“A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014.”
Sunny: Positively beaming from that post-performance high. This weekend was pure magic.
Kaki: Our Sami at a Holiday Pancake breakfast.
More details about The 52 Project here. To view all the portraits in the series visit here.
We had a wonderful, snowy Thanksgiving, complete with Friday morning’s 2nd Annual Pie Breakfast with family, friends and neighbors. On Saturday, we ventured down the street to the local Christmas tree farm and got to decorating Cartwheel Farm for the upcoming season. My favorite addition to this year’s decor had to be these snowflake ballerinas. So elegant. So simple. So very lovely. Kimmy made an array of gorgeous paper snowflakes (see this video for her tutorial on how to obtain the ideal paper snowflake. It’s also embedded below.) and then we slid the snowflakes on ballerina silhouettes. (Download three here, here and here). I would recommend using heavier card stock for the ballerina silhouettes, and standard printer paper for the snowflakes.
I used clear fishing wire and Scotch tape to hang them around the house.
Swoon!
We have Auntie Kimmy to thank for digging up these gems circa 1992-95. Today, Sunny carries on the magically awkward Ulmer sister history as reindeer in “The Nutcracker.” I could not be more excited.
We had a wonderful, snowy Thanksgiving holiday. My sister and parents made the trip west, and Kimmy, James and I engaged in our usual Turkey Day food prep. After seven years of practice, we’ve got a much better flow and rhythm to the whole process. I’m in charge of dessert. Kimmy sausage stuffing. James, The Bird (and resulting gravy). My parents handled the cranberry sauce (fresh from a bog down the street from their house on The Cape) and sweet potatoes. And we tag teamed the mashed potatoes.
There was playing in the snow and watching of the Macy’s Day parade to entertain the kiddos. I do so like our intimate, low-key, delicious Thanksgiving ritual.
And then on Friday morning we held our 2nd Annual Pie Breakfast and filled the house with loved ones and children and a new 8 week old puppy. I delighted in the energy and goodwill bubbling in our little house. I have no pictures to show for it, save some snaps of the puppy. But it is a tradition that is here to stay.
We went to the movies as a family, and picked out a Christmas tree, and decked the halls, and mostly relaxed by the heat of the wood stove, enjoying one another’s company and feeling grateful for the simplicity and comfort of that.
Tomorrow, my parents and Kimmy make the trip back out for us all to watch Sunny in her inaugural production of “The Nutcracker.” To say that we’re all giddy with joy is the understatement of the holidays. I’m preparing for the waterworks as my little reindeer prances on stage. For now, images from last weekend…
If you read no other part of this link, read this (but the whole post is worth your time):
I’m here to tell you instead, fellow white people, that Ferguson is about more than just one scared cop and one unarmed black teenager.
I’m here to ask you, fellow fishes, to wake up and smell the water.
I’m asking you to consider, if you have not already, that the anger and frustration pouring out of Ferguson is outrage at a system of power that does not include minority voices.
I’m asking you to consider the possibility that no one is “playing the race card.” I’m asking you to consider the very real possibility that America is, in fact, a racist place to live. And just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean that it is not there.
I’m asking you to imagine what it must be like to experience inequality, every single day, in ways that are sometimes small and subtle and sometimes overt and unjust.
I’m asking you to consider what it must be like to walk home at night and watch white people cross the street, fearful of their own safety. I’m asking you to imagine trying to hail a cab after a long day at work, but no cabs will stop. I’m asking you to imagine changing your name on a job application, because no one will hire you. I’m asking you to imagine telling your children not to wear hoodies when they leave the house, just in case.
I’m asking you to imagine putting your faith in a school system that suspends black students at triple the rate of their white peers, all the while cheerfully preaching the gospel of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., but only, mind you, during the designated month of February. I’m asking you to imagine living in a shitty house in a shitty neighborhood, not because you want to, but because you are unable to move elsewhere due to housing discrimination.
And then – and only then, once you think about the everyday reality, once you actually try to imagine living your life without the benefits that being white has afforded you, I want you to consider what it must feel like hear the story of Roy Middleton, who was shot fifteen times in his own driveway because a neighbor assumed he was breaking into his own car. I’m asking you to consider the story of Henry Davis, who was beaten viciously by the Ferguson police department and later charged with property destruction for getting blood on their uniforms.
And then I’m asking you to consider what it must be like, to consider the body of Michael Brown, lying lifeless on the street for four and a half hours, and think, “Michael Brown looks like my brother. Michael Brown looks like my husband. Michael Brown looks like my son. Michael Brown looks like me.”
Because here is the thing, fellow white people. Racism isn’t over because Barack Obama is president. Racism isn’t over because Beyoncé. Racism isn’t over because Oprah. Racism didn’t end when we all read To Kill a Mockingbird in tenth-grade English class, and it’s not over now.
Racism is when you reduce a human being to a series of beliefs, stereotypes, or cultural identities that remove their ability to be seen as a unique individual. Just as you wouldn’t minimize any of my personal problems related to being a woman by saying, “But your problems aren’t real, because Hillary Clinton and Taylor Swift are both doing pretty great for themselves!!” – you cannot argue that having a black president is the hallmark of a country that has moved beyond the issues of race.
Racism is when you equate all black people in Ferguson with the specific few vandals who were looting buildings and smashing windows. Racism is inherent in the word “thugs.”
(Double irony points if you’re using the word “thug” now, but were one of the people celebrating on Broad Street in Philadelphia during the 2008 Phillies World Series win, when cars were burned and windows smashed and storefronts destroyed. I remember that evening well. Back then, we called them “fans.”)
I’m not interested in hearing anyone use the phrase “white guilt.” I’m not fucking guilty, and unless you’ve killed an unarmed black teenager lately, neither are you.
But I am angry. I am upset. I am striving to understand.
I want to think about using the phrase “white compassion.” I want to think about using the phrase “white ally,” or “white empathy.”
Because the truth is, my white friends, many of you have been really great at caring about what’s going on in Ferguson this week. Many of you have been posting and sharing and discussing and questioning and trying to unpack and understand. That’s awesome. That’s probably why we’re friends.
But as Ferguson burned, I also read posts from my white friends about how excited you are for Black Friday deals. Your outrage at FedEx for a misplaced package. Nail art. Weight loss advice.
You are the same people who dumped buckets of ice over your heads for ALS. You are the same people who wear t-shirts emblazoned with “Boston Strong.” You post that same picture of an eagle and the American flag on 9/11. “Never Forget.”
And when the riots began, you were …. instagramming photos of your dinner? Excited about your new H+M sweater? You literally have more to say about The Big Bang Theory than a national fucking tragedy?
I also received several OkCupid messages that night. All from white dudes. No, I don’t want to come to Cherry Hill and eat pizza with you. I’m watching the world burn down.
What that tells me is that, for some of you, the destruction in Ferguson was not a “Never Forget” situation, or a national tragedy, or even something to be particularly concerned about … because the bodies in the streets did not look like yours, or your family’s. Because it looks like “other.” Because the problems faced by Black America are not the same as the problems faced by White America, and therefore, they aren’t worth considering.
Perhaps you don’t see this because your number is closer to 99% than 91%.
White people, we have to do better.
No crime. No trial. All harm. No foul.
I had a meeting in our campus student center at lunchtime, and as I listened to the voices of students, and faculty, and staff echoing through the building in pain and grief and anger and frustration and unity and strength, I felt tears building and a knot growing and that communal pain and horror vibrating throughout.
I can’t breath.
Hands up. Don’t shoot.
Black lives matter. Black lives matter. BLACK LIVES MATTER.
For those that don’t want to read the words of a completely sappy, emotional, sentimental mama gushing about her children, I would advise that you skip this particular post.
You have been warned. It may leave you gagging, or eye rolling (yes, I already heard eyeballs hit the ceiling), or annoyed (especially if you’re having a rough day), but for you family and friends like family and readers who have come to share in our family’s growth, you may find joy in these words.
I built this space to archive and reflect on my life, primarily as a parent, but also as a creator, thinker, “farmer (homesteader? backyard dabbler?),” feminist, human being, and while it has shifted and twisted through the years and months, I ultimately want it to be a space that my girls can visit to better understand their mother, their family, and the love that I have for them beyond measure. And so, it’s been awhile since I’ve spoken intently and directly about the girls, beyond a sentence or two here or there each week in The 52 Project. And today, I felt warranted documentation and reflection, because I felt my heart swell with a pride and a love worthy of remembrance.
Sunny, today we had your first “official” Parent-Teacher conference. Your daddy and I crouched on chairs built for Kindergarteners and listened intently as your teacher spoke to your immense progress and growth these past few months. You are learning. And leading. And role-modeling. And reading (oh how you adore reading, and it makes me ache with joy). And thriving. And… happy. Happy. I can tell you that beyond any other measure, your happiness is the root of my own. So this, this is most important.
As we were wrapping up the meeting, we asked about how you engaged socially with your classmates. You have always been on the quiet side, like both your parents were at this age (as unbelievable as that may sound), and you are deeply independent. You play contently by yourself, never yammering for playdates, or worrying over the social politics of the various kids in your class, or playing in large groups. This in no way worries us, as social pressures and insecurities can get fierce, particularly as a middle school girl, and we can only hope that this independent side of you helps you weather that storm. But we don’t want you to be gruff or stand-offish with your peers, so we asked the teacher how your more introverted, independent side presented in the classroom.
Your teacher’s response was wonderfully unexpected. She told us that you were by far the most “sought after” kid in the classroom. That students squabbled over who would get to sit next to you during circle time, or be your partner during gym class. And she said that she thought that your peers responded to you in this way because you were always kind. And willing to help. And unwaveringly fair and even in how you treated others. And that the kids seemed to understand that by interacting with you that they were to be met with a true beneficence and kindheartedness.
I nearly burst into tears at these very words. Because this world needs so much more of exactly this. Kindness. Deep, measured kindness.
Amusingly, your Auntie Kimmy was also highly “sought after” as a child (odd phrasing, I know, but I think it gets at the sentiment). Momar tells stories of children “fighting” over Kimmy, and that Auntie Kimmy used to come home from Kindergarten pitifully asking her, “Why does everybody like me so much?” because she was so worried about the squabbling that occurred on her account. I’d imagine that Auntie Kimmy’s peers responded that way for very similar reasons that your own peers feel this way about you, Sunny. And Auntie Kimmy is one of the most quietly confident and inspiringly independent women I know, so I’d say that you’re on the right track. And it nearly crippled me with pride to hear it.
And Courtland, my outrageously adorable and sweet Kick Kaks. You have been positively slaying us with cute of late. I find myself wanting to gobble you whole time and again. The number of times I respond to you with outbursts of, “YOU’RE SO STINKING CUTE!” has gotten a little out of hand.
Take tonight, for example. I went out for a colleague’s birthday dinner, and returned home to a soundly sleeping house. I ducked into your bedroom to give you and your sister a kiss goodnight. I started with Sunny in the top bunk, rearranging some covers before kissing her soundly slumbering head. I then went to bend down to kiss you goodnight and was greeted with wide, blinking eyes and a smile that could have powered this house through last night’s electrical outage (the second this season, WEEEE!). You giggled wildly, presenting as though you’d been awake for hours, and cackled, “HI MAMA! I LOVE YOU SO MUCHIE!” (which is your current favorite phrase). I was excited to greet you but worried that it might take awhile to get you back to sleep, so I leaned down and you scooped me up in a hug and said, “I’m so glad you’re home. Did you have fun at your party?” I responded that yes, I’d had fun, but that it was time to go back to sleep. You looked at me very matter-of-factly before declaring, “OH! All right!” and promptly rolling over and burying yourself in blankets. And, sweet lordy it was so adorable yet mature, so childish and yet adult that I found myself very actively reflecting on just how far we’ve come in our parenting journey and yet just how much joy lies ahead. Check these out millsriversdaschool for latest updates.
And for all these things, I felt compelled to write them down, because I don’t do that nearly as much as I once did (or found myself needing to), but this was a moment where it wasn’t about need or routine, but about simply wanting to capture this day, these moments, to reflect on for a lifetime.
There is lots of ugliness happening in the world right now, and for a moment, I needed to shelter myself in the happiness of a day with my children.
