Mama, and one Tequila Sunrise.” She walked away with what appeared to be a smirk on her face, but I did not give her the attention she required.

Being an amateur at this drinking thing, I took three huge gulps and thought to myself, “Piece of cake!” I took a few more, which garnered several strange looks from the ladies.

“Are you thirsty or something?” One of them asked.

“Nope.  Just enjoying the flava!” I said.  My head felt a bit light, but I did not want her to think that I had no idea what liquor could do to me and how quickly my demise could come.   I finished the drink and dared to order another.

“Are you sure you can handle another one?” Another friend warned. “This one has liquor, remember?”

“Would you guys stop?  I got this!” There was no convincing me otherwise.  I would down the second one, and if I felt like it, order a third!

While they sat there still working on the first drink, I was on to my second, assuming it was a race of sorts.  I gulped like the inexperienced imbecile I was, and felt everything flash before me in a sudden blur.

“Whooo!” I said.  “Did y’all see that?”

“See what?” One of the ladies asked.

“Uhh, the whole room just went black!  Did the lights go dim or something?”

“No, hon. You are drunk.” She went back to sipping her drink as I put my head on the table.

Driving home that evening, a valuable lesson hit me.  I was not fond of liquor and it was not fond of me.  My eyes drooped, my head hurt and my speech was lazy; all after only two lousy servings of a strong strawberry flavored juice that I was convinced I could handle.

I think of my children when they ask for something that I know is not good for them to have.  Even if I tell them how horrible it will make them feel, it is the personal experience that brings light to the situation.  They don’t care how horrific it tastes or how difficult the task is that is associated with an item they desire. They want what they want and that is it!

On one of our Friday date nights, we went out for dinner to Red Lobster.  My oldest son decided that he wanted to eat crab legs like mommy.  It seemed easy enough to crack the legs and tackle the scrawny piece of meat found inside of it.  I argued with him that he should get something else because I would end up cracking both of ours and that would irritate me and make my meal impossible to enjoy.

Without a care or concern for my feelings, he pouted and frowned, insisting that he could crack his own crab legs and I would not have to worry about him.  After much persistence, I gave in to his whining.

“Fine! You want to have crab legs, have crab legs! If you can’t crack them, you better find a way how to get the meat out of there because you are not wasting it. I promise you it will be cold by the time you get to the meat but you asked for it, so have at it!” I was irritated because I knew my child.  He would not be able to do what he insisted he could, and I waited for the moment to arrive just to watch the drama unfold.

He smiled as his plate was presented to him, piping hot.  His brother had ordered shrimp primavera.  He knew that he could get to the shrimp without having to peel a thing and was as hungry as a hippo, not willing to take any chances.

“Hope you can crack ‘em!” He said, as he scooped shrimp and pasta onto his fork.

“Don’t worry about me. I can do it, because I got skills!”  He was confident.  I was hopeful for his sake.

I started on my own crab legs, a pro at it due to eating them for years.  The first long piece of white and pink skin was pulled, and soon after, was dipped into the seasoned butter sauce I had made with a dash of lemon.  Across the table, my youngest took the third bite of his meal while his older brother sat struggling with the crackers, figuring out the best way to hold them in his hand to begin his task.

Moments later, I completed my crab legs and began to work on the shrimp scampi that accompanied The Ultimate Feast, when I noticed a defeated crab cracker sitting across the table.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing that he was too proud to admit his defeat.

“ I can’t do it.” He hung his head in shame. “Can you help me?”

Grateful for the opportunity to gloat, his brother held up his fork to add emphasis t his reprimand.

“Boy, she told you she wasn’t gonna stop her meal to crack your crab legs for you, but you wanted to be superman and do it by yourself!” He shrugged his shoulders as he took yet another bit of his meal. “That’s just bein’ stubborn!”

“Shut up!” His brother snorted. “Sometimes I hate having a younger brother! You are so annoying!” The tears began to roll down his face.  He was not only defeated, but very hungry. He was now faced with eating cold food due to his inability to perform what I had already told him would be difficult to do. I reached over, cracked every leg in a matter of minutes and went back to eating my meal.

“Thank you.” He continued to hang his head as he placed the first piece of cold meat in his mouth.

Lessons are hard to learn, especially when accompanied by cold food and a cold sibling’s stare of ultimate satisfaction.

Laugh, people.  It’s good for the soul!

Children should have fathers; I get that.  The reality of my situation is that of a single parent, and I have embraced it for all it is worth.  My oldest son, however, has not.  Consistently, he has beckoned for me to take a look at a photo of a good-looking man, point out a possible candidate at a park, (forgetting that all men there are complete strangers,) and simply making suggestions for me to go out on a date.  He has no idea that by Friday, the only date I want to have is with my pillow and DVR shows I have missed for the week.

Life often throws us curve balls, and some people end up in places where they never expected.  I have taught for over twenty years, and while quite a number of my former students have done exceptionally well for themselves (some making twice my salary), others fell into unfortunate circumstances that have landed them behind bars for a while.  I connected with one such student recently and was happy to know that he was alive and doing well. I expressed an interest in making a visit to see him one day to which a reply was sent a few weeks later.  The letter remained opened on my kitchen counter, and I walked away, forgetting that its contents were exposed.

The letter included a lovely photo, but outlined specifics that the prison system  would not allow.  No wires on bras, no jeans, a recommendation of dollar bills and coins for the concession stands and visiting hours were specified.   My eldest was in the kitchen making a snack while my nose remained buried in a stack of books I was studying.  A few moments later, I heard a loud scream.

“MOM!” He hollered at the top of his lungs.

“WHAT!” I hollered back just as loudly.

“MOMMY!” His assumption was that I must not have heard him the first time since I did not come racing down the stairs to answer him.

“WHAT IS IT?” I screamed again, hoping that he would get a clue that I was not moving and he would want to make his way up the stairs to express his concern.

I heard footsteps bounding up the steps, and a very heated child stood at the foot of my bed, a letter hanging at the side of his body.  He threw me a perplexed look and shoved the paper in my face.

“Uhh, mom!” I saw the paper clearly.  “You’re getting our new dad from a PRISON?!?!”

It took everything in my being not to burst into laughter in front of my child. He was serious as a heart attack, and I feared he would have one if I went along with it and told him, “Yes.”

“Oh NO, baby!” I chuckled.  “That is a student of mine from a long time ago!”

“You’re marrying your STUDENT?!?!?”  He was done.

“NOOOO!!!” I replied. “He is in jail honey, and I am going to see him.”

“And why would you do that?” He asked.

“Because I want to check on him to see how he is doing.” Silence. More silence.  Wait for it…

“Well,” he said. “Just don’t tell him where we live!”

He was innocent in his assumptions, but serious with his intent.  He left the paper on my bed and walked away, still a bit exasperated.

If I decide to ever get married again, I am certain that it will be a grueling experience for my new mate.  As long as he is not a cell mate, I think he will do well!

Laugh, people. It’s good for the soul!

Getting a day off from work is both a blessing as well as a curse.  We love it because it is time away from the mundane drill and kill of the work week. We despise it because we run around completing errand after errand until we realize that we are more burnt out being off work than being present.  Why is that?

I must add the insult to injury by stating that a few years ago, my children attended school in the same area where we reside. It was a great way for them to attend school with the children who lived in our neighborhood as well as ride the school bus. (Yes, for them, that is a treat.)  After a year of paying for the bus, a sitter and a cell phone for emergencies, I decided it would be best to move them into the area where I worked.  I could get to them easily enough, and save a ton of money while doing so. At their previous school, holidays, mid-term breaks and unassigned days were different from mine.  Now that they share the same schedule as I do, they are also at home when I have those breaks.  Yay.

Today, I ran more errands than I had completed in a month’s time, making sure to write down every single stop in an organized fashion.  Have you seen gas prices lately?  I didn’t even want to chance making a U-turn because I had forgotten something or done it out of order.  We went to the bank, got haircuts, to the post office, to Wal-Mart, to the grocery store, to the neighborhood car wash, to the Costco warehouse and a sporting goods store.

I stopped at the retailer called Dick’s Sporting Goods to see about a much-needed megaphone for my Leadership class.   I got out of the car, left the boys to watch their movie, and went inside.  After being told they didn’t carry the item, I walked back to my car, ready for the next stop. Behind me, I could hear the boys whispering.

“No, you ask her!” My eldest said.

“Ok, fine then!” His brother agreed. “Mom? Why are you going into a store like that?”

“A store like what?” I asked.

“Uhhh,” he continued. “That one?” He pointed at the store I had just left.

“ I had to get a megaphone. What do you mean? What’s wrong with that store?
“Mom.  It is a nasty store!” He screamed.

“A nasty store? No, it isn’t!” Then it dawned on me.  They could care less that the store’s name was of the person who owned it.  Their mother had entered a ‘nasty’ store and they were embarrassed that I had stopped there with them in the car.

“I hope none of my friends saw me.” The youngest was concerned for his reputation.

Laughing, I assured him that coming out of a sporting goods store would hardly be reason for them to be ridiculed.

Upon arriving home, my eldest was allowed to go outside for a few moments. His brother was on punishment (AGAIN) from his shenanigans at school.  (Back to School Nights are the best, arent’ they?)  He left for about an hour and came back home exhausted from playing football.

“Mom, guess what?” He started.  “I saw a friend of mine just now and he had a new soccer ball. “

“That’s nice.” I said. I don’t get excited over a new ball.

“I asked him where he got it ‘cause it looked kinda cool.  He got it from that nasty place! Can we go back so I can get one too?”

“Uhhhh…”

“Laugh, people. It‘s good for the soul!

“Mommy, why do people do crazy things?” My youngest child asked a few months ago.

“Well, it’s probably because they have nothing better to do.” I responded.

“You mean to tell me they have nothing better to do than eat forty-two hot dogs?” He rolled his eyes in disgust. He had watched a clip on television that highlighted a “hot dog” eating contest. These were the oversized ones that were the size of person’s fist. The winner raised his hands in victory as my son’s face twisted in return.

“That fool is gonna be sick!” He said.

“Yes, he probably will be!” We continued to watch as the crowd cheered for a man who had, you guessed it, nothing better to do than to eat forty-two hot dogs.

My children always have something to do.  At times, they have the opportunity to take a trip to a swap meet with their auntie.  They love those times spent with her, because they are taught how to bargain for the money that they are given.  Both return home, bags filled with their new-found treasures, bragging of how much they spent.

On one occasion, I was able to take them to a yard sale.  While there, we walked around and watched people as they came and went.  One particular stuffed animal caught my youngest son’s eyes.  I knew it had everything to do with the fact that it had spiky hair.  He grabbed it for a quarter and thought of nothing else he wanted that day. Upon returning home, he ran upstairs and stayed there for at least an hour.  I called for him to come down for dinner and he took longer than usual.

“Little boy! You need to come down here and eat so that you can take a shower and go to bed!” I yelled.

“OK!! I’m coming!” He bellowed back.

A few moments later, he came running down the stairs. It was evident that his shirt was soaking wet.

His brother, who was sitting at the table, stopped in the middle of his meal to stare at him.

“What— in the world— are you doing?” He asked.

I had to support this line of questioning as I had wondered that very thing.

“Don’t worry about it!” He blasted.  “You are so nosey.  Mind your own business, dude!”

“Honey,” I asked, “What exactly were you doing upstairs and why are you soaking wet?”

“Huh?” It is the first sign of admission of guilt.

“Huh?” I mocked.  “You heard me!”

“Yeah! You heard her!” His brother added.

“I’m gonna need you to shut up!” He gritted his teeth, and clenched his fist, now bothered that he had been cornered on both ends.

“I’m just gonna run upstairs and see what’s wet, and then I can let mom know why you are drippin’ like you’ve been sweatin’ and it’s night time!” His brother left the table, and the youngest leaped over three steps to beat him to the top.  Later, he walked down holding a soaking stuffed bear.

“What in the world did you do to the bear?” I asked.

“ I washed his hair!” He said in his meek voice.

“You did WHAT?” His brother shrieked.

I then noticed that the hair on the bear was standing straight up in a spiked position.

“You wanted it to have spiky hair?” He was already embarrassed, and I tried to make things better.

“Yeeess.  See? I even put your lotion on it so it would stay straight.”

I touched the hair of the bear, maintained composure and shook my head. Just then, his brother, unable to resist, shook his head as well.

“What?” My poor little stylist cried.

“You had nothin’ better to do, huh?”

“Shut up!”

My kids have never played with dolls of any kind.  The bear, however, could be manipulated to look like the kids with spiky hair my son so admired. A few days later, I allowed him to spike my hair, because, you guessed it—I had nothing better to do!

Laugh, people. It’s good for the soul!

I honestly believe that idioms are America’s way of confusing foreigners.  It is a plain and simple fact.  I mean, seriously; as if English was not complicated enough, we had to add idiomatic expressions to the mix to ensure that foreigners stayed completely out of the loop?  The problem is, parents are now the foreigners when it comes to listening to our kids speak.

Try growing up in the Bahamas where we had the dialect, the accent and the idiomatic sayings all rolled into one.  For example, if someone said, “Well, mudda sick! You actin’ like poomp don’t stink in your house! (Translation:  I can’t believe it! You believe that fart does not smell bad in your home! This means you are just as normal as anyone else!)  Our poor tourists are probably thoroughly confused by the time they leave our island!

I had a special friend who moved here from South Africa.  When we first met, she was fresh to the American way of life. This included the speaking, the dressing and the complete ways of the culture.  As we started hanging out, I would say things that confused her poor brain.  One day, we went to a department store, and she needed some new tennis shoes. She tried them on and I responded, “Oooh, Mpho, those are tight!”

“Oh no, girl,” she said.  “They are fine!”

She got confused when it was ‘raining cats and dogs’ and when something cost ‘a pretty penny.’  What difference does it make if a penny is pretty or ugly? It still holds the same value!  After a while, she got the hang of it and could be heard using these new expressions in her own special way.

One weekend, we went to the movies. As we were leaving the theater, I asked her how she enjoyed the show.

“It was trippin’!” she replied.

“Huh?  So, did you like it or not?” I was the one who was now confused but chuckled at her attempt.

“Duh!” With hands raised in the air, she looked at me in disbelief. “Da bomb?”  I burst into laughter.  She knew what she meant. The shame was on me for not getting it the first time.

My profession, I believe, is what has kept me afloat in this game I call Idio-tomatic. I am thankful that I work with teenagers;  it helps when attempting to understand my own children.  My boys become excited over video games, and are thrilled when there is action and adventure.  One day, I walked into the room to see my youngest, jumping up and down in a frenzy.

“Yeah, baby! Did you see that, mom? That was sick!”  He jumped back into the game to become even sicker and enjoyed every minute of it.

After watching a DVD at home one Saturday evening, a friend of theirs who had spent the night grinned with delight.

“Dude! That was EPIC!” He raised his hand for a Hi-5.  My eldest, shaking his head in agreement, replied “Sweeeet!”

I assumed he meant that it was better than good, and the sweetness on top of that made it unlike anything they had seen in a while.

I recall a time when a ‘baller’ was someone who simply played basketball, but then changed to someone who had a ton of money.  Note to self; professional ball players have a ridiculous cash flow. That makes them ‘ballers’ in every sense of the word. Yes? Or am I just catching on to the combination of terms?

I am elated that on some days, ‘Awesome!’ still resembles something that is amazing.  But now, thanks to a songwriter at church, it has been changed to ‘awesomazing!’  The term ‘punk’ was used by their friends to describe a person who was a pest or a bothersome presence. Thanks to television and Ashton Kutcher, it is now an excellent way to play a prank on someone.

I tend to believe that this will only worsen as my children mature.  I figure the best way for me to stay on top of things is to continue to surround myself with teens.  And that, my friends, is a scary thought. You feel me?

Laugh, people.  It’s good for the soul!

Hair is something that could either make or break an appearance.  Some haircuts are intentional; I often wonder how a person could decide on a certain style and actually venture into a public place assuming that they are representing the majority. Maybe it is intentionally not appealing to appear as individualistic as possible.  Or maybe it was a haircut gone terribly wrong at the barbershop or beauty salon.

When we sit in someone’s chair, we are placing our trust in the fact that the degree or certificate on the wall is valid, and ensures that services received will be of the highest quality. There have been times, however, that some of us have wished we never stepped foot into those establishments.

When I was a child, my mother was responsible for doing my hair.  I had so much hair that it was clearly too much for my little head at the time.  Parted down the middle, my hair had two colossal poufs known as ponytails to some, but looked like two long, wet mops.  In order to tame the wild strands of hair, a perm was suggested.  No one knew how long those things were really supposed to stay on your head.  Mine was not timed appropriately.  After the first week, my hair started to shed and has never been the same since. There have been a number of mishaps since then, but the worst is receiving a cut that was much shorter than you approved. Once it is done, it is done!

Siblings are not truly siblings until one decides to “trim” the hair of another.  A friend of mine has two girls, and one of them thought it cute to give her sister some bangs.  Boy, did it bang!  She kept cutting, and cutting and cutting until the bang resembled a patch of Astroturf!  Her mother was mortified and had to trim the poor child’s head all the way to the scalp. To teach her sister a lesson, she trimmed them both so that they would match. With two of them in tears, each learned that picking up a pair of scissors again would not be a good idea.

My children have bugged me for various hairstyles.  They are African-American, so the choices are somewhat limited. My youngest son, when he was about four years old, would run up to a Caucasian or Latino kid, (any Caucasian or Latino kid), who had used gel and run his hand over the spiked top. He got so much joy out of it that he would run toward the child shouting, “Spikey hair, spikey hair!” He never understood why those children ran for cover, but he was a pretty scary sight as he made a beeline straight for their heads.

Then we moved into the phase of Mohawks.  I had to explain to my children that black people don’t have Mohawks.  They have Brohawks.

“Huh? What the heck is a Brohawk? I don’t want no Brohawk!” My youngest exclaimed.

“Oohh!” His brother grabbed a clue. “I get it! You are a BRO, get it?”

“Uhhh, no.”

“A brother? A black person? Like you and me?” My eldest was patient, but failing miserably.

“O….K…..You are caramel, remember?” He still was not connecting. His brother ran to get a magazine he had read and flipped through several pages.

“That!  That is a Brohawk!” He pointed at the most hideous photo I had seen in a while, and I vowed that type of hair would never be seen in my house.

“Yeah, baby! Sick!  That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” He was going to have a Brohawk and there was no getting around that discussion.  We talked about it until I was nauseous.  He finally got his Brohawk and has wanted one every month since then.

My oldest son has recently been obsessed with growing his hair so that he could have dread locks.  He loves the way they shake, and since his hair doesn’t shake like other kids, he figures the only way to have this type of hair is to grow locks and mimic the Rastas he sees on YouTube. (Or the kid at his school whose locks are down the middle of his back.)

“Honey, it takes years to grow locks like that, and it also takes a lot of maintenance. You don’t even like to comb your hair!” I said.

“I’ll comb it every day! I promise!” He meant well, but I knew better.

After several weeks of begging him to wash, comb, and condition his hair, he became noticeably frustrated that the hair was not growing fast enough.

“Mommy!” He whined. “Why is it taking so long?”

“Well, it takes a while for hair to grow, but there is something that you can do to make it grow faster.”

His eyes widened. “What! Tell me!”

“Some Rastafarians from home use mayonnaise, egg yolk and horse manure.” I suggested, knowing that it would become a platform for further discussion.

“And what is horse manure?” He asked with one raised eyebrow.

“Doo-doo.” I responded.

“Umm.  No thanks. I’m good!”

The following week, we were back to nicely shaved heads.

Laugh, people.  It’s good for the soul!