It's About Damned Time

I'm going to do it! I'm about to give everyone else the finger and pursue the major that I want to pursue...English! Possibly with a minor in communications, but I'll work that out later. I've decided that the only way I can be taken seriously is by taking what I want to do with my life seriously. I've always seen writing as "my craft" and I see this change as a means of perfecting my craft.

In addition, I have also decided that I would like to teach. I'm not that interested in teaching high school, so it will probably be at the college level. That way, I can eke out a living, yet still focus on my writing.

There is so much farther I feel that I need to go. I honestly need to be more spiritually focused and I'm always concerned with being a better parent. I also have to do major work on my personal/social life and the choices I make. It's been statistically proven that when there are two avenues before me, I am adroit looking squarely at the right one, choosing the wrong one anyway and barrelling through it at full speed. That's something I definitely need to change. I've been told that I'm somewhat wise beyond my years. Judging from the past six months though, has only shown me how much I don't know and how misguided I still am.

The fact is, when I deviate from my rules, and try to live by someone else's, not only do I fail, but I'm also miserable. Ultimately, I have to go back to basics and start the whole process over again. One day I'll stop learning the same lesson.

Keeping it moving

2004 was a BEYOTCH!!! There's no other way to put it. I'm no dummy. I know that there was no magic wand waved over my life at 12:00 a.m. on January 1, 2005, but I was still glad to see that mutha known as 2004 go. I'm now in the process of getting my life back in order.

The semester starts Saturday, and though it's going to be difficult with the lack of support, I know that I can handle this. I'm considering changing my major, but nothing is in stone yet. It's kind of sad that at 28, I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

All my life, I've wanted to be a published author. I can't remember not writing. My goal is to have my first work published by the time I'm 32. It's proving difficult though, because I'm hard on myself. I just don't want my blood, sweat and tears to be a study in puerility. At the same time, I want to make sure I write what I feel, and not what others want to hear.

Along with my dreams of literary greatness, over the past two years, I've given serious consideriation to owning a clerical staffing/training agency. I have ten years of clerical experience and with that, I've always been able to find a job. I was surprised though, at how many people have virtually no clerical/computer skills. I enjoy networking and I think I could really do some good if I pursue this avenue.

Both of these goals, however, have to fit around my role as mother and the fact that, though I should pursue them, hugs need to be given, bills need to be paid and homework needs to be checked. I don't want to sacrifice my parenting to obtain secular success. The fact is, if they are neglected, then it doesn't matter how many agencies I open or quality best sellers I write, I've failed...and that's not an option.

Bearing a king

The day Tyson was conceived is etched in my memory. I called the doctor within days to schedule an appointment, though I had none of the signs - morning sickness, missed "visitor", moodiness - that were customary among expectant mothers. Nevertheless, I FELT him. I felt my child. I felt my son. At night, I'd lay in bed rubbing my belly, awaiting the day that I could hold him. I connected with a being that I had never seen. Hearing his strong steady heartbeat at the doctor's visit was the high point of my month.

Finally, on December 17, 1998 at 10:25 p.m. he arrived. I had been in labor since 7:00 a.m. and needed a last minute C-section. It was the most bizarre feeling. I was lying on a table, wide awake while the doctor sliced open my abdomen. In retrospect, I should have been freaked out, especially when I saw all the blood in the pictures. But I just remember lying their in anticipation. I'm sure that if I weren't temporarily paralyzed by the epidural, I would have been tapping my feet. The best way to describe the situation after they opened me up was that they reached in and "scooped" Ty out. During this time, it felt like all of my guts were pushed into my throat and I "held" them there until I heard my baby cry. Then I saw him. He was the most beautiful hue of pink and brown and his screams were music. It was amazing. I was overwhelmed by love combined with the feeling of being immensely unworthy of the task at hand.

For a while, it seemed like I was unworthy. I sat on his arm once. Then there was the time he was too soapy and squirmy and slipped under the bathwater; or the times he was inconsolable so while he screamed in his crib, I screamed right along with him into the pillow. Despite that, we always shared a connection. Sometimes he'd give me these looks that said "We're gonna ge through this you crazy woman." We were both trying to make it in this world and neither one of us had ANY idea how we were going to actually accomplish that. He "grew me up". He made me a stronger person and a better mother. He gave me the strength to demand the best for myself, because that's the only way he could get the best from me.

Now he's six years old, and before I know it he's going to be towering over me. I think that kissing him in front of his school embarrasses him, and the other day, he asked me for a little privacy. I am now solely responsible for teaching him how to be a successful black man, and I'm definitely trying my best, but it's a little frightening. Then again, we've made it this far. . .