<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287</id><updated>2011-11-27T17:50:12.161-06:00</updated><title type='text'>New Mama</title><subtitle type='html'>The random thoughts and experiences of a twenty-three year old married black woman, new mother and law student back home in the midwest after four years of life on the east coast.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>33</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-2798887804181300159</id><published>2010-12-27T09:01:00.004-06:00</published><updated>2010-12-27T09:10:01.999-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Hide the china...</title><content type='html'>Christmas was an overall great day. Madi woke up and asked me "Is it Christmas? Did Santa come? Are my presents here?" He was very excited. Everytime he opened a gift he said "Thank you, Santa," which kind of irritated me, but I know he's only two and I probably shouldn't steal his Christmas magic. But I'm not into Santa. At all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My husband decided that he wanted to cook Christmas dinner and cook Christmas dinner he did. He grilled a turkey and it was the best turkey I've ever had. Seriously. He also made greens, sweet potatoes, mac and cheese, and dressing. Everything else was good, but he's got to work on that dressing. I was very proud of him for taking the initiative and diving head first into a big meal. Especially since he's probably cooked dinner 10 times since we've been together. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We celebrated our third anniversary last week. Time flies. I think we're starting a tradition because for the third year in a row we went to dinner at a steakhouse and then went Christmas shopping for our son. It was nice to treat him (since this is the first year I've worked full-time since we've been married) and spend time together. I still love him. And I like him too which is nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last week was full of events for our family. We found out that we're be welcoming another little boy to our family! We're naming him after my husband's grandfather and my stepfather. I'll be surrounded by Y chromosomes. Hide the china.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-2798887804181300159?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/2798887804181300159/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/12/hide-china.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2798887804181300159'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2798887804181300159'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/12/hide-china.html' title='Hide the china...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-2285213457745466715</id><published>2010-12-18T08:59:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2010-12-18T11:50:58.989-06:00</updated><title type='text'>My First Born Son...</title><content type='html'>Dear Son,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want to write this letter so I can remember you at this age. I'm sorry that I didn't do a very good job of keeping up with your baby book. Mommy was pretty busy the first two and a half years of your life. But you are such an amazing kid. Every day you surprise me. I know that every mother thinks that their kid is the smartest kid ever, but you really amaze me. Everyone thinks you've been here before and I'm starting to believe them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. You have been potty trained since before your 2nd birthday. We can thank your great-Granny for that with a little help from Mommy and Daddy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. You have been able to sing your ABC's since then, too. This summer, while Mommy was studying for the bar, you learned to count to 20, and have been able to recognize letters A-J for a few months. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. You are very sweet and a little manipulative. You immediately say "Sorry" when you've been caught doing something or when you know you'll eventually get caught. But you don't say sorry because you really feel bad for doing it. You say it to try to head off the potential discipline.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. You also offer lots of kisses and hugs and tell us you love us when you think you might be about to get into trouble.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. When you get in trouble anyway, you're sure to tell us "I'm mad at you! I'm too mad!" Or you'll call us by our first names.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. You also call us by our first names to be cheeky or to antagonize us. This trait you got honest, because your great grandfather and his entire family are antagonistic. This includes your father.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. You wake up talking. You literally open your eyes and start a full-blown conversation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. You are a morning person. Mommy is not. Sorry those conversations weren't much like dialogue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. You can dress the bottom half of yourself, though some things are inside out or backwards.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. You know the full names of all of your aunts and grandparents.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. You know where all of your Dad's aunts and uncles live. And they live EVERYWHERE but here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. You have pretty decent coordination. You love to "play soccer, basketball, and baseball."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;13. You are my music child. You sing to everything (even when you don't know the words). You dance to everything from Earth, Wind, and Fire, to Cee-Lo, to TV commercials. You have a piano with a microphone that you drag in front of the TV when "Jack's Big Music Show" is on and you "perform" with the show.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;14. You like Drake's "Better Find Your Lovin" and some Sean Kingston song your aunts introduced you to that goes "No-tee, no-tee, no-tee..." I dunno.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15. Your aunts also think it's hilarious to teach you to do dances they learn in videos. So you know how to "Flex," among other things.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lots more to add. Lots more to do AWAY from the computer. I love you my first born son.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-2285213457745466715?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/2285213457745466715/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/12/my-first-born-son.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2285213457745466715'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2285213457745466715'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/12/my-first-born-son.html' title='My First Born Son...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-4787165243570692113</id><published>2010-08-26T11:14:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-08-26T11:41:30.011-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I Do What I Want</title><content type='html'>So, I read &lt;a href="http://thefreshxpress.com"&gt;The Fress Xpress&lt;/a&gt; almost every day. It's pretty interesting, mostly social commentary, and I enjoy it. I have noticed that there is a lot of banter about why black women are single, especially in the comments of some of those articles. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/THaUgANe_XI/AAAAAAAADT8/6hM55ud_Uuw/s1600/29967_591436883991_41001330_32983039_3801451_n.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/THaUgANe_XI/AAAAAAAADT8/6hM55ud_Uuw/s320/29967_591436883991_41001330_32983039_3801451_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509754471667662194" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; SIDEBAR: My last post was depressing. My bad. But not "my bad" for posting it or feeling that way, my bad for not updating this blog so that people would know that I haven't jumped off of a bridge or something. Since then, I have taken (and hopefully passed) the bar, started my new job, and gotten off of birth control (yes, we're going for baby #2 soon). So, I'm not sure if it's the stability of a second income (probably not, we were really fine before), the removal of stressors (law school, studying for the bar, the 1,000 extracurriculars I always found a way to get involved in) or the birth control (my mom INSISTS it makes the women in my family crazy - and I think she's right) but I have been REALLY happy! Like content. It's awesome. My family and friends are amazing and I couldn't have made it through all of this without them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, back to the post. In any event, the comments are sometimes constructive, and sometimes really hateful. It reminded me of this incident at a BBQ I was at a month or so before I graduated. I asked my husband if he wanted a plate, something we usually do for each other when someone's tied up with Madi man or if we get up first. One lady questioned "You fix his plate?!" &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Uh, yeah. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She responded "Oh, wow. I would never fix my boyfriend/husband a plate." I asked her why and her response was essentially, it was something she just wouldn't do. That's fine for her, but I couldn't figure out why it was such a big deal with her that I did it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Actually, I knew exactly why she had an issue. In her opinion (and in the opinion of many other women) it made me appear submissive. It made me look subordinate. It made me look weak. Lol, give her a pass. She doesn't know me. I understand this, or at least I understand that people who are around when I do this will probably feel like this. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But iont care. I'm grown.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I want to fix my husband a plate, that's what I'll do and I really don't care what you have to say about it. I fix his plate because I love him. I do it because I like him and care about him. I do it for my mom, my grandmother, my dad, I'd do it for my friends. And when I asked the lady if she'd do it for her mom, grandmother, dad, etc. she said she would. That's so stupid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess my whole reason for even bringing this up is that sometimes people are so caught up in how something looks to other people that they shape their behavior to align themselves with those perceptions. Who does that? If I did that, just in the last four years of my life, it would be radically different. It probably still would've been okay, but radically different.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For example, if I had worried that people expected me to go to Georgetown and been embarassed to change my mind because I'd already told people that's where I was going, I'd be in DC with an anxiety disorder because I was afraid of the possibility that I'd have to leave the law school late at night. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I had worried that people would think I'd changed my mind ONLY because my then boyfriend lived here (which was part of the reason), I wouldn't be at home in the place I grew up and love excited to make a difference in my own backyard - something that's been my mission since I left 7 years ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I had worried that people would think I was immoral or whatever for getting pregnant before I got married, my son wouldn't be here. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I had worried that people would think I was "too young" to get married, well... obviously.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In any event, at a certain age I realized that while the opinions of some matter (because trust me, people still feel the need to comment on my early marriage or tell me I should wait on baby #2), I'm the only person responsible for my happiness and success. I do what I want.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-4787165243570692113?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/4787165243570692113/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/08/i-do-what-i-want.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/4787165243570692113'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/4787165243570692113'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/08/i-do-what-i-want.html' title='I Do What I Want'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/THaUgANe_XI/AAAAAAAADT8/6hM55ud_Uuw/s72-c/29967_591436883991_41001330_32983039_3801451_n.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-7233306428095322846</id><published>2010-06-09T21:19:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2010-06-09T21:19:57.446-05:00</updated><title type='text'>*sigh*</title><content type='html'>Sitting in the parking lot of McDonald's trying to think of good places to go so I can cry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really hate saying that because I don't like the idea of writing a blog that's all woe-is-me, super emo, but hell. I need to put this out in the universe and FB and Twitter just aren't the places for me to do that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing is really wrong. Just tired is all. Overwhelmed and know that this feeling won't let up until after the bar at the very least. But I need a break now. I feel like I've been going full-speed for three years and I try to stay upbeat and positive but this is really wearing me down. I've needed to cry (I believe crying is cathartic) for weeks, maybe months but I'm too damn tired to do it. Just don't have the energy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It seems like one thing after another - Convention, Grandpa's illness and eventual passing, finals, stressing about job uncertainty, excited about job offer, graduation, bar prep, starting new job...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That on top of struggling to juggle husband, baby, and ME! Most times "me" gets dropped, lol. That's really not funny. But that's life. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sigh*&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-7233306428095322846?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/7233306428095322846/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/06/sigh.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/7233306428095322846'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/7233306428095322846'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/06/sigh.html' title='*sigh*'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-381704046468172869</id><published>2010-01-06T21:20:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2010-01-06T23:39:16.274-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Demand Selflessness...</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;It’s so ironic the parallels that exist in life. I got married at 21 and had our son at 22. I often found, that as I became more subsumed in “our life,” and my life as a wife and mother, I began neglecting me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;I think that, no matter what age, women will always struggle to negotiate the balance between their personal selves and their mommy/wife/lover/work selves. I think that this is the true struggle of womanhood. Keeping your own self when everything around you seems(emphasis on seems) to demand selflessness.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;code&gt;&lt;meta name="google-site-verification" content="_XKOT9BXfCVFNYVVimY54yfsEd1cyFeYclVE-p3d0nw"&gt;&lt;/code&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-381704046468172869?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/381704046468172869/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/01/demand-selflessness.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/381704046468172869'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/381704046468172869'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2010/01/demand-selflessness.html' title='Demand Selflessness...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-2748167344375658191</id><published>2009-12-29T22:17:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2009-12-30T00:19:43.156-06:00</updated><title type='text'>30. Be More Positive...</title><content type='html'>Inspired by &lt;a href="http://theyoungmommylife.com"&gt;The Young Mommy Life&lt;/a&gt;...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;30 Things Before I Turn 30...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Be well-established in my career&lt;br /&gt;2. Go on a honeymoon (I was 5 months preggo when we got married, so that was out)&lt;br /&gt;3. Start an annual trip with my girlfriends.&lt;br /&gt;4. See my BFF at least once a year.&lt;br /&gt;5. Go to the gym regularly.&lt;br /&gt;6. Start having regular appointments for hair, nails and maintenance.&lt;br /&gt;7. Get a concealed carry license.&lt;br /&gt;8. Actually have the weekly dates my husband and I schedule.&lt;br /&gt;9. Spend more time with my fellow "mommy friends."&lt;br /&gt;10. Have the rest of the kids I'm going to have.&lt;br /&gt;11. Spend more time on "me."&lt;br /&gt;12. Read more books.&lt;br /&gt;13. Read more Supreme Court cases.&lt;br /&gt;14. Try more creative recipes.&lt;br /&gt;15. Take a cooking class.&lt;br /&gt;16. Get plastic surgery!&lt;br /&gt;17. Take my son on more mommy-son outings.&lt;br /&gt;18. Plan a huge anniversary party!&lt;br /&gt;19. Entertain more.&lt;br /&gt;20. Read the Bible, Qu'ran, and the Torah.&lt;br /&gt;21. Talk to my friends regularly and more frequent.&lt;br /&gt;22. Run for public office.&lt;br /&gt;23. Be more open-minded... and nicer.&lt;br /&gt;24. Makeover my wardrobe.&lt;br /&gt;25. Do more community service.&lt;br /&gt;26. Train for and complete a marathon.&lt;br /&gt;27. Get a new car.&lt;br /&gt;28. Get a bigger house.&lt;br /&gt;29. Start a real estate investment company.&lt;br /&gt;30. Be more positive.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-2748167344375658191?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/2748167344375658191/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/30-be-more-positive.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2748167344375658191'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2748167344375658191'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/30-be-more-positive.html' title='30. Be More Positive...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-3158261312012258553</id><published>2009-12-22T23:41:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2009-12-22T23:42:20.859-06:00</updated><title type='text'>FYI</title><content type='html'>My "70 Percent (Tentative) Myth" post was inspired by a blog on thefreshxpress.com.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just an FYI...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BACK TO THE CELEBRATION!!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-3158261312012258553?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/3158261312012258553/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/fyi.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/3158261312012258553'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/3158261312012258553'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/fyi.html' title='FYI'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-5551964942117819170</id><published>2009-12-22T23:28:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2009-12-22T23:29:47.843-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Do You Know What Today Is?</title><content type='html'>Today is our two-year anniversary!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pc3Sz72ZXd0&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1&amp;amp;"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pc3Sz72ZXd0&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1&amp;amp;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-5551964942117819170?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/5551964942117819170/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/do-you-know-what-today-is.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5551964942117819170'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5551964942117819170'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/do-you-know-what-today-is.html' title='Do You Know What Today Is?'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-6287415056445506107</id><published>2009-12-21T22:44:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2009-12-21T22:50:34.272-06:00</updated><title type='text'>The 70 Percent (Tentative) Myth...</title><content type='html'>I keep seeing references to this "fact" that 70% of African-American women are single. Yet, I have had difficulty locating the source for this. Whenever someone did reference a source for the "fact" it sent me here:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://www.census.gov/population/www/socdemo/hh-fam/cps2008.html&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The table for "Black Alone" suggested that the "fact" often referenced is nonexistent. The chart has no reference for "single black women." It does, however, reference percentages of black women who have never married, which, I think, is different. Single suggests someone who is not in a committed relationship, engaged, seriously dating, etc. I'm sure these groups wouldn't consider themselves single, even though, legally they may be. But, this fact is utilized in a manner that suggests that 70% of African-American women, right now, are without a current prospect for marriage and I don't think that's what the data suggests.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What it does say is that although African-American women outnumber African-American men, AA men are statistically (slightly) less likely to end up married than AA women (47.5 - never married v. AA women at 44.5%). If this is accurate, it would suggest that black women have a little less of a problem getting/ staying married than AA men.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I would like to know where the 70% statistic comes from, because although I am not ready to deny its existence, I can't validate it either. Furthermore, it seems that we've all become more concerned about what the other person is/ isn't doing, why THEY are not married, why THEY are not happy, etc. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy an alternative perspective, because sometimes those perceptions are more clear than your own. But I am also a firm believer of "getting your own house in order." I'm not in the best position to identify, correct, highlight the issues black men may or may not have. What I can do to remedy the issues in my community are simple and only require my determination.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For example, many of our children are being raised in single-parent homes and have absent fathers. I stopped sleeping with/ dating men I did not see as potential fathers AND husbands. I don't judge casual sex-ers, but if the condom breaks, I'd prefer it be with someone I'd like to look at 18+ years from now. I am happy to say that I am married to a man who is an excellent father AND husband (in fact, we are two hours from celebrating our two-year anniversary). My son will (hopefully) be raised in a two-parent household and learn to be a good husband and father from our example.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not saying that everyone has to put on the "only good daddy's have the key" chastity belt. And there are obviously other issues that we may not be able to solve by ourselves. But, what I am saying is that a little self-reflection, and concerted effort on our OWN parts to improve our community might be more effective than picking out and pointing out each other's flaws.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-6287415056445506107?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6287415056445506107/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/70-percent-tentative-myth.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6287415056445506107'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6287415056445506107'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/12/70-percent-tentative-myth.html' title='The 70 Percent (Tentative) Myth...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-170582768022754228</id><published>2009-11-05T09:48:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2009-11-05T10:31:18.063-06:00</updated><title type='text'>"How Rude!"</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dyfuse.com/files/images/usher.tameka%20foster_0.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://www.dyfuse.com/files/images/usher.tameka%20foster_0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;So, I was reading &lt;a href="http://blackandmarriedwithkids.com/2009/11/05/usher%E2%80%99s-new-single-%E2%80%9Cpapers%E2%80%9D-rubs-me-the-wrong-way/"&gt;this&lt;/a&gt; post at &lt;a href="http://blackandmarriedwithkids.com/"&gt;Black and Married With Kids&lt;/a&gt; by &lt;a href="http://theyoungmommylife.com/"&gt;Tara Pringle Jefferson&lt;/a&gt;. She was discussing the new song by Usher, "Papers." She is not feeling it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I concur.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We are taught at a very early age not to "air our dirty laundry." If mama and daddy have a disagreement, well that stays in the house. If daddy forgets to pay the light bill, you don't tell your friends about "candle night."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You just don't do it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It surprises me that as we get older, we seem to forget this rule. I'm not saying you need to be disingenuous or pretend to be happy when you're not.  I'm just saying that there are some details about a relationship that should stay between those two people - divorce or not. I know we, women, have a tendency to want to tell EVERYTHING to our girlfriends. It's just not a good idea, for some reasons that are based in suspicion, but also for reasons that have more to do with intimacy - something extremely important to any relationship in my opinion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For me, it's only sharing certain things with my husband. There are things that only he and I know - significant and insignificant. Jokes that we laugh about, lines in movies that are funny or romantic for reasons only we know, even phrases from e-mails or conversations we've had that have special meanings. Those things create that feeling of closeness  and intimacy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even the bad times. There are arguments, certain situations, or songs that remind us of when we've struggled through something. For example, "Ben," may mean little to you, but it is connected with a particularly sad and troubling time we went through. It is not a happy memory, but I am reminded of how we pulled through that time together, and in that moment, I feel particularly close to him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe "Papers" is therapeutic for Usher. I think it's disrespectful. His divorce should be between he and his ex-wife. Maybe she was manipulative, maybe she was controlling, maybe she was Cruella DiVille.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But he picked her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He mentions how his mother turned away from him, how all these negative things happened as a result of that union. But that was his choice. He married her when she already had a brood of children, married her knowing she was older, married her knowing his mother opposed it. THEN got her pregnant. THEN got her pregnant again. All these choices, he made. No one to blame but himself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;B&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.yuku.com/image/pjpeg/e2126123c70fbd97ef3bbc5e15f917bd46e3f9e7.pjpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 221px;" src="http://images.yuku.com/image/pjpeg/e2126123c70fbd97ef3bbc5e15f917bd46e3f9e7.pjpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;ut even if he blames her, he should do it quietly. And privately. Not just because it's tacky as all get out. But because she deserves to have all of the moments they shared REMAIN private. Because he has children with this woman, and he should consider how they might feel hearing this song when they're older. He should consider her children - the children he chose when he chose her and how this very public break-up might be affecting them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's not even a good song. In the words of Stephanie Tanner, "How Rude!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-170582768022754228?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/170582768022754228/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/how-rude.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/170582768022754228'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/170582768022754228'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/how-rude.html' title='&quot;How Rude!&quot;'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-366212494696741163</id><published>2009-11-03T12:44:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2009-11-03T12:58:40.120-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Enough Said!</title><content type='html'>One of the things I really enjoy are discussions about social issues. Things that really have no definitive answer, just different perspectives. Some of these articles really inspire me to write about my own feelings. But I never do. Besides, sometimes someone can say exactly what you want to say, and when that happens, I feel no need to repeat. &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was reading an article titled "&lt;span style="text-decoration: underline;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://thefreshxpress.com/2009/03/why-are-successful-black-womensingle-a-black-mans-perspective/"&gt;Why are Successful Black Women... Single? A Black Man's Perspective&lt;/a&gt;." Now, I can understand some of the points he raises, but I also have a different perspective. Ironically, this same day, I noticed a number of FB friends making comments about waiting to get married because they don't want to try to "live their youth while they have kids," or other general anti- young parent, young husband/wife statements that I see often. My first issue is that what works for me may not work you for and vice versa. It doesn't mean either way is any better. But I also believe that part of the women so many successful black women are single is because they refuse to acknowledge that a different perspective may be viable. Such as this one, from the commenter &lt;a href="http://mochamommyonthego.wordpress.com/"&gt;Mocha Mom&lt;/a&gt;:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;" class="ctext"&gt;&lt;p&gt;First of all, I agree with the fact that the definition of “success” is flawed. Having a degree and a “good” job, does not make you more “successful” than someone else. In fact, I would argue that this attitude is the beginning of a lot of the problems. But I think the problem also stems from black women having unreasonable expectations. It’s one thing to have standards, by all means PLEASE have standards, but a LOT of women get ridiculous with it. He has to be fine, a certain height, a certain skin tone, have the perfect body, wear particular kinds of clothes, drive a specific car, make X amount of dollars (to name a few)…even if YOU dont possess all those qualities or have those things.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;I also think some of it has to do with black women adopting white womens idea of “not settling”, which is TRULY detrimental, because as studies show, more of those chicks are MARRIED than black women are. We know (at least some of us), and should learn to appreciate the obstacles black men face (see: Willie Lynch Letter, and Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys) when it comes to education and work. Im not saying that black men shouldnt own and take responsibility for pursuing an education and finding work suitable to take care of the families they help create (no excuses!), but we must also remember the systems that are in place to keep them out of institutions of higher education and workplaces (again, see Willie Lynch).&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Black women have also bought into the “myths” that you have to live so much life after college before you can get married. You’ve been sold a bill of goods! What most of these black women dont realize or choose to acknowledge is that met your husband in college, but he wasnt on the football or basketball team, maybe was a little quirky or nerdy, didnt have a car, maybe his shoes were a little dirty and he wasnt “fitted” all the time, but he loved you and YOU weren’t ready for it. The reality is, had you stayed with him while he was in school working on that engineering, finance, computer information systems degree, Susie Q and Betty Boop wouldn’t have stood a chance, and she wouldn’t be living what is SUPPOSED to be YOUR life!&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;There’s also a lot of young women who, because of the corporate environment they worked so hard to get into, have become hardened and callous in ways that they dont even realize, which is NOT conducive to being in a relationship. Nobody wants to deal with the “bitch” you have to be at work to get ahead, but you don’t learn how to turn off when you come home.&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;Lastly, having a successful relationship or marriage has NOTHING to do with education, combined income, how many cars you have, or how much money you have in the bank. Black women really need to reevaluate whats important, because if they don’t, these rates will stay the same, or get worse. Im THANKFUL I didnt “buy in”, cause at 30, im 6 years deep in the marriage “game!&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;ENOUGH SAID!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;" class="ctext"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-366212494696741163?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/366212494696741163/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/enough-said.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/366212494696741163'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/366212494696741163'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/enough-said.html' title='Enough Said!'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-8288382887354620652</id><published>2009-10-16T09:17:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T09:20:50.679-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Out of Control</title><content type='html'>My son is in love with me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I should feel all warm and googly inside. Some days, I do. But this is starting to get out of hand. I mean, he's OBSESSED with me, lol. Do I sound like a horrible mother complaining about this?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't care.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He slapped a 6-month old I was holding, shoved my little sister when she tried to give me a hug, and even mushed my husband's face when he laid it on my shoulder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's out of control.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-8288382887354620652?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/8288382887354620652/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/10/out-of-control.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/8288382887354620652'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/8288382887354620652'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/10/out-of-control.html' title='Out of Control'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-5327545899116823733</id><published>2009-09-20T15:39:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-20T15:43:09.028-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I Am So Irritated.</title><content type='html'>I guess it's not a bad thing that my son loves me, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But sometimes I seriously question the good in his obsession. Like today, for example. I have to write these stupid journals for a stupid class with a ________ (you fill in the blank) professor. And it is taking me TEN times as long to get them done.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because I'm doing them at home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At this very moment, my son, after being put out of the room, is banging on the door, crying, and screaming at the top of his lungs. My husband is in the background yelling, "C'mere son!" from his comfortable position on the couch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am so irritated.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-5327545899116823733?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/5327545899116823733/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-am-so-irritated.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5327545899116823733'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5327545899116823733'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-am-so-irritated.html' title='I Am So Irritated.'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-6103055389452209374</id><published>2009-09-18T09:16:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-18T09:18:28.420-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Not on the Dean's List</title><content type='html'>Right now, at this very moment, I am in class.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everyone is typing away at their computers. Intent on finishing this practice problem our professor has given us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I am on ________ (facebook, blogger, reader, gmail... pick your poison).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is why I'm not on the dean's list.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-6103055389452209374?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6103055389452209374/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/not-on-deans-list.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6103055389452209374'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6103055389452209374'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/not-on-deans-list.html' title='Not on the Dean&apos;s List'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-4731986105262055542</id><published>2009-09-11T11:07:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-11T11:46:44.051-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Never Wear These Pants Again...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sqp-7bZm5iI/AAAAAAAABro/3cR4WXZy69Y/s1600-h/Tripping.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sqp-7bZm5iI/AAAAAAAABro/3cR4WXZy69Y/s320/Tripping.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380252264280024610" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will not wear pants with cuffs again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have this cute pair of dress pants from Banana Republic. I got them on sale so that means I really love them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But, when I wear them I risk my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why or how or what makes this happen, but some kind of way, my heel catches in the cuff of my pants. It has happened before, at least twice. The first time I was working at the State Capitol, surrounded by marble. My heel caught and I tripped, just a little. It ripped a little chunk of fabric out of the cuff. No one was around, thank God.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After the first incident, I realized that I couldn't walk with my feet too close together. This worked for quite a while, I'd say about 6 months. And then (lol), I was walking with two of my colleagues back to work. This time, I was surrounded by concrete. Similar trip as before, but this time I had witnesses.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today, however, could have very well ended my life. I realize, looking back, that I may have deserved this. I left my class about 10 minutes after it started so that I could get my computer cord from my car. I don't really need my computer for class, but it's just so boring that I CAN NOT STAND IT! My professor has already made a PSA about how he didn't like people coming into class late (which I did yesterday, BTW). I assume that means he probably doesn't like people walking in and out, but I didn't care. I can't and I won't sit through that class without alternative entertainment. So, I leave. And as I'm walking back I'm preparing myself for what I would say if he said something to me. Really ignorant sh*t, too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And in the midst of my "wish a mutha would" moment, my pants fail me once again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This time, my heel not only catches on a declining concrete sidewalk, but right in front of the glass windows where many of my fellow schoolmates sit and study. This was NOTHING, like the first two incidents. Oh, no. The first two times, if you hadn't been near me you probably wouldn't have noticed. THIS time, even the people inside paid attention. My heel caught and it took me SEVERAL stumbles (arm flying, leg shaking, stumbles) before I caught myself on the railing that I nearly busted my mouth into.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was LOUD. So loud.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everyone walking into the building with me stopped and asked me if I was okay. Even people INSIDE the building.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The moral of this story: Don't be an asshole, and NEVER wear these pants again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-4731986105262055542?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/4731986105262055542/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/never-wear-these-pants-again.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/4731986105262055542'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/4731986105262055542'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/never-wear-these-pants-again.html' title='Never Wear These Pants Again...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sqp-7bZm5iI/AAAAAAAABro/3cR4WXZy69Y/s72-c/Tripping.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-7181377232110972784</id><published>2009-09-09T11:11:00.006-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-09T11:44:45.515-05:00</updated><title type='text'>It Was Fate</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blstb.msn.com/i/24/A8DF99163DFC16B2DC793D7AC7F45.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://blstb.msn.com/i/24/A8DF99163DFC16B2DC793D7AC7F45.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;My husband e-mailed me this picture with the e-mail titled "Us."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I laughed. We are nearly the same height, and when I wear heels, well, there's a difference. We're not this bad though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was a picture from an article at MSN titled &lt;a href="http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/staticslideshowglamour.aspx?cp-documentid=21475197&amp;amp;gt1=32023"&gt;"Secrets of Happy Couples in 100 Words or Less."&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, you know what I did next.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Honey, what's our secret?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His response: &lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span&gt;"We haven't stabbed one another (although I'm sure that you  have been VERY close)."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ha, ha. So funny. But, me being me, I press on for an answer. I even include the format of the article (so he can't get it wrong). I had to stop and ask myself a question:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do we do this?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do we, women, ask questions like this. Maybe not all women do this, but I certainly do. I know that most people want honesty in their relationships, but are there some questions we just shouldn't ask? Or, if we do ask them, are we allowed to be upset if the honest answer is not something you expected or wanted to hear?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My answer is a RESOUNDING YES! Ha, ha.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No, but seriously, and this is probably not the best example of questions that maybe we just shouldn't ask ("Do I look fat, honey?" is probably better), but I wonder what it is about women, or me that wants my husband to, essentially, be someone he's not or put himself in a lose-lose situation if he's honest. Because my husband is not very sensitive or romantic. He is, however, honest and a problem solver - two characteristics that don't always bode well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;CUE: Me laying on the floor of our closet on a pile of clothes sobbing about none of them fitting and cursing genetics for slowing my metabolism. His response: Well, maybe you could try eating healthier and waking up at 5 a.m. to workout (ignore the improbability of me EVER being anywhere but my bed at 5 a.m.). After 20 minutes he finally said, "Oh, honey, I think you're beautiful and slim. Give me a hug."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Get my point? So, why do we do this? It's kind of unfair to them and it can certainly be cruel to ourselves.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He hasn't e-mailed back yet, so maybe I'll e-mail first him and say "Nevermind. I love you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Update* I sent the never mind line. But he responded anyway. His response:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It was fate."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-7181377232110972784?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/7181377232110972784/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/nevermind-i-love-you.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/7181377232110972784'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/7181377232110972784'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/nevermind-i-love-you.html' title='It Was Fate'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-5431160885877100111</id><published>2009-09-08T12:54:00.006-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-09T11:11:14.473-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Big, Fat, Resounding No: 3 Things You Should Know Before Agreeing to Be in a Wedding</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sqaxeq-qZmI/AAAAAAAABrg/bertQMeAxnw/s1600-h/n41001330_31892544_9829.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; float: right; height: 262px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379181945431942754" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sqaxeq-qZmI/AAAAAAAABrg/bertQMeAxnw/s320/n41001330_31892544_9829.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Okay, so I was asked to be in a wedding. I have never been in a wedding as an adult before and it seemed like something fun to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My husband and I got married in the living room of our house, so I guess I should say revise that and say I've never been in a full-blown wedding before.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In any event, the bride is a new (but fast) friend. We met a year ago and talk pretty regularly. I am pretty particular about who I call my friends, but I would say she is one of them. So, when she asked me, I said yes, in part for her but also because I was curious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Boy, do I wish I'd known what I was getting myself into. So, I've made a list about all the things I wish I had known before I agreed to be in this wedding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;1. It is expensive.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, so I knew I'd have to buy a dress, but that's pretty much where my list ended. I was expecting no more than $150 (on the high end). WRONG! My dress was about $50 more than that. I also thought I could just wear a pair of shoes in the color she wanted. WRONG again. Ended up paying $50 (which is not that bad) for a pair of shoes I'll never wear again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sidebar: Brides, stop telling people that they are buying things they can wear again. It's a lie. It's always a lie. Unless you've told your wedding party to buy a dress &lt;em&gt;they&lt;/em&gt; like in one of your wedding colors.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then there's make-up, hair, accessories. I don't mind doing it because I like the bride, but I'm always surprised about more expenses. I guess, well, I OBVIOUSLY I really just didn't have a concept of what a wedding (or being in a wedding) entailed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll be frank with you. I know that it is tradition, habit, or whatever, for bridesmaids to pay for their own weddding stuff. But, if I were having a wedding, I wouldn't do that. I would rent or pay for all of the bridesmaid stuff. I just wouldn't feel right asking someone to pay to be in my wedding. Plus, based on the fact that I got married in my living room, I really don't think weddings are justifiable expenses anyway. So, it's even harder for me to justify making someone else spend money on it. But, to each his own.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, if you're in a wedding expect to pay for the following:&lt;br /&gt;- A bridesmaid dress&lt;br /&gt;- Shoes&lt;br /&gt;- Accessories&lt;br /&gt;- Hair&lt;br /&gt;- Make-up&lt;br /&gt;- Bridal Shower Stuff&lt;br /&gt;- Bridal Shower Gift&lt;br /&gt;- Bachelorette Party&lt;br /&gt;- Wedding Gift&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, I've seen some people do it different. They will let you wear your own shoes, pay for a stylist to do everyone's hair and make-up, and even pay for bachelorette party and/or wedding accommodations. I have even known brides who paid for the bridesmaid dresses so all you really had to worry about were travel costs (if you came from out of state). And then there are the brides that expect you to pay $1000 for a dress.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;2. It is time consuming.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The wedding is this weekend and right now I am basically booked doing wedding related stuff from Friday until Sunday evening (the wedding is on a Sunday evening). Frankly, I really didn't have time to be in this wedding. You read my posts people, you know I'm barely making it as is. Between bridal showers, bachelorette parties, hair appointments, dress measuring, dress alterations, rehearsals, rehearsal dinners, church service... I mean, you see where this is going. My day is already scheduled to the MAX! I'm starting my third week of school and I haven't read a SINGLE page. And not because of this wedding, because of my LIFE!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;3. Some people are trifling.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I quickly discovered that there will be some wedding party members who just won't do their part. I agreed to be in this wedding having no idea about what it would require me to do. And even though I am surprised at EVERY turn with something, I roll with the punches. Because I shouldn't have said yes if I wasn't going to be able to do that. I even take on extra responsibility because face it. The bride is already stressed and that's what you would want someone to do for you if you were in that position. But not coming to the bridal shower or at least sending a gift? Expecting me to front the costs of a bachelorette party because other bridesmaids won't contribute (another bridesmaid ACTUALLY asked me to do this)? I don't think so. Are they crazy? I can't and I won't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All in all, I have decided that I don't care enough about weddings to do this again. There are only a handful of people whose weddings I will particpate in going forward. Everyone else gets a big, fat, resounding NO!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-5431160885877100111?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/5431160885877100111/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/things-you-should-know-before-you-agree.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5431160885877100111'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5431160885877100111'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/things-you-should-know-before-you-agree.html' title='Big, Fat, Resounding No: 3 Things You Should Know Before Agreeing to Be in a Wedding'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sqaxeq-qZmI/AAAAAAAABrg/bertQMeAxnw/s72-c/n41001330_31892544_9829.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-38665379790289390</id><published>2009-07-28T13:33:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-28T13:39:24.652-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I turned it on!</title><content type='html'>Today, I did something really mean.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My son is semi-afraid of the vacuum cleaner. He is curiously cautious of it and will get close to inspect it if it's running, but run away if I move it towards him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;In any event, the vacuum cleaner has been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for two weeks. No, it doesn't belong there. No, it hasn't been used. Don't judge me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Madi, now that it's not on and running, enjoys pressing the buttons, swinging the plug around, pulling the cord all the way to the living room, and tipping it over and riding it like a horse.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;All things I tell him not to do. Repeatedly.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So, today, I decided that I would show him better than I could tell him. And although I know that this is a heinously horrible thing to do and I am FOREVER out of the "Number One Mommy" contest, I just couldn't help myself. As he was sitting on the vaccum cleaner, riding it like a horsey...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I turned it on! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-38665379790289390?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/38665379790289390/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-turned-it-on.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/38665379790289390'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/38665379790289390'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-turned-it-on.html' title='I turned it on!'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-6250128391080509283</id><published>2009-07-18T23:09:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-18T23:19:48.685-05:00</updated><title type='text'>To Someone Else...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SmKehPR7OQI/AAAAAAAABW4/Gw0TrUPrltM/s1600-h/6a00d8341c5d9653ef01157208839b970b.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 238px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SmKehPR7OQI/AAAAAAAABW4/Gw0TrUPrltM/s320/6a00d8341c5d9653ef01157208839b970b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360020800398899458" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I am literally SOBBING my way through this episode of “16 and Pregnant.”&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;The show is about, well, you guessed it, 16 year olds who get pregnant and their experiences through the pregnancy and after. For the final episode, MTV showed a young couple who decided to give their daughter to another couple through adoption. (Read their interview &lt;a href="http://www.mamapop.com/mamapop/2009/07/mtv-16-and-pregnant-catelynn-interview.html"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt;.)&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;Most of the episodes have been pretty typical, at least for me. The mom struggles through the pregnancy and afterward, and has the same fights with the dad that I had with my husband (It’s YOUR turn to change the diaper). But all of this was tainted with the funk of immaturity. I was terrified about being able to care for another human being. I still am. They were drunk with excitement. It was interesting to watch them sober up.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;But these kids are so brave. And so selfless. Part of the reason they decided to give the baby up was because of the instability in their lives. Both came from homes with ex-felon parents, or had jumped from relative to relative because of their parent’s inability to care for them. They wanted something better for their daughter and wanted it in the face of opposition from the same parents who had made their lives so unstable.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;“There’s plenty of love to take care of that baby. You just gotta make it happen,” one of the parents said (the ex-convict). The boy replied, “Love is why I have to give her a better life. And get her away from this hell hole.”&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;I wish all 16-year olds were as smart as them. Granted, they weren’t very smart getting pregnant at that age. But hell, my pregnancy wasn't planned and I was six years older! I watched one episode of a girl living on her grandmother’s couch with her mom who was also pregnant and wondered why she didn’t get it.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;Honestly, I would not be brave or selfless enough to carry a baby for nine months and then give it to someone else. I’m too selfish. I would sooner get an abortion.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;I guess that’s why this couple affected me as it did. Because they are able to do something that so many people NEED to do, but are too selfish to do. Give something so personal and precious to someone else.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-6250128391080509283?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6250128391080509283/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/to-someone-else.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6250128391080509283'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6250128391080509283'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/to-someone-else.html' title='To Someone Else...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SmKehPR7OQI/AAAAAAAABW4/Gw0TrUPrltM/s72-c/6a00d8341c5d9653ef01157208839b970b.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-727236475140606850</id><published>2009-07-16T17:49:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-18T23:23:49.137-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Bad Mommy Day...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SmKfxVRfWCI/AAAAAAAABXA/An5TE04Y3uc/s1600-h/IMG_1265.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SmKfxVRfWCI/AAAAAAAABXA/An5TE04Y3uc/s320/IMG_1265.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360022176397219874" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;Every mom has those days when they feel like they are officially out of the running for mommy of the year. &lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;I am having one of those days.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;My granny, who watches Madi while we’re at work, called me this afternoon. She rarely ever calls me so I knew that it was something really good or something bad. Since he just had his potty phenomenon, I figured it might’ve been something bad.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;Turns out that in my haste this morning to get him ready, I put his shoe on with his toes curled under. I noticed that it was a little difficult to get his shoe on, but I thought it was the angle or something – honestly, I didn’t really pay much attention to WHY it was hard, I just put it on and kept going.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;So, at my granny’s he took a step and fell over crying. She noticed him limping and took his shoe off and saw that his toes were curled under. His big toe was a bit swollen and the bottom of his toenail was bleeding a little. I was at work then, but when I got home I cried and kissed him and told him I was sorry.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;I know, I know. It’s not that big of a deal, it’s just his toe.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;But you don’t understand. There is this immense pressure to… I don’t know… not fuck it up. Like, I don’t want to mess up this kid. So, for me, it wasn’t about a big toe. For me it was like, jeez, you can’t even put the boy’s shoe on right, how are you going to handle the big stuff?&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;I’ve had these days before. When he was three days old I accidentally dropped a lotion bottle on his head. It only grazed it, but I immediately started bawling. Madi kept doing what most babies his age do – nothing.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;When he was about six months I was carrying too much stuff to the car, dropped something and put his car seat on top of my husband’s car while I bent over to pick up the lost item. Predictably, his car seat slid off and I barely grabbed a hold of it before the bottom hit the ground. He cried for a few seconds.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;I cried for an hour.&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;I guess the point is this: There are going to be some mistakes (duh). And even though us moms know that, it doesn’t make the mistakes (no matter how big or small) hurt any less. It’s just part of having a bad mommy day.&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;!--EndFragment--&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-727236475140606850?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/727236475140606850/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/bad-mommy-day.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/727236475140606850'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/727236475140606850'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/bad-mommy-day.html' title='Bad Mommy Day...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SmKfxVRfWCI/AAAAAAAABXA/An5TE04Y3uc/s72-c/IMG_1265.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-875126209828292986</id><published>2009-07-10T11:54:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-11T08:28:49.908-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Updated: I *really* love that kid...</title><content type='html'>Madi peed on the potty for the first time today!!!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Jeez, I love that kid.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;*Update*&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Madi continued using the potty for the rest of the day! And when he came home he used the potty there, too! He did pee a little on the floor, but at least he got some in the potty, too!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He is only a little over 14 months old. I am so proud of him. And thank God for my grandmother. She is absolutely awesome. I'm a little nervous about continuing here at home. I hope I can do as well as she did.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I *really* love that kid.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-875126209828292986?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/875126209828292986/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-love-that-kid.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/875126209828292986'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/875126209828292986'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-love-that-kid.html' title='Updated: I *really* love that kid...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-8761941324405214933</id><published>2009-07-02T20:27:00.006-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-02T20:55:35.954-05:00</updated><title type='text'>A Lesson I Carry Every Day...</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sk1fVbpb3uI/AAAAAAAABFA/ch1B1AJ0jWg/s1600-h/IMG_2100.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sk1fVbpb3uI/AAAAAAAABFA/ch1B1AJ0jWg/s320/IMG_2100.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354040353816829666" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div&gt;We spent the weekend in Dallas with my hubby's grandfather. He is over 80 and loves Madi so that was nice. It was the second Father's Day I've spent away from my Dad, so that was a little tough. I also felt a bit conflicted because on the way back from Dallas we stopped at my father's house. It just felt strange to spend Father's Day with him and not see the man who acted like my father for most of my life.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I guess I should do a little explaining. When I refer to my "Dad," I am usually talking about my stepfather. He and my mother have been together for nearly 20 years. I'm not much older than that. Let's just say he was at my kindergarten graduation. He has always treated me like his biological daughter even when I was a complete teenage asshole. I have always loved and appreciated him because he loved me and he didn't have to. I think that's pretty special.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;On the other hand, my "father" and I have a tumultuous relationship. I would rather not spend much time talking about that, I will simply say that efforts to reconcile were always thwarted by some random and unpredictable outburst or lashing out on his part. As a result, I have made a logical decision to stop seeking a "father-daughter" relationship with him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When I got pregnant, we were not on speaking terms. But as I got closer to my delivery date, I thought about my son being afforded an opportunity to have a relationship with his biological grandfather. Family is important to me, and although my stepfather is great, I would like for my son to know ALL of where he comes from. The fact that I tried so many times to build a relationship with my father is evidence of how important I think he is. And although that relationship may never be salvaged, I do not want to stop him from being a great grandfather if that's who he wants to be. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It made me very emotional. I didn't want him to hurt my son the way that he hurt me. I was also forced to confront the notion that I couldn't protect my son from everything even if I wanted to. So, I really struggled with this - the idea of making he and my son's relationship work even though ours didn't. Fortunately, hubby came to the rescue and met with him before our son was born and serve(d/s) as a sort of liaison. When we visit I go too, but he's become "Grandpa Alan," instead of "Dad." That works for me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;In any event, I didn't mean to make this post about my poor relationship with my father. I think the lesson my father taught me is to ensure that I pick a good father for my children so they never have to go through the things that I did. The past two father's day, and every day since I first discovered I was pregnant I am so thankful (and sometimes jealous) that my son has such a great father. Father's are invaluable. They have such an impact on esteem, something that I didn't realize until I was a bit older. I thank my father for teaching me that - a lesson I carry every day.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-8761941324405214933?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/8761941324405214933/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/lesson-i-carry-every-day.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/8761941324405214933'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/8761941324405214933'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/lesson-i-carry-every-day.html' title='A Lesson I Carry Every Day...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sk1fVbpb3uI/AAAAAAAABFA/ch1B1AJ0jWg/s72-c/IMG_2100.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-5156680838724284852</id><published>2009-07-02T20:08:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-02T20:23:32.035-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Jumped In!</title><content type='html'>This week we started parent/child swim class at our local YMCA. It is an eight-session class - 30 minute classes Monday - Thursday for two weeks. We just finished our first week and we are having a blast!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;During Madi's first two months he would scream through bath time. We bathed him on one of&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sk1dPNh6BhI/AAAAAAAABE4/itxiRjCIBpc/s320/IMG_2149.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354038047924684306" /&gt;&lt;div&gt;those bath slings and I think he didn't really like being exposed in the air. We took baths together and he seemed to tolerate those. As he got older, bath time became more and more fun for him, which was great.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Before swim class Madi had only been swimming a few times. He was three or four months then and seemed to innately know how to paddle and kick. That was so amazing. Recently, we took him swimming at a pool with graduated depth. He LOVED that, so much that I had to keep him from walking in too deep!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Things were a bit different in swim class. The first night, Madi clung to me and didn't want to play or splash at all. I was really worried that the next two weeks would be miserable - for him AND me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The next day, Madi had something in store for me! He was surprisingly much more comfortable, kicking, splashing, dipping his face in the water (and drinking it, too), and laughing! He even jumped in! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-5156680838724284852?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/5156680838724284852/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/jumped-in.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5156680838724284852'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/5156680838724284852'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/jumped-in.html' title='Jumped In!'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sk1dPNh6BhI/AAAAAAAABE4/itxiRjCIBpc/s72-c/IMG_2149.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-3873733653857712111</id><published>2009-05-18T22:16:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-02T20:26:02.978-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Flashback...</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;I think I am getting worse. It's almost Tuesday for christsake! Blame it on the finals... and the finals recovery...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;Saturday (5/9/09)&lt;div&gt;Spent the ENTIRE day studying. Hubby took Madi out and they hung out until his bedtime. Really appreciated that. He also got all of the Mother's Day gift's I neglected to get. It's really not my fault that I didn't remember it was Mother's Day until Thursday. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Sunday (5/10/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Mother's Day!! Slept in. Hubby and Madi gave me a very thoughtful gift - dress clothes! It was EXACTLY what I wanted (no sarcasm). The boys picked out some nice stuff. Also got a nice plant (I killed the last one, I guess he has faith in me). My brother-in-law sent me a mother's day card. SO SWEET! I love him. We got up, got dressed, tried to catch brunch, but we were moving too slow. Stopped at the mall, got some more stuff. Headed to my grandmother's for lunch. Always enjoy myself over there. Kind of disappointed with my siblings. I leave the house and suddenly, mom gets no love on Mother's Day. Really ticked me off. Oh well. Hubby, Madi &amp;amp; I took care of her. Hung out for a while then on to dinner. Dinner was great except for the interruption for a conference call. Overall, a perfect day.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Monday (5/11/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Woke up in the morniiiiiiiinnnn.... Does anyone else laugh at those ridiculously long, ridiculously flat notes in Soulja Boy's, Turn My Swag On. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Hung out with Madi for the rest of the week. Did some heavy cleaning. Caught my breath.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-3873733653857712111?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/3873733653857712111/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/flashback_18.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/3873733653857712111'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/3873733653857712111'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/flashback_18.html' title='Flashback...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-842070777110868903</id><published>2009-05-09T12:22:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-09T12:44:35.455-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Flashback...</title><content type='html'>Once again, I have neglected to update on a Friday, but hey. I'm still in finals and I'm only one day behind. Cut me some slack.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Sunday (5/3/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Tried to get some studying done. Unsuccessfully. Had a NBLSA conference call. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Monday (5/4/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;More studying. No counseling today, I'm so tired.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Tuesday (5/5/09) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Wills &amp;amp; Trusts! Got up at 6:30 a.m. to do some quick review before my 9:00 a.m. test. Walked around looking for my exam room. Realized my exam was at 2:00 p.m. Tried to find the silver lining by doing some extra studying at the law school until my exam started. Got home, exhausted. The final was fair, but it beasted me. Meant to check the rest of my exams, but too tired. Besides, I just KNEW my second final was on Thursday and it was American Legal History. A day of memorization should do the trick.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Wednesday (5/6/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Woke up, played with Madi. Nkem took my cars keys accidentally (How do you do that? They look NOTHING like your keys) No matter. Brought them back and we headed to Granny's. Sat there for a while, exhausted. Got my ass up and headed to the office to lock myself up and "memorize." Check the exam schedule. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;American Legal History - 2:00 p.m. WEDNESDAY!!!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;WTF?!?!?! Yell "Oh my fucking god." Alert the entire office. Run downstairs to my car. Drive to Norman. Try to read and drive, unsuccessfully, so use the opportunity to SOB the entire time. Wipe my face as I exit, so as to avoid any unnecessary time-wasting by having to fix my face in the parking lot. Park, run inside and plant myself at a table. Put on headphones (don't mess with me), and furiously type the one-page outline we're allowed for the essay. How was the exam? Don't know, don't ask.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Thursday (5/7/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Still recovering. Dad came by last night to do a "welfare check." I know I sobbed, but damn Mom, did I really need a welfare check. I love my dad, told me not to be down. "You're juggling a lot of balls, and sometimes, one of them will drop. But you are doing wonderful." I love him. Hubby was great too. Completely supportive, not even an "I told you so." Even though he told me to check my exam schedule after the Wills and Trusts mishap. I love him, too. And of course, Madi loves his mommy no matter what she forgets - as long as I don't forget him. The men in my life are great. Had lunch with Mom, that was nice (as always). My support system really holds me up.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Friday (5/8/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Visit from my HS friend! Love her. Commiserated about law school and the people there. She's a bit luckier than I am. Have you noticed there has been absolutely no mention of studying? That's because there hasn't been any. *sigh* When will I learn? On another note, I found my old &lt;a href="http://www.xanga.com/lana_e"&gt;Xanga&lt;/a&gt; page. Interesting...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-842070777110868903?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/842070777110868903/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/flashback_09.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/842070777110868903'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/842070777110868903'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/flashback_09.html' title='Flashback...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-3334326025006531023</id><published>2009-05-03T13:14:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-03T13:54:37.324-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Flashback...</title><content type='html'>So, it's not exactly Friday, but finals are coming up. Give me a break.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sf3my9rqluI/AAAAAAAABEM/3dV-v9sNKzA/s320/IMG_1824.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331671297102092002" /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Friday (4/24/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Ran around getting food and party stuff for Madi's B&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;irthday Extravaganza. Helped my uncle unload the tables and chairs we rented for the backyard. Hubby got tickets to opening night of "The Lion King." Great show! I wish Madi would have been old enough to go, but we will make sure we take him when he's older. In hindsight, I dunno if it was such a good idea to go the night before the party, but we live and we learn. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Saturday (4/25/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The day of the party is here! Got a late start, Lion King hangover. Pretty windy, cloudy, so my outdoor plans were ruined. Moved it inside and it still turned out great. Madi was a little fussy at first, but he loves being the center of attention so his mood changed quickly. Hubby convinced my mom to cook, so everyone was excited about that. My castle cake came out FANTASTIC! Did I mention this party was probably more about me than him, but he enjoyed it too. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sf3oBmGbssI/AAAAAAAABEU/VU2fBNT5h2w/s320/IMG_1805.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331672647981576898" /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Sunday (4/26/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Exhausted! Just plain exhausted. I won't have another party like this at my house again. Especially if I have to rely on my husband to help clean up. Finals studying is on the homestretch...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Monday (4/27/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Hang out with Madi, head to marriage counseling, lunch with mom, study, study, study.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Tuesday (4/28/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Wake up early. Make some dinner for later. Head to the law school library. Study, study, class, study.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Wednesday (4/29/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Class at 8. No class at 9, so used that time to work on "reflection papers." Found out we get to use an outline for American Legal History (thank GOD, that was only reason I took that damn class). Then grabbed some food and headed home to study...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Thursday (4/30/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Same schedule, add wills &amp;amp; trusts. LAST DAY OF CLASS! Had to dress up for this DAMN Awards Ceremony. Packed some jeans to change into, then headed to the library. Law school is still filled with STUPID, IMMATURE people. Got home late, had to be satisfied with kissing my sleeping Madi.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Friday (5/1/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;No class!!! Went to the office and holed myself up in the "cave." Studied there for a while, then came home to study. "Bringing home a visitor." Thanks for the heads up, scramble to clean up the shit he said he would clean up from Saturday.  Met hubby's "stepsister" for the first time. SMH. He heads out to "happy hour" and other random BS. Can you tell I am a little irritated? He always finds a weekend of unnecessary BS to be involved in right before something MAJOR is going on in my life. Whatever. Counseled a fellow new mom and sufferer of husband's ignorance. Oh, to commiserate. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Saturday (5/2/09)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Woke up late. Got some studying done. Got ready for hubby's friend's wedding. Hair is acting crazy, maybe because I haven't really been combing it, but in any event, the curl pattern is gone from the ends. May have to cut. Struggle with hair, finally leave. Wedding was interesting. Glad we got married in our living room, so...much...sap, could...not...deal. Got home late. Study for a few hours, head to bed.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Gotta go. At this very moment, Madi is banging on the door of the room I'm studying in yelling "Mooooooooooooommmmmmmmm!!!!!" He never does this to his father. Welcome to motherhood.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-3334326025006531023?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/3334326025006531023/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/flashback.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/3334326025006531023'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/3334326025006531023'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/flashback.html' title='Flashback...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/Sf3my9rqluI/AAAAAAAABEM/3dV-v9sNKzA/s72-c/IMG_1824.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-1392896268104866496</id><published>2009-04-24T09:24:00.011-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-09T12:21:20.345-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Flashback Friday...</title><content type='html'>In the American spirit of stealing ideas and well, jut stealing ideas, I (after being inspired by a fellow mom's style) am going to try to do these Friday flashbacks. They will be a re-cap of my week. Not only will it help you (whoever you are) keep up with me, but it might also help me keep up with me! &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Friday (4/17/09)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;School is long. I have class from 8:00 a.m. until 12:15 p.m. with 10 minute breaks every hour. I also leave school and go straight to work at the Supreme Court, but today I was locked out. So, I went home and worked there. Also did some major cleaning, conveniently saving my atrocious closet for next week, ha! My guys came home a bit late, but it g&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;ave me a chance to get a lot done. It's so hard to keep the house OCD clean like I would prefer it. I should be used to that, since it hasn't been OCD clean since the week my husband was out of town when I was pregnant.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Saturday (4/18/09)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Hubby off to play basketball at 6:30 a.m. I would NEVER sacrifice my Saturday mornings for anyone but my kids, so more power to him. Madi wakes up about 7, I feed him and we lay in bed for a few hours. He's so sweet, letting me sleep in. I get this feeling it won't last&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SfHROUfQgXI/AAAAAAAAA7c/CHOhXq3p3o4/s320/IMG_1354.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328269878104195442" /&gt;much longer... Made some&lt;a href="http://www.tasteandtellblog.com/2009/04/bacon-quiche-biscuit-cups.html"&gt; breakfast quiche cups&lt;/a&gt;. Modified them a bit by adding smoked sausage instead of bacon. They were pretty good. Hubby didn't really like the biscuit part. I usually make&lt;a href="http://elizabethsedibleexperience.blogspot.com/2009/01/one-bite-wonders.html"&gt; these&lt;/a&gt;, (and add a bit of pie crust on the bottom) and he seems to like those. I like them both, so in the interest of family unity... Maybe, I'll just keep cooking whatever the hell I feel like cooking! Hubby came home, got Madi ready and they took off running "man errands." That included his first haircut! Mommy was very happy about that. I have been resisting the urge to chop it for about 5 months now. It naturally grew into this frohawk, so we just had it trimmed a bit. It was pretty cute!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Later that evening, we had "date night" with another couple from our neighborhood. We went to eat at &lt;a href="http://cafedobrazilokc.com/"&gt;Cafe' Do Brazil&lt;/a&gt;. It was pretty good. Before we knew it, we were running late to our salsa dancing class. THAT was a lot of fun. It was in Norman, but we had a blast. &lt;a href="http://sondermusic.com/"&gt;Sarah&lt;/a&gt;, the instructor, taught us a few salsa steps for the first hour and the rest of the time was just freestyle. From time to time she would stop and teach us meringue or other dances. I really enjoyed myself. We also hit a few clubs (which really aren't my thing, but my hubby enjoys them), stopped at &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/corryyoung/2983049128/"&gt;Bobo's&lt;/a&gt; and headed home.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sunday (4/19/09)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Hubby and I slept in. Madi was at his Granny's house, so I drove out there to pick him up. There is no telling what he ate out there. So far, I've caught her feeding him root beer floats, candy, chocolate, Dr. Pepper, and pretty much all the stuff I was trying to avoid entering his &lt;/div&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SfHcBQKuaLI/AAAAAAAAA74/PDwf8zqKvU8/s320/IMG_1128.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328281748233939122" /&gt;&lt;div&gt;system. So much for making organic baby food for all those months. BTW, I am so glad he is eating table food now. I was at the end of my baby food making rope! Came home, Hubby was at a frat meeting. When he got there we watched "No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency." I love that show. Also spent some time doing NBLSA stuff. We haven't even transitioned yet and I can already see that it will require an inordinate amount of time.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Monday (4/20/09)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;No school today, thank God. Madi and I hung around the house for a bit, talked to &lt;a href="http://zdubb.wordpress.com/"&gt;Z&lt;/a&gt; on Skype, then we got ready and I dropped him off at his G-Granny's. Met my hubby for our weekly marriage counseling at noon. This was our fourth week. It's so funny, everytime I tell someone that we're going to marriage counseling, they get this really concerned look. Marriage counseling is not just for "big" issues. In fact, I think it's more productive to go when there are little things so that they don't grow to be "big" issues. I think I'll save more discussion for a post. Headed to my mom's office to work on some NBLSA stuff, then headed to my sister's school to help her with high jump. I was a pretty decent high jumper in HS, but I've been so busy I haven't had time to help her like I (or she) would like. Funny thing is, the girl's been bugging me to help her for months, and then forgot her damn shoes. Ended up helping her teammate more, but whatever. Picked up Madi, headed home, threw on dinner, bathed him and put him to bed. We've been trying this new&lt;a href="http://parentingscience.com/infant-sleep-training.html"&gt; sleep technique&lt;/a&gt;. I like it better than Ferber, that is too traumatic for me. (Yes, I know I said me, and I know parenting is not about "me," but if I can avoid trauma without sacrificing good parenting then I will).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;TUESDAY (4/21/09)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SfHbduPX1rI/AAAAAAAAA7w/BseC7YBf1GQ/s320/IMG_1697.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328281137831204530" /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Today is Madi's birthday! I can't believe it's been one year! I &lt;/div&gt;feel like I just brought him home. I skipped work and class and we spent the entire day together. First, we went to the grocery store so he could pick out a little "smash cake." Then we visited his G-Granny, and finally headed over to his Granny's office. Came home, I cooked dinner and then we opened presents and let him have at his cake. That got pretty interesting. It was a really great day. I will post about that separately, too.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Wednesday (4/22/09)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Class from 8:00 a.m. - 10:50 a.m. Ran to grab a letter from Student Services and somehow got dragged into a meeting with a prospective student and the dean. I swear, they need to give me another scholarship, a paycheck, or something for all the stuff they have me doing! But, seeing as how I make such a fuss about not seeing many brown faces around here, I guess I should shut up and help. Grabbed some food around 1:30. Headed back to school. Studied, took a break and had some interesting conversation with classmates (which actually spurred the post before this) and headed home around 10:00 p.m. Got a lot accomplished, but I hate not seeing my baby before he goes to bed. Such is life, it's finals time.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Thursday (4/23/09)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Class from 8:00 a.m. - 12:15 p.m. Grabbed lunch with my law school buddy, ran our mouths for a few hours, then headed to my grandma's (G-Granny) to hang out with her and mom (Granny), my two favorite women. Had an interesting conversation with my father (another subject that requires a separate post), and spent some time watching my son go between his granny's being spoiled at every turn. That used to be me, lol. What a charmed life. After a few hours, we headed home, I threw on some dinner and retreated to our room to do some studying. I ended up watching College Hill for the first time. Drama. Enjoyable, but I'm sure I lost a few brain cells.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-1392896268104866496?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/1392896268104866496/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/flashback-friday.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/1392896268104866496'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/1392896268104866496'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/flashback-friday.html' title='Flashback Friday...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SfHROUfQgXI/AAAAAAAAA7c/CHOhXq3p3o4/s72-c/IMG_1354.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-6114770021298487997</id><published>2009-04-22T19:30:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-04-22T19:45:40.287-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I am not sorry...</title><content type='html'>You know what?&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am not sorry.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am abrasive, offensive, rude, straight-forward, and insensitive. I don't sugar coat things, and I don't deal well with sensitive people.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And I am not sorry.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This year was my second year in law school. As such, I really tried to reach out to the new black law students, particularly the women. But, no matter what I do, someone is always upset. My husband was told by a few of these students that I can sometimes put them off. In an effort to debunk this facade, I sent an e-mail to each of them letting them know that although I may seem abrasive, I genuinely want to help them. I apologized if there were ever any issues or things about me that put them off, offered them whatever help I could, and encouraged them to talk with me so we could work together.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I got all kinds of e-mails back, some telling me that they never had an issue, others appreciative of my olive branch. Keep in mind, I had no idea what I had "done" to upset people, I only knew that they were upset and tried to rectify it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And here I am again, in the same position. There are people upset with me that I didn't even know had problems. The part that kills me is that NO ONE has EVER voiced these concerns with me. They just do that passive aggressive attitude shit that I don't have time for.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Did I already tell you that I don't have time for this? I'm mad at myself right now for wasting my time writing about it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I guess what really upsets me is that I went OUT OF MY WAY to be nice and accommodating. This, if you know me at all, is something I have never done. I've always had a "take me as I am or fuck you" attitude. But, I felt like I should make an effort, primarily for these reasons. First, there aren't enough of us here to make people feel isolated. Second, law school is rough enough without having to deal with extracurricular bullshit or intimidation. And last, I really wanted to be helpful to an incoming law student the way that I wanted someone to help me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am not JUST abrasive, I am not JUST rude. I am also helpful, caring, considerate, and funny. But they will never know that about me because they prefer to view me negatively. I've stepped out of who I am to be someone that they still are not happy with and I'm not doing that EVER again. I am going to be me! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And I am not sorry.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-6114770021298487997?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/6114770021298487997/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/fuck-you.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6114770021298487997'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/6114770021298487997'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/04/fuck-you.html' title='I am not sorry...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-4205535746049027538</id><published>2009-01-27T19:05:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2009-01-27T19:21:15.952-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Pretty cool, huh?</title><content type='html'>Gosh! So much has happened. I really need to do better about posting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;First, my husband and I just got back from D.C. and all the inauguration festivities. We left our son at home because we figured that it would be CRAZY to bring an eight-month old to D.C. in the middle of winter. It was the longest I've ever been away from him (FIVE DAYS!!). It was rough, but not as bad as I thought it would be even though I missed his first steps. Although I enjoyed being able to be a part of everything, if there is one theme of the week it is LINES! Lines for everything. I really expected things to be more organized than they were. In fact, some of it was just pure idiocy. Such is government. Other than that, I enjoyed the experience and I got to see Michelle and Barack at the Western Ball. I can live with that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was also a nice time for my husband and I to be together. We are still learning each other and dealing with the growing pains that occur when two people merge lives and throw a baby in the mix. It was nice to know that we are still connected.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As mentioned, my son took his first steps! I guess he was officially nine months old when he did that, but he's been standing on his own since January 3. He's progressing quite nicely! I guess we're doing something right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;School is starting back up again and I have a FULL load. In law school you aren't even allowed to enroll in 18 hours without a dean's approval so I had to do that. I am externing at the Supreme Court 10 hours a week in addition to my school schedule, being a mom, wife, chef, and housekeeper. This ought to be interesting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Did I mention I'm participating in a national law school competition, too?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also found out that I made the Dean's List for the first time last semester! I am thrilled. My first year was so difficult, maybe more because I was so sick from pregnancy than from school. I felt like it really hindered my ability to perform my best, but I just wasn't sure. Making the Dean's List was something I needed to prove to myself and I'm glad I did it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, one of the highlights of my D.C. trip was seeing my best friend's work in "ManifestHope: D.C." an inaugural art show she participated in. The show was very selective, it was put on by Shepherd Fairey's people. You can read more about it and her work on her blog:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.blueingreenonrepeat.wordpress.com/"&gt;www.blueingreenonrepeat.wordpress.com&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pretty cool, huh?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-4205535746049027538?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/4205535746049027538/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/01/pretty-cool-huh.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/4205535746049027538'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/4205535746049027538'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/01/pretty-cool-huh.html' title='Pretty cool, huh?'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-2097002839250350565</id><published>2009-01-08T12:22:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2009-01-08T12:54:46.558-06:00</updated><title type='text'>To Undo What's Been Done...</title><content type='html'>I just watched the Oscar Grant video and I am nearly in tears.  If you have not seen it, you can see it here: &lt;a href="http://cbs5.com/local/oakland.BART.shooting.2.900634.html"&gt;http://cbs5.com/local/oakland.BART.shooting.2.900634.html &lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;First, I am not an insensitive person. I have never personally witnessed anyone be shot or killed or hurt for that matter. I have never seen a violent fight, honestly, I've never really seen a fight. I've just never personally witnessed anyone be hurt. Even movies unnerve me at times because I watch them with a "what if this were real?" perspective. "No Country for Old Men," was shocking to me.&lt;br /&gt;　&lt;br /&gt;I say all this because I want you to understand how sensitive I am to violence. My reaction may be more sensitive than others. For example, my husband has seen his friends die in a car accident, witnessed shootings, seen people beaten within an inch of their lives, etc. This video may impact him differently.&lt;br /&gt;　&lt;br /&gt;But I felt like crying.&lt;br /&gt;　&lt;br /&gt;It was just so senseless. Killings like this always are, but this affected me differently. Maybe because I saw it. Maybe because I'm sensitive. Or maybe because I watched that officer, without rhyme or reason, without much forethought, take the life of someone's father, someone's son, someone's friend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As if he was shooting an animal, swatting a fly, smashing an insect. As if the person he was killing was irrelevant. Like his life was worthless. He was no one to that officer. It didn't matter he could have been everything to someone else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What do you say to his child? What would I say to my son if Oscar had been my husband? What do you say?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What do you say to his mother? A woman who spent 40 weeks carrying that man, fed him, clothed him, made sure he went to school, watched him graduate, who invested TWENTY-TWO years of her life in his. What do you say to her?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is nothing to say. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is nothing to say to undo what's been done. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And that is worth crying for. Not just because OBVIOUSLY this could be any of our son's. Not just because there are people who simply do not value life, and in fact, value some lives less. But because there is NOTHING to say to undo what's been done.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-2097002839250350565?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/2097002839250350565/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/01/to-undo-whats-been-done.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2097002839250350565'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2097002839250350565'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2009/01/to-undo-whats-been-done.html' title='To Undo What&apos;s Been Done...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-1437661363259669105</id><published>2008-12-04T09:58:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2008-12-04T10:09:16.220-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Watch me grow...</title><content type='html'>Two years ago, I decided that I would not date for fun anymore. I have always known that I wanted a family, and I concluded that it was a dangerous idea to involve myself with men I've always known were temporary. Fleeting relationships with temporary men can turn themselves into permanent problems.  These things I try my best to avoid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, at the age of twenty I decided that I would not date (or continue to date)  men that I knew had no potential for marriage. I had discovered that I was much happier by myself than being involved with  a man that I had no long term intentions. The truth is this: relationships are difficult. Why tread that water with someone that you know will not be around in three months?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Shortly after this decision, I met my husband. I was home for the summer, and at that time wasn't sure if I was coming back after graduation. So I certainly wasn't looking for anything serious. But he was there. And I loved him. He wasn't everything that I wanted in a man. In fact, he was actually the opposite of some of those things. But he was everything I needed (still is).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After graduation, I had some tough decisions to make. Particularly, whether or not I was going to stay on the east coast for law school or return home. At that time I would have liked to think that I made my decision independent of my relationship with him. And if we wouldn't have worked out, I probably still would have been content with my decision. But there is a small part of me that knows he was a part of my decision. I'm still not sure how I feel about that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That decision changed the course of my life forever. If I had stayed on the east coast, there would have been new experiences, but it would have really been a continuation of the old life I lived. The life of only being responsible for me, selfishness, clubbing, meeting new and interesting people, drunken nights, fun, diversity, friends. I must say, it was a great life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is a new life now. In less than a year after graduating, I was a wife and new mother.  I always thought I would be married, always knew I wanted kids, but if you would have told me that THIS would be my life NOW, I would have laughed at you. I am twenty-two. I will be celebrating my one year anniversary with my husband in a few weeks. Sometimes, I am still surprised by it all. I would have never predicted that my life would be like this, but I am completely, whole-heartedly, in love with it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is a drastic change. And I don't always do as good of a job as I would like, but I am getting there. I am not yet the new me, but I am certainly not the old one. Right now, I am transitioning between the life I used to live and the life I've always wanted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Watch me grow...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-1437661363259669105?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/1437661363259669105/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2008/12/watch-me-grow.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/1437661363259669105'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/1437661363259669105'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2008/12/watch-me-grow.html' title='Watch me grow...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-8275506863586743602</id><published>2008-12-03T18:03:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:03:25.313-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Human...</title><content type='html'>I am a new mother. My son is seven months old and he's my first child. I love him. I love being a mother. I really do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;But I had a breakdown.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;A miniature, hysterical breakdown. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;It was 5:50 a.m. on Friday. I am in school (law school) Monday through Wednesday from 8-3 Monday &amp;amp; Tuesday, and 8-6 on Wednesday. After one week of waking up nearly every hour, even with my husband taking turns (keeping in mind there is only so much he can do because I breastfeed), I was exhausted. And I broke down. I sobbed. I cried. I retreated to the guest room. I have never been so frustrated and felt so helpless in my life. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I don't know why I felt the need to preface this revelation with insistings about my love for him. But I've obviously decided that it will remain there, so maybe I'm a bit more aware than I'd care to acknowledge. Most parents (my experiences are usually with women), don't acknowledge these breakdowns. Fortunately, my mother has always been straight with me, and that helps. But even with the knowledge that sometimes you will falter, sometimes you will reach the end of your rope, and that sometimes you will breakdown, I still felt bad about it. It was as if I was failing as a mother. As if I was not allowed to be human. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;And I am! Allowed to be human, I mean. I am not perfect. I am not always patient. I am not always kind. I do not always do the right thing. Honestly, I'm not sure that I would like to be that way. Imagine being the kid of a perfect parent. Talk about pressure! But it is hard to remind myself that it is good for me to be imperfect, to be human. I wrote this entry to remind myself.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am a good mother. My son is healthy and thriving. I make his baby food. I'm still breasfeeding for christsakes (lol)! I can spend hours playing with him without realizing how much time has flown by. I think he is the coolest thing on earth (at least in the daytime, ha!). But most important, I love him more than I love myself. And I think (well, I hope) that this is what good mothering boils down to. Possibly, I am not the only new (or experienced) mother who has had or does occasionally have a breakdown. I just hope that if I am not alone, someone is there to tell them that it is okay to be human. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-8275506863586743602?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/8275506863586743602/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2008/12/human.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/8275506863586743602'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/8275506863586743602'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2008/12/human.html' title='Human...'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2072906274313364287.post-2116027924145870168</id><published>2008-11-04T17:11:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T21:47:58.754-06:00</updated><title type='text'>You Can Win.</title><content type='html'>This election was critical.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not just because of the economy, the war, healthcare, marriage, energy, global warming, etc. As a mother, a black mother, this election was critical because it solidified the fact that my son's possibilities are TRULY endless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mothers everywhere (and fathers) tell their sons that they can be anything. They tell them that if they work hard, if they do their best, they can do whatever they want to do. But conversations between black mothers and black sons have always included an addendum. The asterisk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Son, you can be whatever you want to be. *But things won't come easy for you. Nothing will be handed to you. You will have to work twice as hard. Be twice as smart. Do twice as much. And in some people's eyes you will still be less than them, even when you do more. But you are not. You are as good or better."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That conversation has changed. It has officially changed . Now, I will tell my son that he can be WHATEVER he wants to be, and it will not be followed by an asterisk. It will not be prefaced with doubt or apprehension or fear or cynicism. Barack Obama has shown America, the world, that even though you may have to be damn near perfect, you can be black, and you can win.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2072906274313364287-2116027924145870168?l=newwwmama.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/feeds/2116027924145870168/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2008/11/you-can-win.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2116027924145870168'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2072906274313364287/posts/default/2116027924145870168'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://newwwmama.blogspot.com/2008/11/you-can-win.html' title='You Can Win.'/><author><name>New Mama</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/00955669602621154549</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0IlDAH1FRsA/SRHEAeTOFeI/AAAAAAAAAb4/ody52MTMYk8/S220/n41001330_31811074_3460.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
