March is way too white

  Are we back to reading books about the weather, zoo animals, and Miss Know-it-all? Have we forgotten about  Friends for Freedom? Great Black Heroes: Women Scientists? Ruby Bridges? If A Bus Can Talk? Harriet Tubman? Bessie Coleman? DIZZY! Dr. King?  Dr. King!   Is it already March? March is way too white.   My chin and neck are wet on account of their hair still being damp from the shower.  It smells like a citrus grove; the shampoo not completely rinsed out since I am always in a rush to get the kids to bed.  Pajamas are on, teeth...

good job, kid.

Taking the sharp scissors out of the drawer, I reminded my kids, once again, that these are- “we know!” they chant in unison. -not for kids.  I cut the thick paper quite easily and began piling up the letters on the table as my kids stare at the sharp, shiny scissors. I pause. “What?” my oldest said.  “What are you waiting for?” I smile. Sometimes I enjoy these tiny moments of control. One by one, I drop the letters of the alphabet off the table and they fluttered down to the floor.  My son, the diligent Kindergartner, begins arranging them...

to the dad…

to the dad who lives in a small town.  not part of a major city, but to him and his family, it is the center of the universe to the dad who leaves early in the morning when its dark and comes home late at night when its seemingly still dark.  Only to give a kiss on a forehead, a tight tuck into bed, and a quiet whisper of,                            good night. to the dad who is tired of being portrayed as a bumbling fool       ...