The Legacy of Mae Phillips

Mama Mae

Her name is Mae Phillips but I call her Mama Mae. She's 96 years old and barely weighs 100 pounds but I still am in awe of this woman who is my grandmother.

While in Ocho Rios, Jamaica last week to celebrate my __ birthday and 3rd wedding anniversary I made the trek to Kingston - the capital of Jamaica - to spend the day with Mama Mae because at 96 years of age, well, you just never know ...

Despite the terrible road conditions, the ride was easy and the length of the trip seemed shortened because the driver I had hired was personable depsite his strong political views on the declining state of his country. The weather was in our favor - no rain in sight - but I still entered Kingston with a heavy feeling in my stomach.

Kingston is a world unto itself and hard to describe to anyone who has never been. The high crime rate and increasing levels of poverty are bad enough, but add in the heat (that most days is unbearable enough to be described as smothering) and the congestion (that could make the most social of people feel like a claustrophobic weenie) and you've got less than a tourist attraction. Yes, it is steeped in culture and history and is the location where Bob Marley recorded some of his best stuff, but to ME it's about as close to hell as you can get.

BUT Kingston is where my grandmother lives and for whatever reason the need to see her on this visit was so strong, I would have dueled with the devil himself if he had tried to keep me from going.

I think she felt the same way; she began crying when she heard my voice and hailed my visit as a sign. I didn't understand the gravity of her statement considering this is the same woman who for the past five years has described the Thanksgiving holiday as her last supper but as the day wore on - and got hotter - I knew our time spent together was indeed special.

For four hours she talked about her favorite memories of me. The long summers that she stayed with my family, teaching me to bake plantain tarts, beef patties and coconut cookies. How she kept my mother from knocking me out (too many times to count) when my mouth was at its smartest. How she thought I would put her on a plane back to Kingston when she accidentally let my dog escape from the house and how hurt I'd be when my cousin David would come for the summer because my daddy's attention would inevitably be taken away from me. She spoke in amazing detail about the summer trips we took in the family station wagon, criss-crossing the United States and Canada. She was the reason I got married in Jamaica, her traveling days long since gone and I couldn't imagine taking my vows without her. I cried tears of joy when she pressed a hanky in my hand and told me I looked fat in my wedding dress.

But then she also told me that she was proud of the woman that I had become.

The more she talked, the more I laughed, realizing how many of my best childhood memories are shared with her. I also realized how large of a hand she's had in shaping who I am today and I realized how very much I love her.

And Kingston. Because it is my heritage. It is the place where my grandmother taught me to wash clothes by hand, how to pick ackee then sautee it with saltfish. Kingston is where I learned how to properly suck my teeth and say "me soon come" in a proper Jamaican accent and eat Mangoes right from the tree.

Yes, I am the legacy of Mae Phillps. But I call her Mama Mae and she is my grandmother.

Introducing Lady N.

Natalia Davida

As I did with my oldest niece, Jordan, last week I wrapped my three-month old niece in a pink blanket with lavender stitching, packed her in the car and drove to the nearest mall to get her ears pierced. It's become a tradition of sorts and I treasure it. This is more than likely my last shot at this particular bonding experience. As the mother of two boys, I vow never to be the one that carts them off to the mall to get a lobe pierced. But that's another blog entirely.

Jordan is now 9 (soon to be 10) and with the passing of time I had forgotten how emotionally wrenching this "tradition" could actually be, for me and the baby. Probably the reason my sister handed it off to me in the first place. Well, it all came rushing back when I saw Natalia's sweet little face twist and turn a ghastly reddish purple when the piercing gun popped first the right lobe then the left. And I started thinking, WHO IN THE WORLD started this ritual of poking holes in babies? They must have had a really good reason and I was determined to find out what it was. So when I got home, I did some research.

During my google search, several explanations popped up. One article explained that ears were probably first pierced for magical purposes and because of the ease with which it can be pierced. Many primitive tribes believe that demons can enter the body through the ear, because demons and spirits are supposed to be repelled by metal, ear-piercing prevents them entering the body. Another surmised that children born into ancient sailing families used to have an ear pierced to improve eyesight, and if the bodies washed up somewhere it would pay for a Christian burial. I also learned that in many societies ear piercing is done as a puberty ritual. That in Borneo the Mother and Father each pierce one ear as a symbol of the child's dependence on their parents. BUT my favorite: in Roman society ear piercing symbolized wealth and prosperity. The more elaborate the piercing and the younger the baby: the richer the family.

A little Tylenol helped both of us with the pain and now when I see her little sparkly ears, I can't help but smile and send up prayers for Lady N. But not in a material sense. I wish her -- and every other baby wrapped in pink embroidered blankets -- a life full of health and happiness, one rich in love and prosperous in true friendship, an existence entrenched in wealth of character and self-awareness. In short, I want for them every good thing. Growing up a girl ain't no easy thing. Just remember your Auntie Na-Na loves you.

PS. Can't help but add that I was not responsible for this picture. My older sister, Lady N's proud mama, snapped it. If you look REALLY close, you may be able to see the earring. Thanks, Sis!

Independent. Determined. Fearless.

Partner Potty Training

Has he gotten you trained yet?

That is the question my mother posed when I was finished relaying the latest incident in my youngest son's potty training saga. She relishes each new tale with an evil sort of glee, nodding in remembered pain, the words, "pay back" perched deliciously on her lips. I can't argue with her. If there was ever reincarnation from mother to child - it's me and my baby. Of course I would never admit such a thing to his grandmother. But he has the same independent spirit that my mother requested my kindergarten teacher, temper but not break. The same fearless attitude that found me playing beneath a clothing rack in Walmart and had my son wandering happily through the church sanctuary this past Sunday - flipping casually through pew books and searching for his grandfather that was four hours away in St. Louis. The same determined will that allows my son - through begging and bribing - to hold his urine until his bladder damn near bursts just to mock me.

Independent. Determined. Fearless.

There are times I forget that he's just like me. This past Sunday, in fact. I was home, infused with a fresh injection of the Word. The sermon had centered around God's mercy for his children and how that should translate in our everyday lives. So after almost 30 minutes of sitting without success, I was feeling merciful(among other things)and took pity on my son's red ringed bottom. And from my merciful position a great idea was born.

Ready for this?

Me, in all my merciful ignorance figured since he didn't want to pee in anything but a diaper, letting him run around bare assed, shouldn't present a problem. Well, the ending is a lot more predictable now. No more than two minutes into his period of sweet freedom, my oldest son's eyes were rounder than saucers as a ring of wetness bridged the gap between him and his brother and it took all I had to remember my merciful stance.

Independent. Determined. Fearless.

Days later, my three year old still tugs occasionally on my sleeve to remind me that Junior peed on the rug. Of course he can't remember to keep his legos out of the toilet two minutes after I tell him, but then it's much more important to keep the spotlight of Mommy's wrath on the wrong doing's of his brother. You can ask my older sister all about that.

Now all I can do is hope that once our white carpet dries, there won't be a yellow stain to mock me and my bright idea for years to come. And I can only wish as my mother did countless times when I was growing up, that my baby has a child just like him. Interestingly enough, the traits that I fear will make me tear my hair out now, are exactly the ones I want him to have when he's older.

Independent. Determined. Fearless.

How to become an instant hero to any child under the age of nine ......

Me and Spongebob

As part of my job as a radio personality, I am required to make certain personal appearances including grand openings like the one I did last week at a Chicagoland Lowe's store. I used to love doing these "stops" as we call them in the radio biz (they bring in extra cash and you get to meet your listeners - both very important) and used to schedule four or five a weekend. But that was BEFORE. Before, I had a husband and two boys; 3 and 2 years old. (I know: what was I thinking?) Now I reserve the majority of my weekends to spend with them. So when the station manager called me to say that I had been scheduled for a two hour stop at Lowe's with Nickelodeon's cartoon character Spongebob Squarepants on what was projected to be one of the warmest Saturdays thus far this year, I was less than pleased. Relunctantly I agreed since it was a little late in the game for them to find someone else.

Needless to say it was a LONG two hours.

While smiling, shaking hands and kissing babies, all I could think about was what I would do with my babies once I got home. Whether or not the park near our house would be too crowded or if playing in my newest project - the garden - would be better. I relunctantly allowed one picture with Mr. Bob to be snapped before I beat a hasty retreat and that was only to make the sponsors happy.

At last I was free to spend the rest of the afternoon with my family. And it was glorious.

An email was sent to me later that night containing the picture of me and Spongebob. I had obviously failed to realize the magnitude of what I had done. When I casually showed it to my son, his eyes popped open so wide his three-year-old forehead almost disappeared and I detected a little moistness in the corner of one as he wrapped an arm around me and pointed at the screen, whispering the words, "Mommy, do you know who that is? That's Spongebob Squarepants." There was such awe, wonder and raw emotion in his voice, I almost began to weep with him. At my son's insistence, I saved the picture to my hard drive and long after I was done working, he would wander over and just stare at the picture, running a finger across the screen as if he could hardly believe it was real.

He went to bed talking about Spongebob, and when he woke up instead of his usual kiss and "good morning", he rubbed his eyes and requested that I call Spongebob and invite him to church. I could just picture it - Jesus and Spongebob Squarepants.

It was then that I realized I had been elevated quite a few notches in the eyes of my eldest child. I thought I was pretty cool anyway but now it's official. And you know, I plan to use this to my advantage for at least the rest of the week ..........