A Tectonic Shift in Priorities (Or Collateral Damage in the Mommy Wars)

We have a new person at work, who I will refer to as "NP" for purposes of this blog.  NP has an infant.  Today NP's boss, one of the highest-ups in the food chain where I work, blithely stated that NP would be assigned to work on an urgent assignment this weekend, without the slightest hint of prior consultation or consensus with NP.  NP sat there with a shit-eating grin and did not protest.  It sucks to be new.

Whoa, Nelly.

I thought to myself that if my boss had similarly committed me to work this weekend without consulting me, I would have said, "I have plans." Because I do.  And I plan on having plans for the weekend for the next fifteen years or so years.

Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) and I are getting closer to adopting a toddler-age sibling set through foster care.  As we get closer, I am alternately excited and nauseated at the prospect of what our life will become as late-life parents to young kids.  We're marking some major milestones as of late -- BMNB turned fifty last year; I will turn fifty next month; and we'll mark our tenth anniversary five days after my birthday.  If all goes as planned, we'll be parents by the end of the summer.

All of this has brought about what I'd call a tectonic shift in my priorities. 

It is now more important to me than ever to have my weekends free for the family I'm trying to build and the life I'm trying to create for them.  I don't want to be told with little notice and no opportunity to refuse that my weekend will be yanked out from under me.  That's one of the reasons why I hated litigation -- the lack of control over one's schedule.  When BMNB and I got married, we agreed there could only be one trial attorney in the family, and since I didn't want to be the trial attorney, it worked out well.

It is also more important to me to create the kind of family life for my kids-to-be that my parents created for me.  We always ate dinner together as a family, and my mom cooked almost seven days a week. McDonald's was a treat for us because we only went there once a month, if at all.  We ate huge Sunday dinners as a family, so much so that we were spoiled.  We got to the point where we kids were turning up our noses at roast beef, turkey and ham.  I'd give my left arm for my mom's roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy right about now.  Hell, I don't even know how to make gravy.

Unlike most women my age, I've never taken time off to raise children.  I've never had a maternity leave.  My one and only pregnancy ended in a miscarriage, brought on in part, IMHO, from stress doing -- you guessed it -- litigation.

I want more living and less working.  I have the nerve to expect more of life at this stage in my life.  I actually feel I deserve to be happy in my career and home life, and if I can't be happy in my career, well, two tears in a bucket; motherf*** it.  It just doesn't matter as much to me anymore.

I'm not like BMNB.  He's happier than a pig in you-know-what practicing the law he practices.  He has more freedom than I do -- an alternate work schedule, the freedom to work from home, and no bosses looking over his shoulder.  It works for him.

Me, not so much.  And I know that I'm running out of time to figure out how I'm going to make this all work because, sooner or later, that urgent assignment will come in, it will be my turn, and I will be expected to work over the weekend.  My refusal will be considered insubordination.  I'm already wearing a target on my back at work (it's a long story -- let's just say I'm in someone's cross hairs); any misstep can and will be held against me. 

How much time will I take off to get our kids acclimated?  How much time can I afford to take off? 
Do I quit altogether and see if we can make it one BMNB's salary alone, even with the debt we have? That I can even consider such an option is a blessing that most women don't have, and I don't take it lightly.   Do I just jump into motherhood and a new mother-friendly career (ahem, blogging?) at the same time and let go of the possibility of a pension, 401(k) and health care benefits in old age?  What will our social worker think? 

While other women are contemplating leaning in, I just feel like collateral damage in the so-called "mommy wars."  Working moms and working-at-home moms (I think the term "stay-at-home mom" doesn't fully capture all the work that the term entails) seem to still be working this motherhood and career conflict out on each other instead of together opening up a can of whupass on the labor market to better accommodate parenthood.  I would have thought that by this stage of the game, all the things that women need to parent and stay in the work force would have been standard issue by now in America -- paid parental leave, a child care center or pre-school on every corner, common and accepted part-time and shared work situations.  But they're not, and each woman contemplating motherhood is left in a feral state to try to patch together some semblance of work-life balance.   Lean in?  At this stage, I don't care to lean in.  I'd rather lean back, hold my kids-to-be, and read every single Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein book to them without worry.  It is no longer a priority of mine to impress my superiors at work and continually prove myself to people whose opinion of me, in the end, doesn't really matter.  What really matters to me is to know what it is to love children of my own and to share that love with BMNB.  Everything else pales in comparison.

And the irony of it all?  NP's boss is constantly out of the office with her sick children and doesn't work weekends.  How's that for leaning in?

I don't know how this will all turn out, but I'm excited about what the future holds for BMNB and me.

Stay tuned.

President Obama's Comment About Attorney General Kamala Harris: I'm Not Offended, and Ain't I A Woman?

President Obama lauds California Attorney General Kamala Harris by saying she's brilliant, tough, dedicated and "the best looking attorney general in the country."

One of the local news channels here, CBS 13, showed a video of interviews with women -- and a guy or two -- asking them whether President Obama's remarks were offensive to women.  The women gave mixed responses.

None of the women were African-American, which pisses me the hell off because, as an African-American woman, I've got a way different perspective on this and I'm tired of white women being the voice of all women.  In the words of Sojourner Truth, ain't I a woman?

My perspective is different because I saw President Obama's remarks not as a gendered commentary, but a raced-and-gendered commentary, if you will, and an inside joke between friends.  I don't recall President Obama ever making a comment about the looks of a non-African-American female, which is why I, as an African-American woman, respect him -- because his choices in women affirm us African-American women.  I know this sounds anything but feminist, but hear me out.

I am one of the few African-American women who served on the Harvard Law Review with the President long before he became president.  We weren't buds and he couldn't pick me out of a lineup, but I have to admit -- I expected that he, like many African-American men poised to be successful and powerful, wouldn't even choose an African-American woman as a mate, much less revel in the beauty of African-American women.

Many African-American men like President Obama are told that, precisely because they are successful and powerful, they don't have to "limit" themselves to African-American women.  One African-American male student I met while attending Princeton told me that men like him could "trade up" and didn't have to date African-American women.  In fact, he even deigned to tell me in so many words that I was lucky he was paying me any attention.

When I see so many powerful and successful African-American men date outside our race, I have to admit -- although I believe love knows no color, I wonder whether they ever considered dating an African-American woman or whether they bought into the message about "trading up." When you see Tiger Woods' parade of women past and present, it's pretty clear that he does not find African-American women attractive.

So when the Leader of the Freakin' Free World not only habitually gushes about his African-American wife's beauty -- a beauty that has been repeatedly derided in the mainstream press -- and goes on to compliment the beauty of another intelligent and powerful African-American woman, I'm not offended.  I'm affirmed, strangely enough.  So much of what appears in the media about African-American women is negative in so many ways -- like pictures on the internet comparing the First Lady to a chimpanzee -- that I'm happy that the one man who could pretty much choose any woman in the world revels in the intelligence and beauty of African-American women.  No offense, but I don't want white women's experiences to be the barometer of whether I should be offended.  They don't experience the world as I do.  Never have, never will.

I'm not offended, and ain't I a woman?

The President was wrong, though.  Eric Holder is the best looking attorney general in the country.

Baby Boomers Are Asking Themselves, "What The Hell Am I Doing Here?"

I'm at the tail end of the Baby Boom and am ineligible for retirement under my retirement system.  I've had to sit back and watch those at the head of the Baby Boom make the decision whether to continue working or retire.  Sometimes that decision comes down to finances, sometimes it comes down to health.  For those who have the finances to retire and the health to enjoy it, I am increasingly seeing them ask themselves this question about their workplace:

What the hell am I doing here?

From what I've observed, this question is triggered in older Baby Boomers when workplace conditions become more onerous (like a bad boss), the pay becomes less (like furloughs), or they see someone in their age cohort with the same number or fewer years of service retire.  It's as if they see a proverbial clock of their lifespan on the wall inching toward midnight, and parts of their lives outside the workplace become a powerful counterweight against remaining in the workplace.

Like grandchildren.  Or a retired spouse.  Or an ailing parent.  Or just longing to do something more meaningful.

I've mentioned before that I have two siblings who are retiring this year.  One will have 40 years' worth of state civil service, the other over 30.  One is planning on going back to school and becoming a travel agent.  The other is weighing his options, I think.

I can't retire, but I, too, feel the tug of other countervailing considerations in my life.  We all go through different life stages, and different things matter more to us at different stages of our lives. Whereas most people my age have children who are leaving or have left the nest, I'm preparing to begin parenthood.  I now realize that I don't want to spend a boatload of time at the office.  I don't want to be the "go-to" person.  I don't want to bring work home and I don't want to discuss work at home when I have my family in place.  I want to be able to come home in time to fix dinner and sit down with my family and eat.  Yes, fix family dinners.  Feminists fix dinner, too.  I totally get the "What the hell am I doing here?" question that older Baby Boomers are asking themselves.

Once the "What the hell am I doing here?" question is asked by older Baby Boomers, their spirits demand an answer.  I've seen older Baby Boomers start to do the math -- figuring out how much they will draw in retirement, how much they can live on, the amount of Social Security they will get at 62 versus 65, whether they can downsize their home or if they will be doing something else after retirement to supplement their incomes.  When all the right factors align to give them the answer they want or can live with, they pull the retirement ripcord and parachute out of the workplace.  I am in awe of each and every one of them, especially those who slogged through soul-sucking jobs for years on end.  I'm in awe not because they retired, but because they had the courage to ask themselves, "What the hell am I doing here?".

Rock on, Baby Boomer retirees.  Rock on.

Middle-Aged and Tired? Sleep Apnea Is No Joke!

Not all who have sleep apnea snore; not all who snore have sleep apnea.

~ My doctor

I didn't get the 100,000 signatures I needed for White House action on my Port Chicago White House Petition.  What I did get in the interim may have saved my life.

I have been tired for a long time.  Years.  I just assumed this was what middle age felt like -- diminished energy, foggy thinking.  I just thought this was menopause or my ferritin deficiency (ferritin is the back-up iron storage in your system) and I had to get used to it.  I often wondered to myself and to Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) how I was going to be able to parent small children when it was all I could do at the end of the day to fall out tired on the sofa after work.

My exhaustion didn't really become an issue until I continued coming in to work late because I was oversleeping.  I went to get a doctor's note to verify my ferretin deficiency, and when I described my symptoms, my doctor replied, "That sounds like sleep apnea."  I replied, "I DON'T SNORE!"

My doctor, ever her amazing self, said with Yoda-like wisdom, "Not all who have sleep apnea snore; not all who snore have sleep apnea."  She referred me to my health care provider's sleep clinic, and after wearing a diagnostic monitor for one night, it was determined that not only did I have sleep apnea, I had moderate to severe sleep apnea.

WTF?  I don't snore!

In a later visit with my doctor, I asked about my sleep clinic results and the fact that I had received a call from the sleep clinic for a return visit.  She explained then that I had moderate to severe sleep apnea.  That return visit to the sleep clinic?  She dropped a bomb on me:  "You're about to be fitted with a CPAP machine."

WTF?

I was still pretty much in denial.   I had heard about CPAP (Continuous Positive Air Pressure) machines and how uncomfortable they were to sleep with.  "What if I don't use the CPAP machine?", I asked.

My doctor, ever the patient person, looked me dead in the eye.  "Sleep apnea is serious.  It can lead to cardiovascular hypertension.  Basically, when you stop breathing while you sleep, the cardiovascular system that supplies your heart and lungs are working overtime to keep them oxygenated with the oxygen left in your system when you don't breathe.  That leads to cardiovascular hypertension, which is extremely hard to treat.  We don't even want patients to get to the point of having cardiovascular hypertension."

She continued, "Not only does sleep apnea present as cardiovascular hypertension, but it can also present as heart attack and . . . . " She listed a whole host of maladies I didn't want no parts of, and then the last malady stopped me cold:  "It can also cause dementia."

Hold the phone.  WTF?

It got me thinking hard.  My mother, who was a smoker, had her first heart attack at 53.  She also had early onset Alzheimer's, or at least that's what they thought it was.  She died at age 64 of cancer.

And she snored.  A LOT.  I can remember my mom basically running on coffee and cigarettes for energy.  I used to think she was tired because she had six kids.

Maybe, just maybe, she had sleep apnea, too.  Sleep apnea tends to run in families.

I know for a fact that my thinking has been cloudy for the last couple of years.  I've always had a facility with words, and I've had to work harder to write correctly and recall arcane vocabulary words that I once used easily and freely.  I know for a fact that it takes me longer to read and analyze cases than it used to, that I can't remember names as easily, although I wasn't very good at names to begin with.  The idea that this could get even worse for me without some kind of medical intervention? The idea that this silent disease I never thought I could have -- because I don't snore -- could kill me?

Since then, I've been telling everyone I know about sleep apnea, that it could happen to them, too, even if they don't snore.

When I went to the sleep clinic follow-up appointment, it was a sleep apnea class where we were being given a tester CPAP machine in order to calibrate the CPAP machine we would all eventually have to get.  I was the only woman in the class.  The rest were all men, most of then white, most of them way overweight.  Just the kind of folks who, in my uninformed mind, would have sleep apnea:  Men who look like Homer Simpson.

I told the class leader, a woman respiratory therapist, that when I was told I had sleep apnea, you could have rolled me over with a feather.  "I don't snore.  I don't consider myself way overweight.  I don't . . . "  She cut me off:  "You thought sleep apnea was only for fat people who snore?  Yeah, we get that a lot."

After being shown how to adjust the CPAP mask, which goes over your nose, use the oxymeter thing on a finger of our non-dominant hands, and set up the machine, we were sent off with tester CPAP machines and told to record our nightime sleeping experiences with it for a seven-day sleep study.

The first night, I almost cried.  The CPAP mask and straps made me look like Hannibal Lector's little sister, and the sound of the air being pushed into the mask, although not loud, sounded like Darth Vadar breathing. I couldn't relax, and I couldn't get used to some machine pushing air into me.  I knew that my life depended on getting used to this machine.  With some adjustments (loosening the mask a bit, sleeping on my side), I got used to it.

It was the best week of sleep I had in years.  I didn't feel tired waking up, and I had more energy all day.  Even BMNB said I looked noticeably better.  I didn't want to return the machine after my seven days were over because I didn't want to be without it, even for the interim period before I get my own.

The day after I returned it, even I could see the difference.  I had dark circles under my eyes again, and I didn't have the same level of energy.

Another doctor who was reading my medical chart to me last week over the phone told me that it was shown that I stop breathing while I sleep at night 9.7 times per hour on average.  "Basically, you stop breathing just about every time you go to sleep," he responded.  "Good thing you were diagnosed."

The last thing he said to me?  "We get folks in the emergency room all the time who have had heart attacks due to sleep apnea."

If you find that you are tired all the time, even after a full night's sleep, ask your doctor for a referral to a sleep clinic to be checked for sleep apnea.  Don't assume that it's menopause, middle age, or just the way you are.  I never, ever thought this would happen to me.  Sleep apnea is no joke.

BWB

Make Black History: Sign The White House Petition to Pardon the Black WWII Sailors of Port Chicago

Two hundred and fifty-eight African-American World War II sailors were court-martialed, of whom fifty were convicted of mutiny, because they refused to continue loading munitions after an explosion at the Port Chicago Naval Magazine near what is now the Concord Naval Weapons Station in California.  They refused to return to work because they had been relegated to the dangerous job of loading munitions because of their race.  It was the largest mass mutiny trial in U.S. Naval history.

On July 17, 1944, at 10:18 pm, an explosion occurred at the Port Chicago Naval Magazine involving 4,606 tons of munitions, killing 320 cargo handlers, crewmen, and sailors.  According to the Navy’s own historical website (http://www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq80-1.htm ), African-American Navy personnel units were assigned to the dangerous work of loading munitions at Port Chicago under the supervision of white officers.  In his book  “The Port Chicago Mutiny:  The Story of the Largest Mass Mutiny Trial in U.S. Naval History,” author and U.C. Berkeley professor Dr. Robert Allen (http://africam.berkeley.edu/faculty/allen.html) quoted one of the African-American sailors convicted of mutiny as saying that the officers "encouraged" competition by the black sailors in loading munitions tonnage and threatened punishment or loss of privileges.

On August 9, 1944, 258 African-American Port Chicago sailors refused to return to the work of loading munitions.   When given the chance to reconsider their decision, 208 of the 258 were willing to return to work.  Instead, the 208 were subjected to summary courts-martial and given bad conduct discharges, and the remaining 50 were charged with mutiny.  After 32 days of hearing, 80 minutes of deliberation, and despite the presence of Thurgood Marshall and his call for a formal investigation by the government into the circumstances of the work stoppage, all 50 men were convicted of mutiny.  Marshall filed and argued an appeal on their behalf with the Navy’s Judge Advocate General’s Office in Washington, but the convictions were upheld.  Forty-seven of the fifty received clemency, were released from prison, and eventually left the Navy “under honorable conditions,” but their mutiny convictions stood.  Rep. George Miller (D-California), who represents the district where Port Chicago stood, sought to have the convictions of the 50 reversed, with no success.  The National Bar Association passed a resolution in 1998 calling for pardons for the 50 convicted of mutiny, with no success.  President Clinton pardoned Freddie Meeks, one of the 50 convicted of mutiny.

Now is the time for President Obama to grant redress of this racial wrong and pardon the remaining 257 of the African-American World War II sailors of Port Chicago who were court-martialed and/or convicted of mutiny, many of whom have passed away with this stain on their record of service to our country.  No American serviceman or servicewoman should be or should have ever been singled out for the most dangerous jobs in the military based solely on race.

Make Black history.  Sign the White House petition to pardon the remaining 257 African-American sailors of Port Chicago.  The link is below.

Black Woman Blogging

Short URL: http://wh.gov/vQzx

Food is Love (Happy Valentine's Day!)

This week, my husband Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) brought me close, held me tight, looked deeply into my eyes, and, with profound sincerity, thanked me for all the home-cooked meals I've made during the last week and a half.

For BMNB, food is love.

Mind you, I don't get this.  Never have, never will.  I love food, and I like to eat well -- fresh ingredients, good flavors, and moderately healthy.  I cook not necessarily because I love cooking, but because I like to eat good, affordable, moderately healthy food.

For BMNB, it's a whole 'nother story.  For him, a home-cooked meal is an act of love, no less than a hug or a kiss.  He loves food but hates to cook.  (I don't get that, either.)  He equates the act of feeding someone well with caring for them, and caring for them with loving them.

I don't know if this transitive equation really works, but I do know that after a week and a half of Chilaquiles Casserole, Jambalaya (made the old school way -- took me about 8 hours), Chicken Chili from scratch, Baked Sweet Potato Fries, Spanish Torta, Blueberry Buttermilk Pancakes (from scratch -- I hate boxed pancake mixes), Lemon Chicken, Dijon Mustard and Maple Syrup Grilled Salmon, Caramelized Cauliflower with Parsley/Capers/Raisin dressing, Sauteed Spinach, BBQ Pork Loin Marinated in Tequila and Coriander, Candied Carrots and homemade Sparkling Limeade, BMNB is a happy man.

So ladies, you don't have to throw out your back riding the stripper pole trying to please a man.  Just start with a home-cooked meal.  And if you can read, you can cook -- most of those recipes came from cookbooks.  My recent fave cookbooks are Lucinda Scala Quinn's "Mad Hungry:  Feeding Men and Boys" and Katie Brown's "Katie Brown Entertains," and my favorite old-school cookbooks include Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins' "Silver Palate Cookbook" and any Frugal Gourmet Cookbook.

Ladies, take off that too-tight corset, put down your copy of "50 Shades of Grey" and your whip, and pick up a cookbook and a spatula.  It's that easy to please a man.  Really.

Happy Valentine's Day!

P.S.  The Dijon Mustard and Maple Syrup Grilled Salmon is easy -- take two salmon fillets, marinate them in a marinade of equal parts dijon mustard and pure maple syrup -- not pancake syrup-- (about a quarter or a half cup of each) for at least an hour in the fridge, grill on a George Foreman grill with a sprinkling of salt and pepper 3-5 minutes or until done.  Easy peasy!

No Weapon Formed Against Ray Lewis Shall Prosper

No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD.

~ Isaiah 54:17 (KJV)

I wouldn't call myself a die-hard San Francisco 49ers fan, but I support any California NFL team that makes it to the Super Bowl.

That said, I don't think the 49ers are going to win the Super Bowl this year.  And it's not their fault.

This is Ray Lewis' year, and no weapon formed against him in the pursuit of his final Super Bowl ring will prosper.

I'm not a Ravens fan, either, but you don't have to be to feel the profound love and respect the Ravens have for Lewis.  My husband Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) always says, "The team that wants it the most always wins."  The desire of the Ravens to bring home that Super Bowl ring for Lewis is palpable.  They've already named it and claimed it in Lewis' name.  Even members of opposing playoff teams have made the pilgrimage across the field or to the Ravens' locker room after losing to the Ravens to pay their respects to Lewis.

Despite Lewis' obvious deep love of God, the game, and his teammates, at least one person of small spirit (a Patriots supporter, no less) has taken the opportunity to attempt to besmirch Lewis, bringing up his murder trial, his children by different women, etc.

Lewis, ever the believer, forgave the woman.  He's content to "let the game take care of the game."

I'm no Bible scholar, either, and whenever I would hear anyone quote Isaiah 54:17, I'd get a little perturbed that they were using it out of context.  God isn't saying that "no weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper" simply because you're you, but because you're aligned with His purpose.  Quoting Isaiah 54:17 to yourself when you're in line to try to snag a pair of Air Jordans, for example, would be a misunderstanding, to say the least.

But maybe, just maybe, it is God's purpose that Ray Lewis win.  God does reward His servants.

That's why, as much as I would love to see the 49ers win, I believe in my spirit that it's Ray Lewis' year, and no weapon formed against him shall prosper.  The best thing the 49ers can do to honor Lewis is to play as a team worthy to take the field with him.