August 8, 2011
It’s a… It’s a… BOOK!
Two days ago, I held in my hands something of my own creation. It measures 8×5 inches and weighs mere ounces. It has a light bronze and maroon cover, and is 150 pages long. Yes, it is my first book, and I remember the day I took it from its corrugated cardboard shell and held it in my hands as well as the day I held each of my three children for the first time. It was not as slimy, did not squirm, and instead of a cry, all I heard was the gentle rustle of pages flipping through my fingers.
Even though childbirth is an exclusively female experience– parenting is not. Writing a novel is like raising a child and letting him loose in the world to see what he will become.
All writing begins with an idea. That is conception. Like the newly fertilized egg, the idea splits and it grows. The novel has a central theme– that is the formation of the heart and circulatory system. There is a plot, the engine that drives the theme. In an unborn baby that would be the brain and central nervous system. Then there are characters who become your vital organs, bones, and limbs. You also have inanimate characters which are necessary to make the story complete. These are your descriptive devices– your setting, the backstory, the sights and sounds of your story. These become the muscles, skin, hair, and nails of a newborn.
However with a book, unlike with a baby, the sleepless nights, the self-doubt, the second-guessing, the pacing, and the frustration all come before the birth.
Once you have conquered all those things, you finally feel ready to parade your manuscript in front of publishers who will tell you, “No. It’s not ready. You have to put that bun back in the oven.” Could you imagine a doctor telling a mother after 26 hours of failed induced labor and an emergency c-section, “Sorry. Baby is not cute enough. I’m gonna shove him back in and let him cook a little longer.”
WHAT? After ALL THAT WORK?
Well, a book is not a baby, but it springs from your loins as if it were searching for his breath. So when the mainstream publishing doctors told me to put my bun back in the oven, I got a second opinion. A midwife if you will. I chose to take control of my destiny and self-publish with iUniverse.
The result is Bound by Betrayal. It is a story that was conceived as an exercise in a writing workshop, and that I wanted to carry full-term. It is the fulfillment of a promise I made to myself.
I hope you BUY the book. I hope you READ the book. Finally, I hope you ARE INSPIRED to dust off a promise that you made to yourself, that you have not kept, and reignite the flame that will light the path towards your own fulfillment.
Trust me– IT ROCKS!
February 7, 2009
Warning: Glass House in Rock-Falling Area
At the 2008 Beijing Olympics, Michael Phelps won eight gold medals in a spectacular display of human determination and physical strength. There was enough saliva drooling from the mouths of corporate sponsors and marketing czars, ready to sign him on as their spokesman, to fill another olympic-sized pool. Phelps was barely out of the water when sports commentators began talking about how much money he was already signed for and speculating how much money he would make in bonuses after he reached a certain medal-count. Now the media, who lauded Phelps, is making him the new pirana–er, pariah.
Beware: the same media smells blood in the water. Every time a cultural icon gets caught in an act of human frailty, the writers, editors, anchors, and producers of news shows engage in a contest to see whose headline becomes the next catch-phrase that is mimicked on competitive broadcasts or in competitive publications. The story becomes about moralizing rather than simply reporting. It is this moralizing that makes corporate sponsors jittery and quick to cancel contracts and pull ads displaying the likeness of the fallen media darling.
Michael Phelps has lost two of his endorsements so far — Kellog’s and Subway Sandwiches. The reason of course being that his image is tarnished. First, let us establish the image of Michael Phelps.
This young man has been waking up with the roosters for years, just to make swim practice. Practice. Add to that, traveling to and from swim meets, while still having to do homework and take exams. I am sure Phelps has missed a sleep-over or two in his lifetime. I am sure he has missed a few midnight screenings of some big block-buster movies. I am sure he has come home from practice or swim meets too exhausted to go to a basement party at the home of some kid whose parents are out of town. Phelps probably did do much skate-boarding in the mall parking lots, or sitting in booths at McDonald’s guzzling Big Macs, or pulling all-nighters in front of Playstation. He could not have been doing all of those things and still manage to leave the 2008 Beijing Olympics with eight gold medals. But, that is just my guess.
Was it my imagination or was the whole world watching Michael Phelps swim– breathlessly waiting to see him touch that wall? We were as vested in his qualifying heats as the finals. His fellow Olympians (athletes whose chances for gold were as good as Phelps’) came to watch sports history be made. It was phenomenal! We were so proud of him and so happy for his mother. This kid who had not always had an easy go if it, was finally catching a well-earned break. Money was not going to be his problem. Michael Phelps inspired me to push my kids a little harder when they refused to put their faces underwater in our pop-up pool. When he announced that he was going to take a long break and not go back to his regimented practice sessions until after the new year, I was happy to hear it.
Then some jerk decided to leak a picture to the tabloids of Michael Phelps at a not-so-spectacular moment. Now, I can think of a few words for the person to took the picture. A few more for the editor who decided to run with the picture. My annoyance with them does not preclude me from understanding the truth. Michael Phelps, by his own admission, smoked pot at college party.
In one day, Michael Phelps smoking pot became as large an issue as the crumbling global economy. Okay. Fine. It is “news” I guess. But is what followed necessary? The tearing down of a 23-year-old? If he was any other 23-year-old, it would be a matter for his parents, and possibly the local authorities. The matter would be handled internally and no one would have to know. The kid would go to church with his mother on Sunday and report for his desk ticket appearance on Monday. He would get a stern-talking to, perhaps a healthy dose of fear, a fine, and a promise of incarceration if it ever happened again. But it was not an ordinary 23-year-old. It was Michael Phelps, America’s sweetheart. Nothing makes people happier than seeing the mighty fall.
The question “Is Michael Phelps a good role model?” was on all the morning talk-shows. Most 23-year-olds are still looking for a role model. At least Phelps admitted to inhaling. Michael Phelps stepped in front of the cameras to accept responsibility for his lapse in judgment with as much dignity as he stepped in front of the cameras to accept the accolades in Beijing.
I think THAT is something that children should emulate. Phelps made a mistake. He owned up to that mistake. Instead of taking away his corporate sponsorship, why not expand Phelps’ spokesman responsibilities to include him talking to kids about being honest when they make mistakes. Forget about him telling kids not to smoke pot.
Frankly, I am more concerned about thongs becoming the underwear of choice for young girls. Victoria’s Secret –now there is a wholesome image. But careers are launched from its pages, rather than destroyed. Marketing execs do not scratch their heads over rehabilitating that campaign.
Here is the real newsflash: KIDS WHO ARE INCLINED TO SMOKE POT, HAVE SEX, CUT SCHOOL, ETC., ARE GOING TO SMOKE POT, HAVE SEX, CUT SCHOOL, ETC., NO MATTER WHAT MICHAEL PHELPS SAYS OR DOES!!!
And when they do, I hope you wrap a protective blanket around them, and help them realize why their choice was a bad one. I hope you put the information on lock-down, and only share it with people who are willing to pitch in and inspire your kids to do better. I hope you do not write them off at the tender age of 16, or 19, or 23, or ever. Mostly I hope you remember that you were young and dumb once, and someone believed in you enough to see past your actions, into your character, and forgive you.
February 3, 2009
Mad Money
I sat down to watch “Mad Money,” a movie starring Diane Keaton, Queen Latifah, and Katie Holmes, expecting to see a screwball comedy about female comraderie à la Lucy and Ethel, and instead saw a depiction of what can happen when otherwise good people decide to take short cuts to solve problems that were created by their tendency to take short cuts.
I will try not to give too much away because I think “Mad Money” is worth watching for yourself.
The story begins when Diane Keaton’s character, Bridgette, finds out from her neighbors, that her husband, Don (played by Ted Danson) has put their house up for sale. Don was merged out of a job a year earlier, and the couple is $286,000 in debt. This is all news to Bridgette who despite the loss of income, lived as though nothing had changed.
Faced with the reality of their financial situation, Bridgette, a comparative literature major who has never worked, and whose skill set is antiquated at best, embarks on a quest to find employment. The woman who can no longer afford to pay her cleaning lady, lands a job scrubbing toilets at the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City.
Because Bridgette is less susceptible to intimidation than the rank and file employees at the Fed, she immediately sees the blind spots in the bank’s heavy-handed security system. A lightbulb goes off over Bridgette’s head and she hatches a plan to steal the “old money” that has been designated for destruction.
Bridgette recruits Nina (played by Queen Latifah) and Jackie (Katie Holmes) as partners. The rest of the movie plays out as bank caper movies always do.
What has stayed with me since I saw “Mad Money” two days ago is how rational people convince themselves and each other to do, the not only irrational– but illegal, in order to experience a lifestyle they have not necessarily earned.
Bridgette, Nina, and Jackie are good people. They mind their business, and pay their taxes (at least on their earned income). If her husband had not been downsized, Bridgette would still be living blissfully in suburbia. She wouldn’t even know people like Nina and Jackie– an African-American, single mother living in urban Kansas, and a quirky, free-spirit living in a trailer. In order to recruit Nina, Bridgette did a most cruel and underhanded thing. In my mind it was even more amoral than stealing the money. Bridgette preyed on Nina’s desire to keep her young sons from falling victim to the lure of the street. Nina runs a tight ship at home, and proudly displayed one of those, “My kid is on the honor roll at…” bumper stickers. Though each time Bridgette broached the subject of relieving the Fed of it’s used currency, Nina told Bridgette to take a hike, there was no resisting the allure of an education for her boys at the private schools whose brochures Bridgette crammed into Nina’s locker.
To the viewer, watching these three very affable women improve their lives at the expense of “the system,” is entertaining enough. Maybe you even wonder what it would be like to have so much actual cash, that you hardly have enough storage in your house to hid it.
This is a movie, and it is fantasy. The one thing that does ring true is that no one has robbed the Federal Reserve Bank and gotten away with it.
But what about when the target is not the Federal Reserve Bank? What about when the target is the endowment fund at a school, or a retiree’s 401K account, or the mortgage of a high-risk buyer, or a car left running in the driveway of a single-mom on her way to work, or a pack of gum at the supermarket checkout?
In this Enron, Madoff, time-sharing, ponzi-scheming era, it certainly seems that the line Bridgette delivers at the beginning of the movie is accurate– “Crime is contagious.”
November 6, 2008
The Day After THE Day
The culmination of our audacity to hope came on November 4, 2008. It will forever be known as the day America decided to choose its destiny rather than sit idly and be told what its future holds. On this day, America put its vote where it historically said it was willing to, but had yet to turn the idea into reality.
Children under the age of ten will not understand what the big deal is to have a black president. They understand that Barack Obama is the first, but they will not understand the impossibility of it happening before now.
How many times did we hear it said and perhaps said it ourselves, that we never thought we would see America elect a black president, “in our lifetime.” A powerful thought rendered innocuous because we believed it so purely.
Putting a man on the moon was more plausible than electing a black person president of this country. WOW. We cannot let our youth forget. Black people must discuss the atrocities of slavery and racism with the same candor that the Holocaust is discussed in Jewish homes. Even though they did not live it, we must make sure that our black children internalize segregation and the civil rights movement. It is necessary to make them believe that their future is not relegated by their past. And that their destinies have not yet been defined.
It is not– it cannot be Barack Obama’s victory alone. It must be everyone’s victory.
The election of Barack Obama to the American presidency is a call to arms, a mandate for all parents and families, to do better, to create better citizens, better communities, to inspire better students, and to enforce better behavior in our children.
People do not want to hear it. We never want to be told that we have to restrict our indulgence in what feels good. Food, alcohol, music, television, shopping. You name it, we indulge in it—FULLY.
Children have to do more than show up at school. They have to engage and take ownership of their education. Parents have to make the tough calls, and turn off televisions and video games. The word, “No,” must come in vogue again.
Being responsible does not have to mean the end of fun. In fact, it is quite the opposite. Prison, underachievement, poverty, and single-parenthood did not equal a good time last time I checked.
When asked on MTV recently if he supported fines for young men who wear sagging pants, President Obama had this to say, “…brothers should pull up their pants. You are walking by your mother, your grandmother, your underwear is showing. What’s wrong with that? Come on. There are some issues that we face, that you don’t have to pass a law, but that doesn’t mean folks can’t have some sense and some respect for other people.”
President-elect Obama did not suggest young men pull up their pants because he wants all black men to aspire to be president. Barack Obama said it because how you look, and how you behave reflect what you feel about yourself and what you want from life.
Everyone wants something. I suspect young men with their pants hanging below their rear ends must want something too. At the very least, they should want to be warm.
Comedian D.L. Hughley said now that Barack Obama has been elected president, black youth can stop wanting to become rappers and ball players and comedians. He said they should get serious about their education and really become something. I understand his point, but let’s not throw out viable and legitimate options. It is not the profession – there is nothing wrong with being a rapper, or a ball player, or a comedian – but the attitude about and approach to these career paths which must change and evolve.
If you want to become president, you should know something about history, and government. The same hold true if you want to be a musician. You should learn about music. All music. Know the names, styles, and stories of those who came before you. Educate yourself about what you love whether it be politics, sports, theater, or fishing. If you love it, learn it, know it and grow from it.
The lesson we should take from this election is about courage, conviction, perseverance, and yes – hope.
October 29, 2008
Scary Halloween
I was reading Lisa Belkin’s blog, The Motherlode, on the New York Times website this morning and was relieved to see that it’s not just me that is concerned about the state of dress or undress of Halloween costumes for young girls.
I was all set to write a lenghthy comment to her blog when it struck me. I have my own blog. True, I haven’t posted in two years, but thanks to the wonderful people at WordPress, it still exists. How? I assure you I do not know.
But back to Lisa’s point about the costumes. She writes, “…I had to navigate aisle upon aisle of costumes for children. Most of them were for girls. And most of them were risqué.” She’s being very nice.
Young boys still want to be superheros. They don’t get into the gorry stuff until their about nine or ten-years-old, unless they have an older brother who tells them Bumblebee from Transformers is for punks. Girls can get away with being vegetation (strawberries, pumpkins) until they’re two. After that there are only two choices– Disney princess, or junior slut. Once your daughter turns eight, unless she’s really petite, she’s got to look at the adult costume wall, where the choices are slut and I-wish-I-was-skinny-enough-to-fit-into-it slut costume. The days of the homemade cat costumes are over because well, most of us don’t know how to sew. And if we did, we don’t have the time to do it correctly. The poor kid would look more like a rescue cat, than Felix the Cat.
I wish it ended with Halloween costumes. That’s just one day out of the year. Try buying pants for your sons that aren’t too baggy and don’t drag beneath their feet. Or a shirt for your daughter that she could actually tuck into her pants– that is if you can find a pants whose waistline hits at her actual waistline.
Let kids be kids. They will all naturally push the envelope where clothing is concerned when they’re teenagers. But when it’s built into their childhood, what’s left to look forward to? Makeup comes standard with every doll, so you don’t have to wait until Mommy lets you play with the good stuff. There are no more rights of passage.
It is such a stark contrast to childhood in the 60s, 70s, even 80s. What drives it? My theory is that the need of modern-day parents to have their children be “cool” is overtaking basic values and good judgment. Parents don’t want their kids to “suffer” the way they did. They don’t want their kids teased. They want their kids to have what they didn’t have. What is that exactly? It’s being cool. Well guess what? NO ONE WAS COOL! And it was beautiful. Everyone was a nerd, even the cool kids, until graduation. Just check your yearbook. That’s why they invented High School reunions– so you can avenge yourself.
When you really stop to think about it, children don’t care about all the stuff. Just look at their bedroom floors. They’re tripping over things they “had to have” but can’t be bothered to take care of once you’ve bought it– beginning with those serial killer zombie and French maid costumes you bought for Halloween.
August 31, 2006
Time of Death– 10:17pm
Well, to be truthful, we don’t know when Elmo died. 10:17pm is when we discovered him. I was admonishing my husband for forgetting to buy more worms and decided to check on the little guy.
Elmo was perched on the island in his amphibious lagoon– now his grave. He got so skinny in just two days. Taking care of this newt was very nerve-wracking. Kids form these attachments and it becomes the parents’ nightmare to keep their pets alive.
Having a newt or fish is not the same as a dog or cat. There is no physical contact with a newt. My daughter could only watch Elmo in his habitat. There was one unsanctioned petting session about two weeks ago, but mostly it was a long distance relationship. She was so proud to have been chosen by her teacher to inherit the contents of the class aquarium. It was my entire motivation for seeing Elmo reach a ripe, old age
“Good Morning Elmo. Actually, it’s night for you because you’re nocturnal.” She said this practically every morning. Every night she said, “Good night Elmo. Well, it’s good night for me, because your day is just starting.”
She took it better than I thought she would. She cried, but regained her composure fairly quickly. Maybe she’s getting used to her father’s Kevorkianesque approach to pet care.
It was much worse three weeks ago when she discovered that Dorothy her goldfish of three years had taken a nibble out of one of the newest inhabitants of the fish tank. Yes, another from the classroom tank. To be fair it was more than a nibble. Instead of finding five live fish she found four and a torso. Her scream was straight out of The Godfather except we don’t own horses (if you get my meaning).
She went on and on about trusting Dorothy with the new fish and how she didn’t think her goldfish would eat the new fish since so much time had gone by since we integrated the fish. My heart broke. I felt betrayed. We go through such pains to shelter our children from these little disappointments.
Isn’t it silly to be concerned about dead newts and the reality of the food chain? We don’t want these ugly images in our kids’ heads– yet, so much of the world is engaged in war, genocide and suffering the reality of the ravages of nature. Who is making sure that children in Iraq, Sudan, Lebanon, Israel, or any poverty-stricken country don’t see ugly things?
July 20, 2006
If “Not me,” then who?
Ever see a first-time grandparent gaze at their new grandbaby through the glass at the hospital nursery? That blissful look comes not only from the immense love they feel for this baby but from the knowledge that their wish that their child has a child “just like you” has just been fulfilled.
My dad got a lot of mileage out of using the “Not me”
character from Bil Keane’s Sunday comic strip, The Family Circus. You remember. One of the kids would break a vase or make a mess and when the parents walk into the room to ask, “Who did that?” the child would put on their best angelic expression and answer, “Not me,” while a ghost with the words, Not Me, or Ida Know, written across its chest would hover in the background. The father would stand there scratching his head at the mystery of it all.
Well my dad wouldn’t bother asking us who did it. He would just call us by our names, “Hey, ‘Not Me’, come and clean up this mess!” At first, we didn’t get it, but he explained that he already knew that “Not Me” did it, so knowing his daughters and son to be bright children, he had faith that we understood that “Not Me” (meaning not HIM) was going to clean it up.
Well I haven’t seen “Not Me” in comic form or any form in many, many years. Then last night he came to my house opened a brand new container of Minute Maid Citrus punch and spilled it on the table. Well, true to form, during the inquisition he admitted his guilt. “Who spilled the juice?”
“Not me.”
“Not me.”
“Not me-e.”
Ah. That’s a new twist. Not me-e. You see a true disciple of the Not Me principle knows that to modulate your voice, shift in your seat, or fail to look your accuser in the eye (as well as look at them too long) is an admission that it was indeed you who committed the act. This causes the parent to set free the other two suspects and focus on the amateur– uh– guilty party– alleged guilty party.
You don’t have to be Raymond Burr to break a four-year-old. You have only to say their name in a soft, sympathetic voice and the tears begin. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry Mommy.” Poor kid. He wrapped himself around my legs and ran down the entire sequence of events.
What isn’t written in any parenting book is how to keep a straight face when your kids do things that you really should be disciplining them for, but it’s just so damned adorable that you are more amused than upset.
Well, I did my job, told him the importance of always telling the truth. Explained that I would need to know if the juice carton came from the store that way, and that I will never be mad at him for telling the truth. I thanked him for his courage and gave him big kisses and high-fives.
Happy that his universe was still in tact my little boy made sure I knew he understood the importance of always telling the truth. After months of regaling us with stories of Arrina, his best friend from school, he admitted that she is not real.
Did I mention he doesn’t start school until September?
July 12, 2006
The Djazz Guy
I mentioned that I would be reworking some of my “older” pieces to post on this blog. I wrote “The Djazz Guy” five years ago. It’s strange to see how my writing style has changed. Dare I say it? Grown even.
When I was deciding which pieces I would re-work and which pieces I wouldn’t, “The Djazz Guy” didn’t make the cut. Too dated, I thought. Then I saw him. He was waiting to order food at a Haitian take-out restaurant. He is as alive and well in 2006 as he was in 2001 when he debuted on the pages of The Haitian Times.
To help my non-Haitian friends with the Creole. Sak pasé– means “What’s up?” Neg la oui– means “I’m hanging in there,” and a “bal” is a dance at a hall with a live band. My spellings may be a bit off, but my translations are on point.
So with a few minor edits I present to you:
The Djazz Guy 
By Mylene Mordan-Hollant
Originally appeared in The Haitian Times July 11-17, 2001
He is in his 20s to late 30s and has a medium build. His hair is either cut into a fade or he’s trying to grow dreadlocks. His suit is olive green, mustard or black. He wears a leather jacket that is drenched in cologne. He never surrenders that leather jacket to the coat-check. He would rather carry it all night to prove he has good taste. He travels in a group of at least three other guys. He drives a black BMW– circa 1986. He has a confident walk, and an even more confident way of talking. Wherever he goes, people call out to him, “Sak pasé?” His response, “Neg la oui.”
What he does Monday through Thursday is a mystery, but come Friday night, he can be found at any given “bal.” Who will it be this week: Sweet Mickey, Zin, T-Vice? It doesn’t matter. The choices are endless. His goal is to listen to the music and hang out with his friends. He has a girlfriend, but she spends her weekends at home. He uses her parents’ strict rules as an excuse not to bring her. The reality is he is too cheap to pay her entrance fee to the club.
After paying the $20.00 admission fee and $6.00 for the Heineken or Guiness he’ll be nursing all night, he settles in to enjoy the evening. The three friends he came with are busily making fools of themselves trying to pick up girls.
It must be said that the three friends are never as cool as their fearless leader. These guys are usually short, overweight, have no leather coat and no vintage BMW of which to boast. The don’t even have the money for a Heineken. They donated it to the worthy cause of filling the gas tank in order to embark on this evening’s adventure. They definitely– definitely do not have girlfriends that they left at home pining away for their 4am phone call saying they are home safely and had a boring time at the club. This is the life of the Djazz Guy.
He is a dinosaur that will not be extinct. Why in the year 2001 are women even remotely interested in this man? The dating standard in the Haitian-American community must be raised. Is this our Prince Charming? Is this the person our daughters are aspiring to date? That our sons are aspiring to be? What is his appeal? Why does he get all the attention, while the quieter, well-mannered, educated young man with the less flashy (and probably more reliable) car is overlooked?
Surely it is not because he knows how to treat a woman. The Djazz Guy most often attempts to juggle several women at once. It can’t be because he wines and dines a woman. The Djazz Guy always says he’s broke, leaving the lucky girl to be in his company with the check. Yet strangely, he never seems to be without a girl on his arm.
It is time that young, Haitian women demand more for themselves. This is a call to finally put into the history books the dinosaur called The Djazz Guy. Let him be alone on a Saturday night for a change. Maybe his friend, The Car Guy, will be home to take his call.
June 29, 2006
Everybody was Nobody
Everybody was nobody. This is what I repeat to myself when I think I can’t do this–this writing. We create these images for ourselves of people who are famous or accomplished in the areas that we imagine ourselves possessing some talent. We imagine them coming out of the womb accomplished. That they were precocious children– honor students, valedictorians, and just simply genius. That their destinies were reached without much effort. But it’s not true. They messed up, doubted themselves and probably believed that they should hold on tight to that day job. They were and are people like us– with dreams– with fears. We need to believe that they were extraordinary in order to not kill ourselves or worse, give up on our dreams.
Maybe it’s because I finally believe in myself. Maybe it’s because I’m tired of talking. Maybe it’s because I want to teach my kids by example, but whatever it is, I refuse to believe that success belongs to a predetermined amount of people of which I am not one.
This is not about money (though it wouldn’t suck) it’s about personal fulfillment. It’s about finding your strength and your voice and your purpose.
It’s about the journey– and not letting fear drive you off the road.
June 25, 2006
The Never-ending, Ever-comforting Cycle of Motherhood
By Mylene Mordan-Hollant
Originally appeared in The Haitian Times, May 7-13, 2003
Life follows a pattern. We are born, grow up, get married, and have children. Seems natural right? For some it is not natural at all. Many people don't have the luxury of planning when they will have children. It just happens.
As we fall into parenthood, we turn to those whom we know to be experts in the field, our own parents. To be specific, our mothers.
The time before the birth of a first child is more emotional than your worst bout of PMS. No matter where the mood swings take you (or your poor husband) there is no emotion more gripping than fear.
What kind of mother will you be?
Certain things you know for sure: You want to be more open-minded than your mother. You want to be less critical. More encouraging. More supportive. You want to befriend your child, but not to the point where they forget who is the parent. Most of all, you want to be liked.
Will this baby like you? Will she think that you're cool? Funny? Smart? Pretty? Will he prefer to be in your arms over anyone else's? Will she cry at the mere sight of a stranger? No, you don't want that. No shy kids. You do not want them afraid of people. But you can't help but smile internally at the thought of your baby shunning that one person who grates on your nerves. Yes, finally you will have someone on your team! Someone who thinks you hold the key to the world's bank of knowledge and wisdom.
For Haitians, mothers are sacred. Actually, the only person who had a mother slightly better than your own was Jesus Christ.
I defy you to find a Haitian willing to denounce his mother. Yes, "his." But the topic of Haitian men and their mothers is a whole other psychosis to be addressed at another time.
Haitian women, however, set aside their value as mothers in deference to their predecessors. Buy something nice your your mother, and she will immediately respond by saying how much your grandmother would enjoy the item as well. That is very understandable because as a new mom, you want to share all your discoveries with your mother. You begin to feel connected and bonded with your mother in a way that is new and wonderful.
For the first time, you think you understand her. You know why she was overprotective. You know that she held you back for your own good. You still think that the skirts she made for you could have been a little shorter, but hey. She knew that the timing of your growing up had to be perfect in order for you to have the life that she hoped and dreamed you would. And you do.
So it is no surprise that the first face that you want to see upon bringing home that beautiful bundle from the hospital is your mother's. Consequently, it is also the first face you want to see leave.
What was supposed to be the best time of your life has been miserable. The baby is cute, but beyond that you are clueless. What happened to the transition period? Where is the child that is supposed to look longingly into your eyes, bonding instantly with your soul, worshipping you from the moment of her first breath? This baby is supposed to be quiet and coo and cuddle. Not cry and fuss. In this world for one week and already the most demanding human being you have ever known. You've been home for two hours and you haven't sat down yet. If not for breastfeeding, you probably wouldn't sit down for two years.
And where is your husband? How doting he was in the hospital– focusing only on you and the baby. There was such pride and awe in his eyes. He hasn't been in love like this since you exchanged vows. Except this time, it's not with you–it's with the baby. Oh, he still loves you. But this is his progeny! The fruit of his loom! While he's making doe-eyes , you're getting your butt kicked by a one-week-old.
Finally, the doorbell rings and like manna from heaven, there appears your mother. Thank you, God. Her coat is barely off before you pour your frustrated baby into her plush and experienced arms. Your anxiety seems to melt away. You begin to feel human. You actually sit down. It's a miracle that your knees have not become arthritic for lack of use.
Order has been restored. Once again, all is right with the world. You look at your baby so happy and quiet. Your mother begins humming that lullaby long forgotten as she walks, sways, and rocks the baby. A sense of peace washes over you. The baby begins to nuzzle your mother's bosom. How cute. You giggle at the scene because that well has been dry for years.
Then the panic begins to creep back into your psyche. Why is the child so quiet? So content? The answer is obvious–your mother. The baby somehow senses she is in the hands of a professional–a Supermom if you will, and is now happy. Happy and sleeping. God saved her from the impostor posing as a carrier of the maternal gene, and delivered to her a hero. Only this hero doesn't wear a cape, she wears an apron. In her secret lair, you won't find a super computer, but a well-appointed kitchen with a perfectly stocked pantry. On her utility belt, there is a cache of wooden spoons and spices that can turn boiling water and raw meat into a weapon of mass destruction felling all who partake of the meal into a stupor of culinary satisfaction. One bite and all your secrets are revealed.
Compete against this? It can not be done. You do not possess the skills. That fancy education and job of yours are useless in this arena. That sense of calm you felt just moments ago has now been replaced by an absolutely primordial urge to reclaim your baby.
This is absurd. The baby does not prefer your mother over you–not that you could blame her if she did. You may not know what you're doing, but this baby is yours. You are an accomplished person. You will figure this out. You assure your mother that everything is fine and that you are getting the hang of it. You could use a little more sleep, but it's part of the deal. Your gentle reassurances convince your mother that is is okay to leave. She watches as you settle into bed next to your sleeping baby.
As the fatigue begins to overtake you, the softness and smell of your new baby begins to quell your fears and insecurities. Your mother gently slides out of your bedroom and your last thought before drifting off to long-awaited sleep is how much you hope that your baby feels as safe in your arms as you still feel in your mother's.
