So I have this issue with coffee. I love coffee. I love thinking about coffee, smelling coffee, reading about coffee, and drinking coffee. The problem with all this is, I am terrible at actually making coffee. I just cannot seem to get the ratio of water to coffee work out. You can try all you want to give me your formula, like my Aunt Nancy did (1 1/2 teaspoons of coffee for 2 cups of water) but I promise you it won’t be right. So I spend all this time thinking about how lovely a cup of coffee would be, I can taste it in my mouth and imagine its reviving power coursing through my veins, but then when I get up and make myself a cup, I am met with a foul liquid that tastes like crunched up garden mulch and sugar.

Jasmine does not make this any easier on me, as she has the ability to make amazingly good coffee with cinnamon and just the right composition of coffee, milk, and sugar. Sure sure, I could ask her to bring me a cup every morning, and she would maybe do it. But something in me feels bad about saying “Hey. I know you are all 9 months pregnant and about to have a human come crashing out between your legs, but would you mind driving over to my house with a steaming cup of joe? Mm’Kay thanks.”

Through my pregnancy I have had some relief from the cruel juxtaposition of my dreams about coffee and what I actually make at home. In the beginning I was all “Blahhhajchuir! Death liquid! The urine of Satan!” and then in the middle I was all “Mmmm…I just really love some tea. I am not a frail enough human to need coffee” but now I am 31 weeks along and find myself indeed a frail human who has an incredibly vicious want of the drink. The want is bad enough that I have been willing to drink the coffee I make and just pretend it is as good as I have dreamed.

This was all good and fine except that something like 20 minutes after the desire for coffee kicked in, Norah broke my coffee pot. Its my own fault really, because I am the dummy that lets her play inside the cabinet where my coffee pot lives. That was a little over a week ago, and I have been surviving on coffee from the cafe downtown, Jasmine’s house, an amazing cup of vanilla nut coffee from Atlanta Bread Company, and yesterday, some wretched tar from Sonic.

This morning Norah and I woke at a leisurely 9:30am, and after taking a shower, the coffee craving hit me. But I really didn’t want to drive to the cafe, nor did I want to pester Jasmine. So in a moment of desperation, I rigged my coffee pot to work again. I measured out some haphazard amount of grounds and used my Pyrex measuring cup to measure out some haphazard amount of water. Then I put the Pyrex where the pot should go and used a spoon to depress the thingy at the spout where the coffee comes out. I was rewarded with a half-decent cup of coffee.

There was much rejoicing in the land of Sadie. And I don’t really know why I felt compelled to tell this story, except to point out the fact that in the face of adversity I don’t just roll over and give up. No no! I am industrious and unconventional! I also have an unhealthy love of coffee.

Have a good day, friends.

Throughout this pregnancy I have been in the unfortunate position that NO ONE can figure out my due date. I have had several different ultrasounds by several different OB’s and none of them can actually give me a good estimate. It isn’t an exact science, I know that much… but I would still like to know when I SHOULD expect our bundle of screaming joy to arrive. Here are the dates I have been given:  March 17th, March 23rd, March 27th, April 1st.   So Dr. Crownover, my OB, went with April 1st because that gives us more time before the state of Arkansas forces a C-section. Even so, all fetal measurements have been a week or two larger than they were “supposed” to be… so I was under the strong suspicion that April 1st was the wrong date.

The other day I was nesting like a psycho womancleaning out a couple of drawers and I found our old calendar. Turns out that I wrote down that Garrett and I had sex (I wrote it down because I had previously been taking fertility meds) on June 30th. For all you conception gurus out there, it means that IF I conceived on or around that date, then Addison should be born on or around the 23rd of March! Hooray! At least some kind of direction and clarity, right?!

In the mean time, my body is telling me it is full term and I am getting anxious. In a week in a half Addison will be considered medically viable (no complications if she was born)… which is a really bad thing. It is a bad thing because I am notoriously BAD about delaying gratification, especially when I have planned and scheduled and worked so hard for it. Last year I picked tomatoes too early (knowingly) because I decided that I waited long enough for them to do their damn job! Silly aren’t I! I am very patient with children (unless they live inside me) and family and friends (for the most part)… but any projects I have initiated better get themselves DONE by golly or there will be some issues.

So my little in-utero project, Addison, is quickly wearing out her welcome. Janessa, my midwife, is doing the smart thing, reminding me: “Jasmine… all things come in season- she won’t stay in their forever, but let her grow as long as she needs to.” Excuse me Janessa! Do you KNOW who you are talking to…. I want her! I want her NOW!  My OB knows this about me. He told me I could be induced when I wanted. I think this is a dangerous idea and I turned it down, but its appeal grows everyday that my hip pops out of place and I almost pee on myself when I sneeze.

Help me friends. Remind me it is okay to wait, that I will make it, and that all things come in season (even though I will most likely ignore you and drink and ungodly amount of Castor oil).

I’ve been unable to write for some time. It is a combination of the weather, more projects than a human should ever have, and being in the process of making some decisions. I am the type of person that when a decision is put in my lap to make I do a heinous amount of research, I poll friends, I read tea leaves, and I stop writing and thinking about anything BUT that decision. I am not compulsive, I Swear. I have been like this since, well… my birth. My mom explained to me that I was a very intentioned little girl. When someone asked me if I wanted a piece of candy… I weighed the options. I just tell myself I bestowed with this damn annoying habit gift to use for something great someday… I will keep holding my breath.

So the decision in question has been about how Addison should arrive into this world. What, you ask, are you saying, “Jasmine! There is one way to have babies… drugged up and in the hospital so you don’t feel pain and if anything goes wrong you have medical professionals around you.” Readers, truly, I thought so too.  IN FACT my refrain used to be, “why in the HELL would someone NOT want drugs… that HURT!!!” However, after my birth experience with Isaiah there was a sneaking suspicion in me that what happened to me at that hospital was NOT how it was supposed to be. I had always been taught, by my beautiful and wise Momma, that birth was something women could do… because we were made that way. She had no strong opinions about meds or no med or where you have the baby, but she always reminded me that women were created capable.  My hospital experience left me feeling like I was broken; pregnancy was to be treated, and that I couldn’t give birth, and my baby had to be delivered. The suspicion that maybe a women’s labor shouldn’t be stopped when it wants to starts urged some seriously uneasy choices in front of me. Here is the quick and dirty birth tale so you can understand (enjoy the run on sentences):

I went into the OB unit after a whole day of back labor. My contractions were 1 min. a part. When I arrived they checked me and saw I was dilated to 4 cms. My doc was out of town and I was only 37.5 weeks and so the attending was not happy about delivering a “premature” baby. So they gave me shots in my belly every four hours to stop the labor until Friday night when my doc arrived. My OB arrived and my labor had stopped and Isaiah’s heart readings were in distress so they decided to induce. I was given pain meds, Pitocin, epidural, Cervidil, and told to hold on tight this baby would be here. I finally was able to push on Saturday. Isaiah was born blue and unresponsive (because of the drugs he had absorbed) until they pinched him really hard. Isaiah was 6 lbs 5oz and CLEARLY not premature. I was hallucinating (from the drugs) and semi-unconscious most of the experience. That delivery followed a long stint with Postpartum Depression and Psychosis. This followed a year of attempted bonding with my son.

*Inhale*

That is the skinny. I don’t want to repeat that experience as anyone, who has given birth under extremely stressful circumstances, could understand why.  I am an emotional introvert and even before the birth of my son the idea of so many people fussing over me or not being in a comfortable environment made me feel all panic stricken and nervous. So I began researching what options I had. This was really difficult because I am a big fan of the medical field (since I will be working in it) and modern technology. Most of the birthing stories I heard where from my crazy Hippy friends, who I was convinced had some sort of Patchouli induced power to withstand pain and stuffing. I was very uneasy about all of it. What I found most interesting during my period of research (6 whole months of it) was that IF you are educated about what ACTUALLY happens during birth and what is SUPPOSED to happen via natural processes, the story changes significantly. I didn’t just watch hyped up pro home/un-medicated birth documentaries and read biased books. I logged on to EBSCO search elite and whipped out my ole researcher hat (hope I make you proud Dr. Froman) and even ran Pearson correlations on medical findings. See… ya’ll think I was joking! Just wait till I have to help my son make a decision. I am going to make the process so damned difficult, I am sure, that I render him emotionally incapable of making a decision.

What yielded after my research and conferring with my OB and my primary care physician was that a home birth (for me: an experienced low risk mom) was extremely safe and favorable. My OB is very close to me and was very sad to see me go, but soon admitted he was excited for me and knew all would be well. My primary care physician joked that his wife would hate having the mess and bustle in her home, but that he felt I was a great candidate and medically, barring freakish emergencies (which I will discuss later), it was a safe choice. So Garrett and I joined hands and made a big decision to have Addison at home, with a midwife, doula, select friends and family, and no meds or interventions. We have chosen our midwife (she has been caring for me for some time now) and we are preparing to meet Addison soon.

Damn those Hippy weirdos! They DO know something about something after all!

Part 2 coming soon……

We’ve been MIA for awhile, haven’t we? It seems that you get to certain stage in pregnancy where eating, sleeping, and nesting are the only real activities of your life. I have been decorating and redecorating and organizing and cleaning. Addison’s nursery still isn’t done, but we are very close.

As we’ve begun to prepare for this big change, we’ve attempted to transition Isaiah the best we know how. He is very fond of my belly and loves to say ‘good morning’ to it. He also loves to rub lotion on it and talk with Addison (who he has randomly started calling “Ernie”). We like the nickname Ernie… we are gonna call her that.  I digress. As we’ve attempted to explain that this room is where she will live, these diapers are what she will wear, etc, he has seemed to understand. He knows babies grow in bellies and that they come out one day. I have this underlying fear that although he seems to understand he will completely freak out when she arrives. THEN I will have that mommy guilt moment where I cry and wonder why I chose to destroy my little boy’s life…. weird, I know.

So I am reading and researching and attempting to figure out how to make this the easiest transition possible.

Where have I been?! Lordy! When you actually have a child that is cognizant enough to realize that holidays are actually happening… you have to figure out what traditions you’ll actually keep and what ones you’ll actually pass on… we are still working on that.This is a hard choice for me (since my DNA looks like a meeting at the United Nations).

Isaiah survived. He came out pretty well actually. The Guppy and PopPop (my in-laws) managed to find and purchase the one toy that would induce panic in the lives of my dogs. Noelle and Zoe now run from Isaiah as he screams at them from his Hot Wheels Jeep.

Because what an amped up toddler needs is a motorized something to run into mommy as she attempts to keep balance. Let me tell you, there is nothing better than being 29 weeks pregnant and getting rammed in the back of  the knee by a tiny hard-plastic Jeep. It is awesome beyond awesome. So awesome that I tend to call out the name of the Lord after each lovely encounter (I have been informed that God’s last name doesn’t start with a “D”).

Holidays make me miss my brother (who passed away in 2006) and very nostalgic. With Addsion’s arrival on the horizon I find my mind meandering back to days when Isaiah was tiny (and not  accosting me with Chinese made toys, THANKS A LOT CHINA!!!). For your viewing pleasure: My little bambino with his daddy, during his first snow (he was about 6 months old!):

 Hope your Holidays were filled with peace, joy, great memories, and (most of all) LOVE!

It isn’t me who has been encouraging Isaiah to pee in the sink…because at least, then, he isn’t peeing on the carpet!

Apparently all you need is a highball glass and a black maid to impress my husband;

Garrett: I think I miss the era of the 50’s and 60’s.

Jasmine: Why? You wouldn’t be able to legally marry me!

Garrett: No just the way they dressed… I watched Mad Men last night.

 I guess I need to NOT let him watch shows or movies later than the 60’s. Next he is gonna want me to call him “Mista”  or “Boss” while bringing him a Mint Julep *YUM* and commanding  me to mop the porch in my Mammy outfit. Garrett and I are not only from intensely different families, we e are different cultures and races that are light years apart. Garrett is a beautiful, kind, and open-minded man… he just…haa a vivid imagination. Movies and TV shows and books, sometimes, get him a little carried away.

(After watching Crooklyn, the movie)

Garrett: Did you ever live on a stoop?

Jasmine: I did grow up in the hood… but I am from OKLAHOMA not BROOKLYN.

Garrett: Well I was just wondering. Sounds like “stoop life” would be fun…

Jasmine: Yeah, I mean, since Brooklyn is the natural habitat of the black person? What the hell Garrett!

(When Isaiah, our son, was born)

Garrett: He has such smooth hair! Will this stuff fall out and then the nappy lamb’s wool stuff grow underneath.

Jasmine: NO Garrett! Jesus! He is PART African American… and “nappy” is a rude word!

Garrett: Well I know it is… but I am talking to my WIFE, and you knew what I meant. I would never say that to someone else.

Jasmine: Uhh yeah, because it is rude.

Garrrett: No, because they would probably have a knife or a gun!

Jasmine:…… I can’t even believe you.

(later)

Jasmine: Children who are biracial usually have smoother hair, but it isn’t a guarantee. White people have different textures of hair also, you know.

Garrett: I guess our different textures just aren’t as noticeable. So I am gonna have to learn how to “grease” his hair?

Jasmine: Yes. And if we ever have a daughter, you’ll have to learn how to braid too.

Garrett: I will leave that up to you, ya’ll are naturally good at corn rows.

Jasmine: WHAT! It isn’t a genetic disposition!

Garrett: Nooooo I was just saying that African Americans all grew up braiding and beading each other’s hair.

Jasmine: *Blank stare*

(After seeing an ethnic hair commercial)

Garrett: Can we Afro Isaiah’s hair! Oh my God! PLEASE! Can we!

Jasmine: Afros are only worn because our hair is so hard to manage. They aren’t REALLY fashion statements anymore! Afros, I think, are only cool to white people….

Garrett: OR we could totally cut his hair short and then cut lines into the back, like Chris Brown or Kanye West!

Jasmine: He is a two year old… he isn’t a performer. I swear! Next you are gonna request him a Gherri Curl!.

Garrett: Why do you ruin all my fun?

Jasmine: Because your fun is stupid- and stereotypical.

(Upon meeting my friend MiMi, who was born in Africa)

Garrett: So do you speak the African clicking language?

MiMi: *Blank Stare*

Garrett: No seriously, you know what I am talking about right? The one where they click to talk *imitates clicking noises*

MiMi: Jasmine! WHAT is he talking about I went to a private school…. WHAT is he talking about?

Jasmine: I guess he assumes everyone from Africa lives in a hut, just ignore him.

Garrett: OH MY GOD YA’LL are RUDE. It is not like that was even a weird question to ask someone from Africa!

Here is a game we can play. You won’t win a prize, a giveaway, or shenanigans like that. You’ll only have the beautiful gift of feeling, for a brief moment, what it is like in my life.

Here are your clues:

1. I couldn’t find Isaiah

2. I found him in the towel closet

3. He piled up blankets

4. He pulled down his pants

5. He took off his diaper

6. When I asked him what he was doing he closed the door on my face and declared, “…..”

Tell me. What do YOU think he declared?

Give up? He screamed, “Close door mom! POTTY!!!”

Uh yes son, what was I thinking… I potty in the towel closet all the time! Someone want to come clean up my towel closet?

I am an awesome dichotomy of depth and insightful-ness and pure bitchy rantings and random-ness. The other day deep and insightful felt like taking a trip to the surface, today… well… buckle up! This one is  weird.

My love of carpet cleaning comes in line right before Jesus. If Jesus came down in his glowing fleece diaper and was all, “Hey Jazzy J (cause Jesus is my homeboy) wanna come chill with me, thought I’d show you around heaven all Enoch-style. Wanna hang?” I’d be all, “Well Jesus, sounds awesome but in your all knowing-ness you KNOW it is carpet cleaning day… So NO.” Because I love carpet cleaning THAT much that I would totally turn down Jesus in his glowing fleece diaper. *This is baby Jesus I am referring to, of course. Calm down all you weirdos picturing adult Jesus in a glowing fleece diaper.*

Isaiah’s God-Mother, Tricia, is as bad (if not more) as me about cleaning the carpets. She reserves days off. Like seriously she will be all,”can’t come into work today- gotta clean the carpets.” I REALLY hope she defines that she is ACTUALLY shampooing her carpets, lest her employees believe she has some sort of personal grooming issue that takes a whole day off. I digress.  Garrett and I moved into this awesome house and purchased this awesome house but this awesome house had not so awesome white carpets that don’t look so white.

*Inhale*

So I clean these carpets bi-weekly. I am happy I don’t have a secret camera following my life, and you are too, because you’d think I was ill. The pomp and circumstance that includes the opening ritual of “Carpet Cleaning Day” is something to behold. My poor son? Well, He is just a casualty to the process. I put up a baby gate in our long hall and throw pillows and toys inside. I throw gingerly place Isaiah in the “baby run” and begin my shampooing ritual.  The smell of the shampoo solution and the look of the first strip of gleaming carpet is kind of orgasmic.

Today? Today, folks, is CARPET CLEANING DAY.

YES I DID CLEAN THEM LAST WEEK. Don’t preach at me. It is not an addiction! I can stop whenever I WANT! My super pregnancy nose has lanced out some dog pee (we have a new puppy) behind the couch, so clean I must. What? What is that you ask? Why not SPOT treat the pee stain? Well, because I believe in equality for all carpets. How would the rest of the carpet feel if I didn’t shampoo all of it? Are you freaked out yet? YOU SHOULD BE… because that is how passionate I am about my shampooer. Almost as passionate as I am about cleaning out the fridge- Ask Sadie and Tricia and Connie about that. I kind of go rogue  and determine to clean out other people’s fridge. Never mind if I organize their fridges to fit me….

 Also: Jesus, if you are reading this (which OBVIOUSLY you are- because this blog is THAT hardcore, and you LOVE me that much) I could seriously use a new carpet cleaner. I could *settle* for one of those industrial riding ones. IT doesn’t matter that my front room is less that 700 sq. feet… I will make it work. I can sacrifice- following your example, of course, Jesus.

So right after I post this I am going to turn on Marvin Gaye’s “Lets Get It on”, put up the baby gate, fire up the Bissell, and have a special moment: Just me and my carpet.

Good day Ladies!

As a young African American girl I loved Salt N’ Peppa. They were some of the first crossover pop icons that my generation loved. I remembered being in the school yard with my Wonder Bread, childhood, best friends Paige Wheeler, Emma Rippee, and Lauren Champlin. We would go to the farthest end of the field and sing “Shoop”. No one wanted to be Spinderella… she never sang. It was Salt or Peppa. I was the darkest of group, so I would be assigned singing Pep’s part. Emma had shorter hair so she was Salt, and Lauren and Paige would take turns therein.

 Lauren was from a prominent and affluent family in Enid, Emma’s mom was an organic chef, and I don’t remember about Paige. Needless to say, it was a very funny scenario to have this motley of little girls spouting lyrics like, ” here I go/here I go/here I go again/girls what’s my weakness….?” And as I spit the lyrics my three counterparts would scream “MEN!” finishing the line to the song. What did we know about that topic? Nothing! We knew that Zac, a kid in our GT group who was always weird during our French lessons, was a boy and thus he was the enemy.

Years later I think back on how formative music can be. Isaiah’s current favorite song is Dolly Parton’s song “Jolene”. He hops around screaming the lyrics and “raising the roof” although I have informed him that maybe you are just supposed to raise the roof to Kanye West’s songs. But Why? Jay-Z, a rap artists, is famous for saying that rap heals racism.He says that when you love a person’s music, when you find yourself singing it and relating to it, the color of the person’s skin becomes secondary. It is hard to look down on someone you admire because of their skin color. Furthermore, there is no “there’s” and “our” music. Music relates to everyone.

 Lauren, Emma, and Paige had no real concern about the color of Salt N’ Peppa’s skin. They didn’t even connect that the name of this band told something about what these women’s classifications were in the Black community (light skin versus dark skin). The most interesting part of this memory is that though the girls were not worried in the least bit about these women and their “blackness” I was, at every moment thinking and feeling about it. Iassigned myself to the darker singer- because I knew I was different from these girls. In my culture African American children are taught that they are Black. My Grandma Annie Pearl would tell me, “Child! Remember you are Black because those White folks’ll never let you forget it.” From an early age I was taught that I would be considered less… so I should expect, well, less. I have several other races that are prominent in my genetics . My mother is Belgian and Cherokee and my dad was Samoa-American, African- American, and Spanish. My birth certificate says “Black” and nothing else…and my grandma never let me forget it. But my pack of friends never even questioned it. They knew my hair was different, and they marveled that I could fit THAT many beads in my hair, but there was never any line drawn. They never requested to see my birth certificate to authenticate my race before playing with me. In fact, I was the leader of the pack. Racism is taught from both sides. Sometimes, racism is inherited- as it has been in my family. Minorities can be raised in a culture that preemptively tells them to hang their head low (as I was). Dr. Bill Cosby speaks to this point (loosely paraphrased) that, children should be taught their histories, but that their skin color doesn’t determine where they go in life- their sense of self, community, and drive determine that.

I am sure you are wondering what my point is. I don’t know exactly what my point is. Maybe my point is that my son is African American (among a million other things) and these are things I have to think about. I have to consider how I will raise my son. Garrett and I have to decide which direction we will take. We certainly want him to respect his history and identify himself as part of the African American community… but certainly not in the way I was taught. It was taught to me as a handicap that I must endure. I don’t want to go down that path. Isaiah is a creative and beautiful individual and his race is of little importance to his success (to us). So for now, I suppose I will teach my toddler that if he wants to, he can raise the roof to Dolly Patron and line dance to Kanye West songs, because the color of your skin choice of musical selection shouldn’t make a difference.

Jasmine