My son has a Mohawk Mentality

I have a nearly three-year old. Anyone that has witnessed the phenomenon of an almost three-year old, has to sympathize with me, at least a little. He's a tyrant, nothing is shared properly; he's tempermental and emotional--one moment we are laughing about something he did or said and the very next breath, he is crying because he didn't want to take a nap three hours ago. Anyone that's seen an almost three-year old MUST sympathize.
Anyone that's seen MY almost three-year old is at first shocked that he can talk the way he does, in clear and plain English, stating facts about his surrounding concisely. He speaks to EVERY single person we pass in the grocery store or Target, and will often ask their names before telling them his and asking when their birthday is. He wears his pride on his sleeve. And he wears his attitude on his head.
Both my husband and I were sporting locs before it was popular and still were when I got pregnant and for at least a full year after my son was born. We were used to the attention our hair would sometimes bring us. We weren't ready for HIS hair. My son's hair grew in naturally as stylish as they can, in a fashionable and thin mohawk-type way...it stuck straight up as my hair seems to, but was thick and curly at the roots like his father's. He seemed to grow into this fashionable hair, refusing to wear hats, bullying other children (if necessary) and doing whatever he wanted (that includes vomitting in my hair if the mood passed him). We'd hear comments about Mr. T and "what hair!" constantly.

I've never met a child so open to the world, so fearless and observant. He's got this bad boy look, with this wonderful person attitude. He doesn't care if he "rocks and rolls" and he wants to be a drummer.

People of all sorts stare at him, some pity him for the terrible parents he's somehow inherited. They shake their heads at me, as if I was just seen driving down the street with him in the driver's seat or as if I just dropped him (almost). What I've come to understand is that its not normal for an almost three year old to know that he likes something that means something different to so many people, but if they take a moment to talk to him, they get it...he's got a mohwak mentality...and I think he knows it.

Can't help but look back

Getting grown is one of the things I couldn't wait to do as a child. I wasn't "fresh" or "fast", but I could only think of myself as being myself once I got out of parents' home and finished school. Ah, the follies of youth. Who would've guessed that now, at nearly 31, I look back on my youth as the time I missed. I may have been too busy worrying about silly things like boys and homecoming dates to realize how precious that time should've been for me.
Now, at nearly 31, I wish I'd thought more about the world and my place in it. I just heard someone (who knows, I am not so old that I listen to ALL the details) talking about a new book coming about where women in their 50s and 60s reflect for the them of their teens and early 20s.

OH! It was some actress, because she only said that she would tell herself not to stress about sticking to her art. I've started to really ponder what I would tell myself at 16, knowing the things I think I know at nearly 31.
I know I'd tell myself that there would be plenty of men in the world to love and to love me, I would never have to settle OR rush. Patience truly is a virtue, and something best left to those of us that don't move as fast anymore.
I'm sure that now, at nearly 31, I'd find a way to get it through my thick 16 year old skull that even though I had to worry about classes, college would be the best opportunity--don't fear the unknown, appreciate it for its life-changing splendor...(I really didn't think I'd be going to college when I was 16)...

I can say with great certainty, that after the last nearly 15 years, I would tell myself that marriage and family aren't like on T.V., its hard because the person you fell in love with changes and becomes someone else you sometimes have to find a way to love, no matter what (that is to say that I have become another form of myself and I am sure, harder to love)....I always did find a way to judge my parents for not just giving up, when I should've cherished my mother's great ability to try to keep her relationship together at any cost (even that of her own heart).

And children are not the end-all to be-all, my mother made it look easy. Children are trying and challenging, and often VERY selfish--its the only way they can establish who they really are. They are also the only reason I could thoughtlessly give my own life. I have never felt a love as strong, undying, and fearless as the one I have for my son.

And just to seal the deal, I would make sure I told myself at 16 how much I love me, how much I always did and would, even with the funny-looking hair, cheap shoes, and akward feelings. And yes, everyone will remember me, even if I can't remember their names, as soon as they see me and I will be loved. And I do get to have the nose ring I always wanted.

A Love Poem for My Soul

I Love her in a gelee'
The way it ever so slightly pulls every thread of
hair away from her wide face.
Accentuating the calmness and serenity
that is only her,
as she quickly glances away from my stare.
I love her in the morning
sleep in her eyes,
locs all over,
muscles tense
because I know that's as bad as it will ever be;
she's beautiful even then.
I love her when she talks
the words come out like lyrics
her breath is the melody
I love her even as she cursing me
for whatever spiritual rule I've broken
she only yells because she's hurt
and scared
Her angry stare only reflects the pain of her heart
There are those that say
they don't understand, for there isn't one like her for them
She encompasses all that I am not, so without her, I am
an empty souless being,
a shell, simply put.
Without me, her undefined self might float away, unable to be caged by others
I keep her down, and she, she keeps me up.
I love her because she is my other part, my definition, my soul.
So, I love her in that headwrap, fighting for others, just barely awake from sleep, as she discerns reality from dreams
And I love her for fighting me when I am not who I should be.
A LOVE POEM FOR MY soul.
(C) 1999