The Un-Latched Key Kid #lostandfound

When I was a little girl, I would get lost all of the time. Like seriously…all of the time. Not in the neighborhood, or at school, or wandering cities. No, I reserved my lost adventures for family vacations.

I do not really remember it like my family does. But come to our home on any given day that one or more are gathered sharing my Daddie’s good name. Ask any family member about our vacations growing up – especially my older sisters. They will be able to number them all. “First, she disappeared at…” then, “No, that was AFTER she got lost when we were at…”, and “Remember that time we couldn’t find her? We were going to…”

How did I get lost all those times? If you asked me that question back in then, I would of had no response other than a shrug. But these days I know. I realized it while we were out on the streets of Nashville getting ready to Tap. And Run.

...don't forget about meeeee!

As we were waiting for the race, my eyes began to wander. All of the happy people in costumes. The spectators awaiting the start of the race. All of the energy about the lovely weather. Conversations between lovers, old friends, and strangers. Music. Storefronts. Sale signs. When I looked up, I noticed I was a few many steps behind my running buddy. Without breaking the wonderment of my gaze, I reached out for his arm and latched on. And for the better part of the afternoon he dragged me around 2^nd Avenue until our race wave chugged and took off.

My first “lost and found” memory is from a carnival hosted at my Daddie’s job – Raychem. Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, carnival games, circus inspired characters, and county fair type treats! All in the parking lot of his company. This was amazing mostly because we did not have to load up in the station wagon and drive for hours and hours to get there!

I don’t remember how I got separated from my family. I do not remember being scared, or afraid, or lonely, or anxious, or anything like that. What do I remember? Crushing cans with the security guards while I waited (my family searched)…crushing them like it was a contest to see who could do it the fastest. Laughing and smiling. When I tell you I had no worries – I didn’t have a single worry!

This. Is. So. Much. Fun!

My parents burst through the door looking with hopeful worry, completing their quest for their 3^rd holy grail. I looked up at them and smiled. Looking at them as if they were returning home from work.

Mom and Dad? They looked desperate. Tired. Nervous. Anxious. Upset. Afraid. They were actually afraid that they would never see me again. I was perplexed. No matter all the feelings I had that day, I never thought for a second that I wouldn’t see my family again. But something about that day worried my parents to facial expressions I had never seen. Facial expressions I never wanted to see again.

I got lost a couple a few more times after that. Never purposely. Once I figured out my problem, my parents decided against family trips to amusement parks and busy places.

When I was sixteen, I got “lost” at LAX. I was part of a community organizing group, and there was an event in Los Angeles. By this age, I had flown alone to Southern California and possibly Washington DC (that might have been shortly after this) already, so while they were worried, they were fairly confident in my ability to navigate such places, like airports – places with tons of signage and security.

The people coming to pick me up were going to meet me at my arrival gate. This was back in the time when people could do that. Walk with you to the departure gate and meet you at the arrival gate. Literally…the good ole days! I left a message for the people to pick me up with my gate number. Only, I never told them what airline or terminal they could meet me. I kept leaving messages without the necessary details and they kept searching for me.

All the kids are playin!

Eventually, one of the volunteers from the Bay Area, went to my parent’s home to tell them that their child was lost. That I was at the airport, but they could not find me. About half an hour later the person picking me up found me. When I spoke to my father, I could hear his tears. I assured and reassured him that I was fine. He wanted me home immediately. I told him that I was perfectly okay, and that I promise to be with the adults at all times – and check in with him daily.

I remembered that night, in Southern California, as I drifted off to sleep, that day crushing cans in the Security Office at Raychem. I cried, just a little, too. For my Daddie. For all the pain he endured being parted from me. How I so easily got away, got lost - without even knowing it.

I have been latching on to folks ever since.

#ITappedThat: Race 7, Medal 6

Eh? You drunk bro? Or nah?

So, on this list of bright dumb ideas I ever idea’d was one that I didn’t idea at all. It was actually a post from a friend. One of the many running converts #ImChangingLives. My friend welcomed me to town to run. But not just run. You gotta “tap” too.

Yes friends, the TapNRun happened. Totally happened. So how does it work? Simple. There are 4 tabs on your race bib. At each station throughout the course, you give the volunteer your tab, drink chug your beer, and run. 4K’s to run. 4 Beers. Following me? Drink…then start running. Stop & Beer. Stop & Beer. Finish and a really big beer (or ale in my case).

A lovely day in Nashville hanging out on 2^nd Avenue. We stopped in to BB Kings (awww, good times there #memories) to pick up our race bibs, swag, and ID bracelets for the beer chug check stations. That took all of what, 5 minutes, so we literally had time to spare. After a riveting 10th place finish in laser tag (10 of 29, #darkknight #dontcomeformebro) we spun our wheels a bit to figure out our next move. Drinking. Running. Beers. Bars all about us…

Welp. Might as well have drinks before the race. I mean, it was technically like conditioning, right? Right.

START: Hand first tab to volunteer. Grab beer. Chug. Oh wait. Ion even like beer like that though. What am I doing here? O_o #CHUG

Start – 1K: Are you kidding me? A freaking bridge? An incline in a race where you have to drink? #WellPlayedNashville

1K – 2K: Awwww Snap! LP Field. Wait, there’s a professional football team in Nashville? #shade #GoTitans #CHUG

2K – 3K: Another damn bridge bro? That’s just wrong. How long is a “k” anyway? #startsadvancedmentalcalculus #SIP

3K – 4K: Wait. It’s over already?

          FINISH: Why am I still drinking this beer? The race is over… #yummy

We hung out to watch the contests. Best team name. Shortest shorts #LookAway. Loudest belch. Biggest team. Best costume. And for all my word nerds out there, the Drunken Spelling Bee!

What’s the verdict? Drinking and running isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever not idea’d. But that first “k” of the race tho? My chest was on fire! I know I was breathing, because I’m still alive today, but the drink and run struggle was realized in that first part of a mile. I mean, I could have done without those inclines, and even that heat. Yo, Nashville? You could have turned down the temperature like 10° at least.

But, if you have decided to do something crazy like, I don’t know, run 14 races in 2014, then this is probably a good idea! A great time. And lest we not forget the MEDAL! Yes folks! This race comes equipped with a medal that doubles as what? A bottle opener! #Yasssss

A man running in a diaper stopped to take pictures with kids on their way to prom. There was a swarm of bumble bees in our wave attacking the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I briskly jogged by 2 red solo cups. And OMG, I almost tackled these boxes of wine, drinking their beers, at the race after party #lush. I met a lovely woman in a red onesie with amazing 5 o’clock shadow…and I could have sworn I saw Miley Cyrus.

I am so glad my friend invited me to do this race. This has not stopped being fun! Not at all. I am so thankful for the joy, the wonder, the excitement, and the unknown ahead of me, on my quest for 14 medals.

And beer. I'm actually, kinda thankful for beer. #GoFigure

1 kilometer is 0.621 miles.

Today’s Race: 4K, Tap’N’Run Nashville, Nashville TN

Medaled Miles to date: 32.67 miles

Total Raced Miles to date: 35.77miles

8 Medals To Go ǁ 43% Complete

The Brightest Dress...uh, I mean Day!

Easter comes but once a year,

…the brightest day of all the year.

All your names, I cannot call,

...but welcome, Welcome, one and all!

Yea, that. That was one of my baby sister’s first Easter speeches. Why do I still know it? Well, in addition to our own Easter speeches and performances, we had to help her remember her speech, so on Easter Sunday, she wouldn't get up there and “Lil Darryl” it.

She pranced to the front of the Church. Somewhat hesitant, mostly excited, because well... Easter dresses, Easter baskets, Easter candy, and Hello! Easter Egg Hunts! How could you not be excited as a five year old! And that ham, dressing, potato salad, greens, mac’n’cheese and chocolate cake patiently waiting to give me some of the best sleep since that New Year's meal, tho? #Yasssss!

And, I’m saying, it only comes once a year. 

Sure, we revisit the resurrection story in sermons throughout the year. Lest we forget the blood that was shed on Calvary. Through the stripes Isaiah prophesied about, get this healing. But this story is never as revered, never as rich, never as real as when the first ashes are placed upon the first forehead. When that happens, we know.

The brightest day of all the year is finally here.

It’s been a while since I’ve recited an Easter speech, assisted with an Easter production, or dyed/stuffed eggs for the hunt. I’m older now, so the novelty in that feeling is gone. But what’s left? 

That ole Easter Dress!

You better believe I’m going to celebrate the rising of Our Lord & Savior in style! He’s been too good to me to get anything else! Most years, I’m able to happen upon the perfect look because, well... A Mall is like the couch in the therapist’s office. I make regular appointments. I figure out a color scheme. Or find the shoe that totally inspires the look. It just comes together.

Not this year though. I haven’t spent much time in therapy (window shopping) so there’s that. So much has been going on at work, in life, and running for these medals, that time has not been on my side. 

While at a work conference we literally snuck away after sessions to the Outlet Mall pretty much IN WALKING DISTANCE to the hotel #seehowtheuniverseconspires #greatness. There was a blue dress with a striking green trim panel that these brown eyes fell in love with! Perfect!

Mama please say YES to the dress!

And of course it was the perfect dress, because it was not in my size. I was heartbroken. The colors, the style, the pleated skirt, fitted bodice. Why Has Though Forsaken Me Father God in Heaven!?! I wanted to leave the store, but my friend was still browsing the other racks for work clothes. I checked, double checked, rechecked, and supervised the checking of the size labels of the dress (with the striking green trim panel) just to make sure. Finally, I accepted the fact that it was not the dress, and took my disappointment (kinda) to the sale racks. I mean, it’s never that easy to find the right one. And I cannot waste a minute of this SoCal fun being disappointed, so #ImOverIt. 

Then I noticed the exact same dress, in a different color scheme. A lighter one. A brighter one. The type of look that only would probably happen upon once a year.

And it’s an additional 40% off.

Stay with me Saints, I’m going somewhere with this.

I was hung up on that damn blue dress. To me, it was the one, and I just could not fathom walking into Church Easter Sunday with anything else on. I would not let it go. When I finally decided to give it up, go to another store, look for something else, I got it. I got the dress. THE DRESS! When I walked out of the fitting room with it on, my friend’s jaw dropped. She was physically stunned. One hand on her tummy, the other to the side of her face. She was speechless #sold.

I have a hard time letting go. Especially of the things it took me so long to finally hold on to, like love. But the beauty (and brokenness) of letting go, and loving God enough to trust Him is that when you do, He’ll replace it with better, with bigger, and with brighter.

God knows me well. Very well. I sat in Church, not one week ago, as the Minister basically said the same thing I wrote here. It made logical sense. It totally got it. I reviewed the notes. “God is the best Giver of them all!” And the minister is right. The more we give to God, the more He gives to us. We just have to keep on looking, keep on giving.

What did it take for the message to penetrate my heart? Remembering my little sister’s Easter speech and my anticipation for Easter Sunday. I can’t with myself sometimes.

I really, cannot. #HeAintThruWitMeYetSaints

#BlackGirlHairProblems Reconsidered

Except this. No reconsidering this. #HandsOff

...because sometimes, you have to look in the mirror and reconsider some stuff.

I told you all about this one time I read this one book that made me realize that well, I can kinda relate to white people. But more so than that, challenged this concept of a particular color to problems. Like depression. Yo, that ish is real and don’t care if you’re from Jackson, Jamaica or Jerusalem. You better get that ish checked. Depression be like “eeF yo ethnicity, nationality, race and address... I come stronger than the IRS son. Get at me! Sike... Got at you first!!!”

So if our problems don’t have color what things do?

Hair. #blackgirlhairprobs

Just like the conversation I had with my Goddaughters, when I stay in the Brady home, my friend AWB gets a firsthand look into my nightly ritual (even when my hair is braided). I gotta wrap my hair up tight before I go to bed. This amazing awesomeness gestates under a silk scarf every night. 

It's a thing. 

And because of this my friend and I aren’t the same, right? She blow-dries her hair every morning. I would lose the moisture in my toes if I had to wash my hair every (other) day. A ponytail or messy bun is what potentially consists of her nightly hair preparation. If I don’t double knot, bow and pray over my head scarf, it’s coming off as soon as I hit REM (the sleep, not the music). She shampoos and conditions regularly. I flat iron and oil sheen with extreme attention to detail #edges #newgrowth.

And there is nothing wrong with that. We’re different. She has #whitegirlhairmanagement procedures and I have #blackgirlhairtrialsandtribulations.

mmhmmmm #bacon

As I was doing my hair one past morning, after a restful night in Brady Manor #theyalwaysleavethelightonforme, I went into the bathroom to do my hair. I took out my black comb, my oil sheen, my hair clips and purple brush. I began unearthing my hair from the turban like wrap about my (not big) head. As I reached for my brush to start the process, I noticed there were two brushes. My purple one and another one. And I almost picked up the wrong one, because aside from the color they were the same type of brush. 

How can #whitegirlhairmanagement and #blackgirlhairprobs be resolved using the same equipment? 

I don’t know. But, I do know this. Sometimes, the only difference is color. We are probably more alike than different than we sometimes assume. I do social justice, diversity and inclusivity work every day, and I am still learning. Still growing. Still amazed about when I do, and sometimes don’t recognize difference – and celebrate it!

But... Mama told me that I bet’not’be using other people’s combs (and brushes). So there’s that.

Yes ma’am.

It Could Have Been Us, But...

I recently had a professional development experience in Oxnard, CA. At a resort on the beach. I am writing this, knowing that I sooooo was not ready to leave. I needed one more day to get...well, professionally developed. Yea…that. I needed more time to do that.

I met a man. A man with a very good and very important name. We were introduced on Sunday at the opening cocktail hour. We were conference spouses by the beginning of Opening Reception. We had a lovely honeymoon getting to know each other professionally and personally. 

I miss my conference spouse.

This was supposed to be us...

As we planned our late nights and early mornings of sessions, networking and fun, I found a particular event of interest. A 5k Fun Run for conference attendees! Omg! Omg! Omg! How amazing?!?!? I get to run for fun, at work, newly married!! #SignedHimUpWithoutAsking #NoooooHeWasntReady

I kept bringing it up. He kept casually laughing the subject to a new topic.  But I’m persistent (or selfish…you decide) and when it comes to most things, especially running, I am determined to get what I want. I mean look at him?! He’s handsome, great smile, plays well with others, allows me to make all the important decisions #anotherround #turnup #keepthepartygoing, and did I mention handsome? I haven’t even gotten to the fact that we are in the same profession and he TOTALLY GETS ME! #InLove,Professionally

This could have been us... #butNo

Then he finally told me. Despite the fact he has committed himself to a healthier lifestyle and works out, or the fact that his biceps are so big he literally busted out of his shirt at the Corporate Sponsor’s Expo, that he physically cannot run. See, he has a condition, a condition that makes running actually impossible for him to do. Should he attempt such a feat, it would be at the risk of his very dear life.

I am a terrible conference wife. #ijustcantwithmyselfsometimes

So terrible that I could not get past the fact that I wanted to do this thing that might literally kill him, so badly, that I made us get up after a long night of poker and karaoke to walk the 5k. I mean it's for fun. It’s a workout. It’s on the beach. And they said fun...and we’re totally fun. And I’m not sure I could even run a mile on sand, so there’s that. #icouldnot

Unbeknownst to me, runners and participants doing the full 5k received what at the end? Medals. This fun run was a 3.1 mile medal opportunity. Yea they were small, and totally not blingy like all the others I’ve earned, but hot damn it’s a damn medal!! Dammit!!  

I'm glad this WAS us! #minusthehandholding

And I am glad I didn’t get a medal. I didn’t really want one after I attempted to jog on the sand and realized that was NOT about to happen #thesandwassoft #myfeetsank #couldntevenrunthe0.1. Quite frankly, though, I did nothing to deserve it. Sure I showed up sans socks and got super sandy by our finish (not to be confused with “the” finish). But I made someone I just met (and “conference” married) out themselves #badstudentdevelopmenteducator. Tell me something super personal that was no business of mine, so that I would let something go that was no business of theirs. Even with community property separation laws in California #IGetHalf, he keeps his condition. I keep my #14in2014 .

I’m an awful human being sometimes. I let my excitement from time to time take me to places that have the potential to hurt others.

Every time I mentioned the fun run, even though I agreed, and was soooo cool with walking, he always had to reveal who he was – a man. And who he wasn’t – a runner. Has he made his peace with it? Probably. Was mine to reveal? No.  Not even considering our happy hour conference nuptials.

But he is an amazing conference husband. And becoming someone who is going to be an amazing friend. As I called out from the warmth of the bed in the morning, he was quietly getting dressed. And when I emerged from my head scarf sans running shoes, he was fully dressed and ready to go.

Five medals closer to #14in2014 (pick a race, any race) and I still don’t recognize the beauty of this. How there are all these people conspiring to see me be great, even at their expense.

I could be more blessed. Because God promises abundance and overflow, I am certain that I will. But I don’t know how much more I can stand! #areasontobehappyMissFaith

So, this is me saying thank you to my new friend for making me calm down long enough to remember why I even decided to do this. And to thank him, and all of you, for running (in your own special way) your own version of #14in2014 with me.

I won’t finish this without you. Not because I can’t. But because it won’t mean anything if I did it, and you weren’t there to see me finish. 

I'm busy...Godmothering!

Isley: Godmother, your legs are big.

Me: Yes sweetie, I know. Godmother is a bigger adult person. #ugh #runningintheAM #thestruggle

Triana: Godmother, why are you doing that to your hair?

Me: I have to wrap my hair because it’s different than yours. If I don’t wrap my hair at night, I’ll have to do lots of stuff to make it pretty like yours in the morning.

Isley: Are you sleeping with us?

Me: Yes, I’m getting in (that little bitty bed) with you both. Where else would I sleep?  #CallTheChiropractor   

Where are these sold?!?!?!?!

I am a Godmother. I have four beautiful goddaughters. And one handsome godson from another friendship.

My very best friend in this world has 4 beautiful baby girls, 3 of which I get to see from time to time in Southern California. They make my world so much brighter, so much bigger, and I am a better human being because of them. My life is so much, so exponentially better with them in it.

So I got to see them this past weekend. Like I did during Halloween. TWP and I planned it perfectly. I was going to come down hours before the time all kids impatiently await. Trick-Or-Treating. I was going to escort my girls on their candy coated adventures.

I walked into the house, costume in tow, ready to surprise their pampers off! Triana looked up and said, “I knew you would come Godmother.” She walked over calmly, hugged and kissed me. And then asked me why my fairy wings were black. Nobody ever told them I was planning a trip to town. 

They are amazing. And I always count them on my list if blessings. I have the power to influence them. Whatever Godmother says is true. And Godmother says they are the smartest, prettiest girls in the world. I get to love them fully, completely, with the wholeness of a broken heart. Do you know the wonder in that? The amazing experience it is to live that moment. I am the mother, given to them through parents, by God.

It scares me to death. 

You've met me. This is not a shocker.

I remember watching the movie Raising Helen. After her sister and brother-in-law dies and she inherits what? The children. Not the other sister who has a family, children of her own, and is totally capable, able and knowledgeable enough to take care of kids. Helen does. The sister who is a young, single, vibrant woman living the big city life. A person who doesn’t practice thinking about anyone other than herself, because she doesn't have to.

And that’s exactly what I’m saying every day I proclaim with pride that I am a (single) Godparent. That should something terribly unfortunate (please don’t) happen, I “get” the kids.

Whoa.

That’s heavy. Even when you consider the fact that I have fully grown kids of my own I never birthed. Or the fact that I grow kids up into adults on a daily basis. That is real, yo. 

And I suppose it’s the unspoken reason why. Like in that movie. Most parents aren’t ready to be parents, even those who “plan” the pregnancy – if there is such a thing. Everything about that experience is new, scary, unknown and lots, LOTS of mistakes are made. And they read all the books! But most parents figure it out. Make it work. Grow their kids safely to age 18. And send them to me, to get them safe(ish) beyond 21. 

Why would TWP choose me, of everyone he knows, to do this thing for him? To be the godmother to everything his partner in life makes inside of her? Same reason that sister chose Helen.

I got this. #challengeaccepted

Because I know him. Because in many ways I am him. And if he should depart this world too soon (whenever we leave one another it will be waaaayy too soon and neither one of us will be ready) I will be the one representing him. The way his girls remember him. Saying to his girls the things he would say if he were here. Taking them the places he would want them to see. Hugging them the way he would want them to be embraced. And love. Loving them the way (or at least something like it) he would want to be loved. Should he leave the world before me, I am the person who will show his children the man he was. His greatness. His limitations. His hopes. His prayers for their lives. His aspirations for the future. The specific, unique, individualized love he had for each of them – because that’s the way I will have to love his girls. The smile on his face when learned he would be a Dad, then a Dad again (and again, and again). The joy in his voice when they spoke their first words, took their first steps. And how he worked so hard to give them the best life. I have the history of him, locked away in my heart like insurance.

Just in case. #reallifeinsurance 

And when they sit around looking at pictures and relics of his life, I will tell them. His feeling on that day. What his life was like in that moment. I will reveal his (approved) secrets because I know them all. And they will laugh, and cry, and grieve – just a little. Never too much grieving, because he would never want us doing that. I’ll also remind them of that too. He would never want us to forget him or to grieve him. Rather remember him, be better because of him, live lives to honor him. I’d also have to make sure his girls did that too.

Before this weekend, being a Godmother was awesome. The best! Then I realized the job description.

I wish I could say I wasn’t qualified. You know, give this very important job to someone else so I can worry about all these things I don’t have control over like I normally do. Problem is, I’m the only person on earth qualified to do the job.

And I am afraid I will disappoint him. And not be what I need to be to them.