The Mohawk is gone!

For all of those who have come to love the mohawk atop my son's head, I am sorry to report that it is gone. Its been replaced with a "haircut like daddy's". It is leaving behind pretty short hair follicles and an attitude that I don't think ever really had anything to do with the style. We may re-visit the mohawk at a later time, when we can find a barber who can manage the style.
Thank you to everyone that has passed on your love and support through various media.
Blessings
Ama and the Boy.

YOU'RE NAKED

Just about every night, after eating dinner, my son removes every thread of his clothes while standing in the center of our kitchen. He neatly puts them in laundry room and runs to go upstairs for his bath and to prepare for bed. When he father is home during these times, he runs to him (naked) for the ritual "night, night" kiss and hug. Several times in the last couple of weeks, my husband will exclaim, "Dude, You're NAkED!!!" ( As if he is so VERY shocked that this boy had skin under his clothes--dont' know why, he just DOES)
Neither my husband nor myself thought twice about whether he understood what naked meant (the actual word) until last week when, in a fit of rage he yelled at me: "Mommy, you're naked!!!". He said it as if it explained wholly why he was upset, and that my "naked-ness" was an evil thing like not sharing or spilling chocolate milk on the car seat or the carpet. I couldn't help but fall over laughing. This only made him madder, and apparently me, naked-er. I asked him to tell me what being naked meant. He could only repeat that "Mommy, YOU"RE Naked!!!" as he ran out of the room.
My husband, ever the rational one, has been trying to help our son realize what being naked really is...he thought he'd made some headway until today...he made the kid mad and was told "YOU'RE NAKED, DADDY!!!!" several times.
I guess we really DO speak different languages...
bless
Ama

Brain Diarrhea

The more I read the blogs of other folks, I've started to think that I am losing my smarts. I am morphing into that person that can tell you about all of the good pre-schools in the area, the best tasting soymilks, all of the newest Disney-type films, and which style of boy's underwear fit the best.
I used to be a pretty active individual--I watched the news instead of Nickelodeon or Disney channel and I could stay awake, breaking down the science of any new political or social phenomenon. I marched whenever I could, I made positive movements in my community, and I worked for the welfare of those people who are oppressed throughout the world. I was definitely broke, but felt my spirit blossom in the service of other humans.
Don't get me wrong, I still have those thoughts and feelings, I still donate my time and money to organizations that do good in my community and my world and I try very hard to express the need for doing so to my son.
If I don't reflect too much on it (like I feel myself doing right now), I can get through my daily routine (wake, dress, school, work, LUNCH, school, grocery, home, food, bath, exercise, shower, bed), I can still sleep knowing that I am making my child's life better, but how important is his single life in the scope of the entire world--or our small community?
I've found a way to shrink out of the world and focus on my very small (in relation to the world I once lived in) existence, but at what cost?
What I am hoping will happen (I am a planner, by the way) is that as my son grows older, we'll be able to grow back into the community and world and be the responsible humans we need to be together (with his father, OF COURSE--I didn't forget, sweetie). I have told myself that if I can grow this sweet loving, vivacious little boy (excuse me, BIG BOY) into a responsible man, I've done more for the world than I can every imagine. My legacy should live through him, his actions will one day continue the work I started as a teen and that may be bigger than doing it myself.
SO, instead of feeling guilty that I am not serving the world directly everyday like my heart aches to do, I am re-inforcing my belief that everything I do to grow this boy into a man is the payoff...and maybe my global community can love me for it later....a shrine would be nice.
:)
be blessed--Ama

Charles Barkley vs. the boy (dated 8/29/06)

So our family decided to go to the Jimmy V Celebrity Classic Golf Tournament yesterday. There were only a few people my husband, myself and the other grown up, Dan could decide on walking the course to see playing. One of them was Charles Barkley. Since I was the veteran Jimmy V’er(meaning I'd come at least one more time than the other two), I explained how Sir Charles sat at one of his holes and talked for like ten minutes the last time I saw him and he wasn’t much different than the person we see on TV. So, we joked about what might happen if our rising star, my son, and Mr. Barkley met. We decided that the possibility was well worth the walk to find him.
After we'd walked a bozillion miles to catch up with him, we decided to go one hole ahead of him and wait, in order to beat the rush of people in his gallery. When he arrived at our hole, there were nice pictures taken, and even a lesson in who Charles Barkley is from me to my son (basically, “that big guy there used to play basketball, and he is not a role model”—it would’ve probably included stats and number had it been my husband teaching, I think) I DIGRESS..

Mr. Barkley finally made his shot and moved on to the next hole. Nothing out of the ordinary, and I'd planned on keeping it that way--I am not into public embarrassment at the hand of Mr. Barkley. As everyone was moving and my loving husband was getting my son's hat signed, I was struggling to get my son back into his stroller—he wanted to get out and play golf and thus, started yelling and screaming and crying (he’d had no nap)…I got him in the stroller and proceeded to the next hole (trying to look like his yelling, screaming, and crying wasn't bothering me) when we heard “NO CRYING…HEY! HEY! NO CRYING! You can do anything but NO CRYING!!!”

OOPS!

I looked up and Charles Barkley was looking in our direction…uh oh...Was the boy really screaming that loud? I looked down and told my son that the ‘big man’ was telling him to stop crying, and he replied “NOOOO!” People were spreading apart like that sea Moses parted and I needed to pick a side..
I thought that a life lesson from Charles Barkley might help him understand how you need to be quiet on a golf course (even if its full of celebrities who really can’t play THAT well), so I walked the stroller a little closer to Mr. Barkley, you know, so the lesson would really be taught.

All you really need to know is that my son could’ve care less. He scrunched up his face and pouted the whole time Mr. Barkley, Sir, was talking/yelling. My child refused to smile or laugh at his joking around. Charles took his ‘golf stick’ and the kid yelled, “THAT’S MY GOLF STICK!!” as if the man wasn’t five feet taller than him and he could take him.

I think the pictures say more…and as you can see, I am only watching to make sure my kid doesn’t HIT Charles Barkley with his ‘golf stick’(something he is very well known for)...(let's never mind my belly fat or Mr. Barkley, sir's sweat stains)

Only this little boy could face off with Charles Barkley and still play golf after…Please do not interrupt this child when he wants to play golf.

A Mother's Waffle House dreams

First of all, I want to declare that I haven’t had cheese all week (such a feat for me), so when my son said that he wants a “big waffle” this morning, I spazz-ed out. We ended up going to the waffle house this morning and I got scrambled cheese eggs with hashbrowns (scattered, smothered, and covered—by cheese, thank you very kindly)…I am SO very weak.

A little more importantly than that, I was eyed by three guys at the waffle house. Now, normally I wouldn't be so easily honored, but my husband has been a little busy this week, and not paying me much attention (when I want if, of course)…These guys were driving this gaudy blue jag (the new kind) with 40’s on it (I don’t know, they were BIG)…the first two guys were dressed in general NC ghetto attire—baggy jeans, too big ball cap, and the illustrious XXXXXXXL white tee (not really my thing). They sat down and eyed my mohawk-headed son, and then smiled at me…one got on the phone with one of his “hunnies” and the other ordered. Apparently the third guy called and found out where they were and came,too. He was a little more preppy looking and gave me the once over (please let me also say that I was not on my cutie-pie tip…my hair is in disrepair and I need my eyebrows to be waxed very badly). I tried to play nonchalant, but noticed that they were having a small conversation about me. “Don’t do it, son, she’s got someone- look at her finger”. Nothing irks me more than a man of 30-something years still talking like he’s 19. Anyway, as I said, the conversation about me was SHORT. They started talking about what I figured out was court. Somebody got arrested for possession (one of them) and someone else got arrested for intent to sell (some dude, some Ni*%a) …are WE really still doing this (selling drugs and getting arrested and arresting black men in high numbers for drug possession, I mean)? I thought the war on drugs ended when Whitney said that crack was wack!! So the first two were asking the preppy one how in the world they could be getting charged as co-defendants with the dude that was getting intent to sell. I zoned out because I started to not even understand what they heck they were talking about (thanks to the brain re-vamping I got my first year in college, I can’t remember things related to the ghetto, I am now an educated “negro”). Maybe somethings are bigger than being eyed by some guys in Waffle House.

I started to look at my mohawk-headed son and wondered for a few minutes (yes, I went into what I like to call a meditation) what he was going to be like as a man—would he be the kind that at 30, still played video games more than they did anything else. Would he be they guy that loves his woman, makes her his wife, has children, and loves them all like he should? Am I asking too much and will I still treat him the same if he isn’t that person? Is he going to understand that he doesn’t have to be cool or down to be a real man? Will I coddle him too much and weaken his want to be a man and do what he should? WAKE UP, AMA!!!! WAKE UP!!!

I looked over at my precious little, syrup-covered son and realized that just as all of my dreams are possible, so are my nightmares, but that it isn’t my job to make it so—its his and I have to point him in the right direction, support him in his growth (spiritual, physical, and emotional), and push him when he needs it. That, my friends, is a bigger job than any person can imagine.

As we were leaving, and I followed him out of the Waffle House, he spoke to one of the men I’d seen, “What’s up, man?” in his biggest big boy voice and the guy replied, “what’s up little man?”

And I quietly said, “Ain’t nothing”.

A child was born

I was pretty nervous when I realized I was pregnant. I knew that my husband would initially be VERY upset, but would turn around. We were pretty broke, waiting for him to get through some residency issues before he could work and I had one part-time job. Things were tight. I can honestly say that I had a strong feeling we'd conceived almost as soon as it happened. I remember regressing back to college with feelings of guilt-forgetting for a second or two that I was married. I didn't say anything to my husband because I didn't want him to freak out, but we had to make a trip to NY to move the rest of his stuff and re-paint his room from blue back to normal. I can't remember how I put it out there, but I suppose he got the picture when it was time to paint and I was missing in action.
Since we were so broke, I went ahead and applied for Medicaid, to make sure I got the health care I needed. After my first appointment at the clinic, I was told that my due date would be moved back at least one week, because my child didn't look big enough to have been concieved when I thought it happened. I never stopped believing my motherwit, but let's not forget, I had other important things to do, I WAS PREGNANT for goodness sake.
I simply adored being pregnant like I thought most women did, but as I progressed and started telling people, I realized that no one in the world was as happy to be pregnant as I was. We had no money, but I was pregnant. We couldn't afford the down payment on our gas heat, and used space heaters in every room, but I WAS PREGNANT. I would lay on our couch with two or three blankets and put all kinds of jazz on for my *son* (yes, I always knew,too) to listen to.
I'd been offended when I was told that classical was the best music because it gives a sense of rhythm that most modern music can't. I rebuffed all of that so-called knowledge and played Thelonius Monk and John Coltrane(talk about rhythm), lots of reggae, old school rock and r&b, and african drumming. I knew what he liked by how or if he kicked.
That year, there was a major ice storm in our part of NC, electricity was out for almost a week, and I stayed at my friends house for just about all of that time. Nothing seemed to matter, but that I was happy and pregnant.
I didn't start gaining weight until my 7th month, but no one seemed to be too worried, as my baby was growing relatively normal. I tested and passed for all of the diseases that would make my pregnancy high-risk. We were on a roll with getting ready for the baby.
In my head, I'd always planned for my child to be born by June 13th (a Friday, by the way), but the doctors who didn't trust my newly acquired motherwit pushed my due date back almost two weeks, to June 26th.
The last month of pregnancy was a little uncomfortable, I'd started a job with a local university and was sitting a lot more than I had the other 9 months. I was starting to swell and it was starting to get hot.

Editors cut to June 23rd--first day of soccer camp (I volunteered to help with the school's soccer camp registration and was expected back at work around 12pm). I thought nothing of the day--went to work, had some pains and cramps and was uncomfortable again. Later that evening, around 6pm, I started to have what I thought were Braxton Hick's contractions. Strong enough to stop my senseless cleaning and make me go lay down.
The contractions/cramps I was feeling continued on and I started to get worried around 9pm and finally mentioned my worry to my husband. He inquired with our trusty handbook: What to Expect When You're Expecting and even though it didn't mention much about Braxton Hicks, it did say that any contractions that lasted that long and were that close together (I wish I could remember how long and how far apart) should be taken to the hospital. Remember, we were still broke, so we had to schedule two seperate rides to the hospital with friends that lived closest and a little further away. One of us called ride #1 (I think my husband, I vaguely remember packing a bag because the first one didn't have anything I wanted at that moment in it) and let him know we were going. Our ride rushed us over to the hospital I'd registered with--on the way, I called my mother (it must've been about 1030 or 11pm by then) to tell her we were going, but I thought I might need to just come back. Please note that I was very upset that I might have to come back home after visiting the hospital and still have to go to work in the morning.
We checked in and were sent directly to the women's center for all the stuff they do. While they were getting an explanation as to what happened, someone announced that they couldn't find the baby's heartbeat. I tried to explain that I'd been laying down and so, he might be in a strange position (I was still under my own impression that this was a false labor--they had other ideas). The doctor in charge tried three different ways and still couldn't find the heartbeat, the look in his eyes told me everything--NO HEARTBEAT, NO BABY. He rushed into action, ordering nurses to take my jewelry off and prep me for surgery. There was no discussion, only commands. After he'd gone and requested an Emergency operating room across the hall, he stopped to tell us what he could.
All I heard was NO HEARTBEAT, get the baby out, c-section, getting prepped NOW. A nurse, who's name was the same as mine, struggled with my wedding bands and ended up nearly tearing my finger off but used K-Y jelly instead. In what felt like the next three minutes, I was wisked across the hall and recieved an epidural and oxygen. They didn't have time to put me under full anesthesia, so I was awake and completely panicking. I think I might have been hyperventilating or the epi was numbing my chest, I am not sure, either way, they sent my husband in to calm me down.
Once I saw him, I was a little more comfortable, but very nervous (I'd never been admitted into a hospital for anything in my life--except maybe my own birth). I tried to concentrate on what they were doing to me, but could only hear blurred words and feel pressure on my back.
Before I knew it, someone (again with the someone) announced that it was a boy! They showed him to me quickly and as everyone became silent, he appeared to be looking at me and he let out what sounded like wheeze or a sigh before he was taken away to the Neonatal ICU. I was taken into a recovery room and could finally try to figure out what was going on.
They hadn't told me much, but my husband found out that our son, Ohene Adari Samello, had what looked like a muconium infection, and was kind of small (he was 5lbs 6oz), so they wanted to watch him. I cried, but upon reflection most likely just from relief. Kids get over meconium infections all the time, just means they were in too long, right?
After several hours, my mother arrived (She says that it took her almost 5 hours to drive what normally takes me 2 1/2 hours) and we found out more. My husband and mother went to see "the boy" and said that he was already breathing on his own, but his blood sugar levels were poor. No one had answers about what happened. Was he late? Most likely.
Was it something I did or ate or was it my body? No one knows
What can we do to help him? We're not sure right now, but we will monitor him
Thank all that is good for morphine, or I would've been even more hysterical. I started pumping immediately and they started giving him whatever would come out. I still couldn't see him though, and was advised to get myself all healed up from the c-section, so that I could get up and finally go see him. My husband took pictures and went to work and emailed everyone I knew and came back everyday for a week and even washed me when it was time to start doing that. Thinking about it all now, I even cry a bit.
I think I fell in love twice during that time; for the first time with my son and again with my husband who became my pillar of strength during a time I couldn't imagine going through alone. As we approach the 3 year anniversary of that life-changing day, I still cry a little, and I can still hear the little noise that little boy made in the near silence of an emergency operating room. I still can't believe that on June 24th at 1:00 a.m., a child was born, and he's with me now.
(the rest of the story is coming, keep posted)