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As she sped down the hill a feeling of pride overwhelmed her 9 year old body. “I am doing it! I am doing it! ” she thought as she felt her self holding the two wheel bicycle straight and steady for the first time since her uncle declared: “You’re old enough, you should know how to ride a bike”. Her feelings of pride were immediately replaced by alarm as she realized that while her uncle spent a lot of time teaching her about holding the handle bar straight he failed to instruct her on how to stop the bike.
As the bicycle accelerated and she neared an intersection she wondered about possibly being struck by a car. She then turned the handle bar toward the curb causing the bicycle to immediately halt and her skinny frame to tumble into a patch of grass near the sidewalk. Her cousins and uncle met her, rejoicing, “You did it! You did it! But to stop pedal backwards.” “Oh”, she thought “That sounds simple”, still smiling from her sense of accomplishment.
My seven year old finally learned to keep the handle bar straight on his two wheel bike. While at my parents’ house he proclaimed to my brother and I, “I know how to ride my bike! Wanna see?”. We responded yes and followed him outside. He zoomed down the driveway and rode his two wheeler without assistance and without tipping over. I shouted “Great job! I am proud of you!”. He later told me from behind a wide grin, “I am happy for myself. I know how to ride my two wheel bike with no training wheels.” I knew exactly how he felt and I reminded him, “To stop pedal backwards”.
It's Carnival time Again.....
My boys, our cousin and I took a road trip. We traveled 500 miles up north to visit family in Ontario, Canada . We made it safe and sound after a couple of chicken wing breaks, a twenty minute down pour on interstate 81, a power nap, a probe of our car and it’s contents by Canadian customs euphemized as an “IDconfirmation” and a stop at Niagara Falls (the Canadian side). Like many West Indians I have family flung around the globe primarily in the countries of Jamaica, United States, Canada and England. As my sons get older I am begining to acknowledge the importance of maintaining the connections that are preordained by DNA. As result I’ve resume the yearly pilgrimage begun by my parents when I was a child.
Only at Caribana
Caribana an annual parade that celebrates the West Indian spirit of revelry offers an exciting backdrop for a DivaMom and Sons (and cousin) adventure. Our excursion provided what adventures normally do: a sense of accomplishment, exposure to sights and sounds that are not readily available in your comfort zone and an opportunity to reconnect with people, places and self. My boys had a ball proclaiming they wanted to move to Canada. I felt like a champ first pulling into my cousin’s drive way and then into my complex. I was so proud of me. The road trip was rejuvenating enabling me to reconnect with my inner divamom. Upon our return when my 5 year old son whined because he did not have his t-shirt for camp I immediately responded: ” I just drove 1,000 miles to and from Canada, boy I didn’t get a chance to wash your shirt. I dont deserve that from you”. He obviously agreed because his usually persistent little butt shut right up.
Some people walk in the rain. Others just get wet.
~ Roger Miller
I recently found my self caught in the path of torrential rain clouds, yet my spirits were high as I found refuge in a gourmet shop, then beneath a bright yellow umbrella, then in a bank lobby, then a cab and ultimately a cute little spot for drinks, but throughout it all I had the good fortune of being in very good company. My hair was a little puffier but my clothes were warm and dry. I was reminded of a few lessons that day but the greatest was that even in the midst of a storm the pleasures of life are often found in the simple things. While the skies may thunder pouring rain, comfort, joy and satisfaction are forever present in how we choose to navigate the tempest and a great companion is one with whom we can openly share every stage of the experience. Having good company makes it a stop, walk, run or ride in the rain rather than just getting wet. Thanks MR 
Courtesy of the Blue Rosed Beauties
I have a serious appreciation for the music of Maxwell. My latest adventure revolved around two Maxwell performances in one day. I saw him at the Good Morning America taping in NYC with members of the online group known as the Maxwell Fan Forum or MFF. As a result of our unwavering support for his music and use of the symbolic blue rose, he has recently dubbed us the “Blue Rosed beauties” via one of his Twitter posts.
This panty was made for tossin'.
Later that same day I saw him perform at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center (NJPAC) live. I was sitting in second row orchestra and Max mentioned that if anyone wished, they could throw panties on stage. Yours truly, having mentally prepared for the task for several weeks responded with a hearty toss of a blue thong with lace trimming marked with the words: “MFF Luvs U! DivaMom”.
I danced. I applauded. I laughed. I jumped. I shouted. I grinned. I had a ball! My reward for my antics was the performer’s sweat drenched wash rag which he tossed to me at the conclusion of the show after I made the request by pointing to it.
This is definitely a memory for when I am a grandma and my panty tossing days are long gone, unless of course Maxwell is still performing. ; -)
One of my favorite Disney movies has to be Finding Nemo. I adore that movie mainly because Merlin transforms from an over protective over baring father to one who proclaims to his son Nemo “Go have an adventure!”. My uncle who recovered from cancer rec
ently shared a similar sentiment. He said he had so many wonderful memories from his youth to keep him company that he was content that he had a full and rewarding life. He advised that as a young person I should live my life so that when I reach his age ( late 70’s) I would have something upon which to reflect. I do my best to instill those same principles in my sons. Yet with so many concerns about “people who want to harm children” sometimes it’s very difficult to know when you are encouraging an adventure or courting disaster.
I do little things: I let them go to the men’s room alone, while I hover at the door. I stand close by and monitor them while they cross the street to see who knows how to do it right. They both know my cell phone number and full name, just in case.
I’ve had a couple of close calls where I’ve momentarily lost sight of either one boy or the other, and I am so tempted to say: “I am never going to let you out of my sight again”. But then a cooler head prevails as I’ve noticed that they are actually pretty smart and have always found themselves back to me. They are only 7 and 5 right now so I can only imagine what adventures they will have when they are 17 and 15. I only hope that whatever it is, I will have imparted them with the tools needed to always find their way back to me.
I was making pancakes with my son this past Father’s Day (yesterday) and it reminded me of when I was around his age (7) and began cooking. It was definitely something my father encouraged. Despite his insistance that my sister and I grow up to be educated independent women, his sensibilities regarding a “good woman” did not depart from his West Indian roots and for him that included a woman that could cook.
My sister and I began experimenting with transforming raw goods into palatable meals very early on. It was a chore that we eagerly embraced under the sometimes supervision and unwavering encouragement from Big Poppa, aka Big Red, aka Daddy. He was our greatest cheerleader not by demanding, bribing or creating some unique game to diguise this chore. My father simply ate all of our concoctions. Even when we declined to to ingest our our creations he indulged and offered sound critique including “more seasoning”, “less baking powder”, or “next time cook it longer”. We trusted his opinion as we knew he would be truthful but his honesty was tempered with love couched in encouragement. We were emboldened and charged into the kitchen knowing that while our recipes may not always be cook book perfect we felt we could do no wrong and the best part was that we had a willing customer who would gladly consume the fruits of our labor.
Those memories are a constant source of amusement for me; for that I am forever grateful. Nowadays almost every time I prepare a meal I am reminded of the start of it all and my Dad is there. Happy Father’s day to all the dads and fathers who eat their little children’s bad cooking.
W. Reid
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