I’ve only been home for one day and I’ve already given up on trying to explain how the last two weeks changed me. I put together this slide show for my new Ragdale family and thought I’d post it on YouTube, but for reasons that are beyond my technical ability, the sound didn’t come through. So I’m experimenting to see if I can post it here–music and all. Wish me luck.

Yesterday, I flew the girls back to New Jersey and put them on the camp bus. They’ll be at Independent Lake Camp somewhere in the Poconos for the next two weeks. I’m really excited for them. I think this will be one of those experiences they’ll look back on years from now with fondness. At least I hope so, because at times, it’s been a rocky road.

It all started back in January when I started thinking about what kind of experience I could find that would offer something more expansive than the regular day camps they attend each summer. Don’t get me wrong. Soccer and volleyball camps are fine, but there’s a whole world out there to experience. I wanted to find something that would broaden their world view, something that would challenge them in ways they wouldn’t be challenged if they hung around here all summer. So I started poking around and with the help of this camp consultant who calls herself, “The Summer Lady,” I found Independent Lake Camp.

The problem was, at first, the girls didn’t want to go. After watching the DVD, H was the first one to give the place a thumbs down. I could understand her position. Two years ago, she went to a camp near Lake Tahoe for a week and had a so-so time. She went by herself, hoping to make new friends, but all the other girls in her cabin were from the same suburban neighborhood. I knew it was going to be a bad situation the minute I walked into the cabin and I heard the desperate housewife looking mothers talking. But what could I do? We were committed. So I gave H the best pep talk I could think of, reminded her that it was only a week, and gave her a huge hug. But I knew in my gut it wasn’t going to be the experience she or I had hoped for. H survived the week, but the experience killed any interest she had in sleep away camp. So I knew I was taking a huge chance signing her up again. C actually liked what she saw on the DVD, but objected in an act of solidarity. If H wasn’t going, neither was she.

My big mistake this time was that after watching the DVD and getting the thumbs down, I had a ten-day-long conversation during which I decided this was the perfect camp for the girls. After all, this camp’s motto was “celebrating human diversity.” They pulled kids from up and down the East Coast as well as from Europe and Mexico. The video shows all these kids laughing and waving at the camera, saying things like, “Bon jour. I’m Gabrielle. I’m from France!” or “Hola, I’m Hector. I’m from Mexico City!” Oh my God! It was like the a tour through “It’s a Small World.” How could the NOT love this place? So I called the director and got the names of some camp families, hoping they’d share their kids’ experiences. The first mom I spoke with had great things to say and put me on the phone with her oldest son who’s gone to the camp ever year for the last five years. Then I talked with another mom for forty-five minutes and she raved about the place. Literally, didn’t have a bad thing to say. She told me her girls, who happened to be the exact same ages as mine, loved ILC so much they were going for FIVE WEEKS! By the time we hung up the phone, we’d exchanged numbers and addresses and agreed that our kids would be pen pals. After talking with those parents and imagining how much fun my girls would have, how independent and self reliant they’d become, I sent in the deposit.

The problem was, I had this ten-day long conversation with myself. I totally forgot to tell the girls what I was thinking. I know that sounds crazy, but hasn’t that ever happened to you? Haven’t you ever thought and though about something for so long and so intensely that you’d swear you’d spoken the words out loud? Well, that’s what happened to me. I got so lost in my thoughts about how great an experience it would be, based on my conversations with those parents, that I completely forgot to tell the girls.

So you can imagine my shock and horror when H came to me and said, “Hey Mom, this wierd girl called this weekend talking how much fun we’re going to have at some sleep away camp this summer.”

When I tell you, I felt like I’d walked into a fire storm, I’m not kidding. Man, did my girls let me have it.

H (tears streaming down her face): “How could you do this to us?! We said we didn’t want to go! I HATED THE LAST SLEEP AWAY CAMP!!!!”

C (taking cues from her big sister): “Yeah, you didn’t even ask us. You’ve violated our civil rights!”

The tears, the pleading, the flailing arms. My girls aren’t prone to tantrums. I don’t think either one of them has ever exploded in anger or talked back. But this was bad. REALLY REALLY BAD. And you know what? They were right. I had ignored their initial protests. I had made the decision without their input. All I could do was let them rant and then apologize for what I’d done. And then, something came over me and I saw my way through. I realized that I’d made the decision because I loved them so much and because I was excited about the possibility that they’d have an experience they’d remember for the rest of their lives. I’d made the decision because as their mother, I could see how rich and wonderful and challenging and interesting two weeks away, with kids they might not otherwise meet, would expand their horizons, opens their eyes. I could see, as the adult, how they might be inspired. And that’s what I told them. As I did, I could see their faces soften and their bodies relax because they could see that while it was a mistake, it was a mistake made out of love for them. After a few minutes, H wiped her eyes and said she’d try it.

In the months that followed, the girls got pretty excited.  I made up two huge care packages filled with baked goods and book and special surprises, and mailed it on Saturday, so they’d get it by Tuesday. We spent all last week packing, and imagining the friends they’d make.  Then all of a sudden, it was time to say goodbye.

So now it’s Monday night and I haven’t heard from them, which I’m guessing, means they’ve settled in and are having fun.  PHEW!

It’s weird to think that after all the initial drama and all the months of pep talks and preparation, it’s actually happening. It’s a strange to have spent so much time dreaming about an experience that, in the end, I won’t be a part of. I’ve planned and now it’s time to let go and allow the girls to make Independent Lake Camp their own.

Earlier this week, I took the girls for their hair appointment at Urban Roots. I’m happy to report that they enjoyed the whole experience. They loved leaning back into the shampoo bowl while Lisa messaged all sorts of fruity smelling shampoos and conditioners into their hair. She even trimmed their ends–something I’ve never done before. All I thought as I sat there watching Lisa work was, “thank God someone else is doing this.” It was worth every penny. So it seems we’re part of the natural curly hair movement.

After we left Lisa at Urban Roots, we went to Madusalon, a hair salon owned by a black woman from Paris, to buy some of the products Lisa had recommended. I wish you’d been there. Curly heads, dreads and twists were EVERYWHERE! If I didn’t love my short hair so much, I’d go for a new look.

Today is my birthday. I’m forty-two. I keep repeating the number to myself, thinking that if I say it enough, it’ll start to feel natural. There was something about being forty-one that still had some kick to it. I could still see forty in my review mirror and fifty seemed like it was a long way away. But forty-two? . . it’s such a soft, round number. When my mom called this morning to wish me a happy birthday, she said, “My goodness! Forty-two! That’s only eight years away from fifty!” Thanks Mom.

The thing is, I’m not resisting the idea of getting older. In fact, I really like it. I feel more grounded,more focused, more joyful than I ever have before. Forty-one was a good year, but it was also a tough year. I found myself in places I never expected to be and there were plenty of times when I questioned whether I’d taken a wrong turn. I learned a lot of lessons–some of them quite painful–about listening to myself, taking risks, staying true to my vision. Now, at forty-two, I feel comfortable trusting my instincts.

Which brings me to the most surprising part of this day. Everyone who’s called today to wish me a happy birthday has asked me how I’m celebrating, and some have seemed surprised, and maybe even a little disappointed, when I’ve said that I’m spending the day writing. I guess they think I should be out buying a pair of shoes or getting a massage. My sister actually chuckled and said she thought I’m denying myself pleasure.

The thing is, writing is one of the things that brings me the most pleasure. Yes, it’s work, but it’s good work, satisfying work, pleasurable work. It’s a joy, not a chore. Tomorrow or the next day, I may go to a movie and if I see a pair of earrings, I might just buy them. To me, that’s the best part–I can make the celebration last as long as I want to. But today, there’s really nothing I want–nothing material anyway–nothing that will make me feel as good as I feel sitting here at the computer, surrounded by books, inching my way to the end of this novel.

Last night, W grilled some of the rainbow trout we caught when we took C fishing. He prepared a lovely “birthday” dinner and when we finished, the girls brought out the cupcakes. It was perfect. I was with three of the people I love most in the world. The girls had me in stitches making jokes and talking about their lives and as I listened, all I could think was that I was pretty lucky. All things considered, I love my life. I have a wonderful family and friends who I love. I guess that’s one of the benefits of getting older–you don’t need a massage or a blow out party or a new pair of shoes to appreciate all of life’s blessings–the great and the small.

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So wish me luck! I think forty-two is going to be a great year.

A few minutes ago, I was in my room putting clothes away when C walked in. She stood quietly for a few seconds, with her face pressed against the mirror and then she asked, “Hey Mommy, do you ever wonder what this is all about? All this job and school and family stuff? Do you ever ask yourself what’s the point?”

At least once a month C does or says something so wise and other-worldly, that I can only turn to her and ask, “exactly what star are you from?” Because there’s no way she came from me and there’s no way she’s only 10 years old. She has to have been here before.

“I ask myself that question all the time,” I said, thinking that if I’d asked my mother that question when I was ten, she probably would have told me that the point was “to work hard and be successful.” I’m not trying to bash my mother. I just know how she thinks: that life is a fight and one has to be prepared; that “the good life,” is something you have to earn after years of misery and toil. I doubt she would say what I said, which was, “I think the point is to enjoy your life and the experience of being human.” I know my answer sounded “new-agey,” but it’s what I believe. I’ve spent the last five years asking myself that exact question, and have only recently come to that conclusion. I don’t want C to grow up believing there’s some imaginary finish line she has to cross before her life can begin.

I was curious to know what C thought, but experience has taught me that the quickest way to drive a kid underground is to launch into a long speech so I didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. C breathed onto the mirror again.

“What do you think is the point?” I asked, finally.

And just like that, the old soul disappeared and she was back to being a kid. “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Can I stay up until 10:30?”

“No. It’s time for bed.”

But before she left to go brush her teeth, we stood at the window looking at the full moon.

I wonder what amazing question she’ll ask next month.

There’s one thing about being an African-American mother they don’t tell you when you sign up for the job, one thing that’s written into the small print of your parental contract–but only if you’re the mother of girls: From the moment your daughters are born until they’re well into their teens, you’ll be engaged in an ongoing battle with hair. You’ll spend hundreds if not thousands of dollars on equipment and products. You’ll squander countless Sunday afternoons washing, combing, braiding and twisting. You’ll wake up in the dead of night anticipating the day your daughter cries because her hair doesn’t cascade across her shoulders or blow in the wind. Dealing with the issue of hair will be the ultimate test of your patience, your love, your creativity, and your stamina. Hair will bring your daughters to tears and you to your knees. Part of the reason I haven’t posted anything in two weeks is because it’s taken me this long to recover from the most recent hair battle.But let’s start at the beginning.

At least once a month, I tell my girls how fortunate they are that times have changed. When I was a kid, the hairstyles were limited to three choices. I could have braids (never more than three because that was considered ’strictly trailer park,’ and never, NEVER, NEVER any adornment such as beads or ponytail holders with those yo-yo-sized colored balls at the ends) or I could get my hair pressed, which meant spending hours sitting by the stove while my mother used an hot iron come to burn every bit of kink or curl out of each strand. Then there was ‘the perm,’ which, looking back, I realize is the black hair equivalent of water-boarding. Who would pay over $100 to have a beautician smear a concoction of lye and cream on their scalp until it not only burned the kink from your hair but entire first layer of skin your entire scalp too? I did. Not just once. Hundreds of times, starting when I was in fifth grade. I won’t go into the details here but I will tell you it was beyond painful. I’d sit in the chair with cream smeared all over my head until tears came to my eyes. To say that my head felt like it was engulfed in flames doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling. Was it worth it? I surely thought so. After a long day in the salon, I had free-flowing hair cut, blown and styled to look like one of Charlie’s Angels, right down to the feathered bangs.

Ask any black woman and she’ll confirm that some black folks have serious hang ups about hair. Each year, we spend millions of dollars of hard earned after-tax dollars to ensure we have the right look. Take a close look at any MTV video and you’ll see what I mean. Our hair (real or artificial) can’t just be straight, it has to be bone straight and down to our waists. An entire industry has grown up around our obsession. Which is why I finally cut my hair off, in an act of independence lovingly called “the big chop.” I was tired of the wasting a whole Saturday in a salon, tired of rolling my hair on sponge rollers, tired of looking like the Bride of Frankenstein or Crusty the Clown every time it rained.

One day, I saw a young woman at the bank who sported a cute little afro. I told her I loved her hair and asked where she got it cut, and then I called the stylist and basically begged him to squeeze me into his schedule.  From coast to coast, my black sistahs were cutting their perms and shaving jerry curls in favor of dreads and twists, fades and flat tops. There was a serious hair revolution going on.

Thank God times have changed. Now, it’s normal to see a black woman with her hair in twists or dreads or a big, unwieldy ‘fro. I love my hair. I love that I don’t have do anything but wash it and let it air dry. I love that I can cut it in three minutes whenever I feel that it’s getting too long.

The problem is, I don’t just have my hair to think about. Every week, I have to deal with the girls’ hair too. And this is where it gets tricky. Because I don’t have babies anymore. I can’t make unilateral decisions about their hair and expect to survive. Take last week for instance. Their graduation ceremony was last Friday but we started talking about hair styles on Monday morning. C wanted long, thin braids while H wanted to wear her hair “down” (short hand for unbraided and naturally curly). C’s braids, I could handle. I do those every week, but H is getting older. She didn’t want the same hairstyle as her sister. The problem was, letting H wear her hair down meant taking a huge risk. It meant finding just the right hair products to give her just the right curly look. It mean experimenting with different style on Thursday afternoon and figuring out how she could go to bed without destroying the style while she slept. It meant dealing with the knotted bird’s nest of a mass that would certainly be her head when she came home from the class pool party. In other words, it meant me spending hours if not days trying to figure out how to help my girls celebrate their natural beauty without loosing my mind.

The key word here is natural. After my own experience with chemical perms, the last thing I want is to put my daughters through that. Aside from the health and time concerns, there’s a whole list of identity and self-esteem issues I’m determined to avoid.

And then there’s the social pressure. The worst thing a black mother can do is to let her child leave the house with a raggedy head. It’s practically a criminal offense, punishable by hanging, second only to letting your child leave the house with ashy legs.

So, it was those concerns in mind that I sat down last Wednesday evening and started doing their hair. Let me tell you, by Friday night I was exhausted. My back ached from all the hours of sitting and my fingers were worn down to the nub. Sure enough, H came home from the pool party with her hair pulled back in a bun. When I finally untangled the ponytail holder (sans colored balls), her hair was a rat’s nest of tangles underneath. It took another two hours to comb through it. But in my haste to be finished, I forgot H’s signature braid–the single, slim braid that falls right down the center of her face–and boy did I hear about it. H pestered me all day on Saturday until I re-combed it.

It’s important for a person to be willing to acknowledge her limitations. So in this post, I’m acknowledging mine. I’m done. I can’t another marathon session of hair preparation. H needs to be more independent. Hell, she wants to be more independent. She needs to have a style she can manage on her own. So last week, I got on the computer and found a salon south of Market that specializes in African-American hair styles. The earliest appointment I could get was JULY 2nd, and you know what? I took it!  One head down, one to go.

A few weeks ago, a friend sent this video. I watched it and was absolutely blown away so I thought I’d share it. Some of you may have seen this Sunday’s New York Times article about Jill Bolte Taylor which is good, but doesn’t even begin to convey the power of her experience.

I just finished Elizabeth Strout’s novel “Olive Kitteridge,” and will start it again before I go to bed. But for a few minutes, I just want to sit with the feeling of being completely satisfied. This is such a good novel. Everything about it–the pacing, the tone, the characters–is just right. I’ve savored every page. I feel like I’ve just polished off a glass of warm milk.  What I think I admire most (aside from Strout’s lovely writing) is her ability to convey such humanity and portray the entire span of a life.

On my first reading, I underlined and starred lots of passages and made notes in the margins. Now it’s time to go back to study how Strout works her magic.

Yesterday, a friend asked if I usually buy books or check them out from the library. “I always buy,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. It’s a sickness, I know. But when I love a book as much as I’ve loved this one, I can’t bare the thought of not having access to it all the time.

Someone sent me this youtube video so I can’t take the credit. But it’s funny and as always . . . so true. Happy Mother’s Day!

14) You try to watch The Savages (staring your all time favorite actor Philip Seymour Hoffman) two nights in a row and fall asleep both times. The worst part is, you don’t even remember falling asleep. You just wake up at 2:30 am, turn off the DVD player and stagger to bed. In the morning, you take the unwatched DVD back to the video store.