Easter Egg Hunt Gone Wild

My eldest came home with a flyer on Thursday that proclaimed that the local mall would be hosting an Easter Egg Hunt for all the neighborhood children. The flyer further insisted that although the hunt itself would not start until 10:00 am, parents should come early as previously there was a long line to join the festivities. After much coaxing and cajoling I agreed that I would take the girls to partake in this spectacle. Now I must admit to being a bit of a scrooge where the Easter bunny is concerned, my initial response to that creature is to say bah humbug even though in spring, that saying is somewhat out of season. I know what’s going on, I am a keen observer of supermarket self stacking practices, when Christmas is done they move in Valentines Day stuff, after Valentines Day is done, clerks stack Easter commodities on the shelves closely followed by Mother’s Day goods, Fathers Day paraphernalia and fourth of July decorations after that everything is stocked up for Post Thanksgiving madness aptly given the ominous title of Black Friday then Christmas comes again, indebtedness continues.

Okay I so can understand Santa because that was based on an actual person that handed out gifts to children, but a bunny doling out eggs that he can’t even produce sounds like a bit of a stretch for me. I would even go out on a limb and say that the Easter bunny was dreamed up by some marketing executive to sell stuff and bravo, that’s what he does. Alright, so we get to this Easter egg hunt and true to form the place is already packed. Parents are psyching up their children while taking off the heavy winter garb, it seems strategy is everything. One Grandmother says “here’s what you do, run out in front and when you reach to that point (mapping out the track) sit down and gather in everything in front of you.” “Everyone will be running and bending down to pick up so that will give you the advantage cause you’re already down” she mused.

Are they kidding me? Bunny hunt strategy, I must be in some twisted egg hunts gone wild dimension or something! What happened to good old fun? Well when the countdown started and the egg hunt launched the parents stormed ahead and blocked children with their bulk. I mean literally dropping down and shielding eggs from kids while their little angels stood back shell shocked, gazing in disbelief at Mom or Dad’s snarling countenance, it was quite the sight. I don’t think I was as bad although I did follow behind my youngest pointing out egg finds, what can I say if you can’t beat them trump them.

When all the eggs were gone, one would think that’s where the madness ended, but no way! There were quite a few mothers roaming the aisles of the mall extolling the virtues of their children on the top of their lungs while lamenting the fact that their children didn’t pick up any eggs and drooling over my children’s gatherings. I in retrospect should offered for my girls to share some of their treats with those children but those mother’s were so rabid that I beat a hasty retreat out of that place because it seemed that soon they were going to riot, loot, pillage and burn for candy in the next instant!! Whew!! Give me my Jamaican bun and cheese and kite flying Easter traditions, far less possibilities of them exploding into maniacal contact sport type episodes.

Better Before You're Married

As a child I can recall that whenever I would get a cut or bruise I would run to my father. He would commiserate with me, register his displeasure with the object that caused my pain, clean and dress my wound and impart this single gem of wisdom, “Better before you’re married!” This would ignite a passionate denial on my part, usually qualified by a statement such as “boys are yucky,” or “I don’t even like any boys,” or dependant on my psyche on that given day I may even have blushed and hid my face. Whatever my reaction, the little adage served its purpose, by the time I left my father’s arms I would have stopped focusing on the hurt, replaced tears with smiles and would be ready also prepared to return to my days’ activities renewed, to play as robustly as I had done prior to infraction occurring.

It was only as I became an incredulous adult that the possibility of my Daddy’s healing words being slightly ambiguous crept into my mind. My sister and I would debate whether such rhetoric had implicit meaning or should be taken at face value. Anyway, now when my girls get boo-boos as they call them, I commiserate with them, register my displeasure with the object that caused their pain, clean and dress their wounds and I too impart that single gem of wisdom, “Better before you’re married!”

Their reaction is pretty much the same as mine was eons ago but as the children’s ages progress I have noticed that their reactions change, the toddler laughs and enjoys the thought, the maturing child is dismayed at the mere utterance, the tween is disgusted at the inference and wonders whether intrusion is intended and the young adult dreams of who that mate will be. I have even been in my sister’s household on occasion and have heard her girls lamenting the suggestion of marriage too but the little maxim is no less effective; for soon the children are back to “horse romping” and the household is once more in equilibrium...regardless of reaction the cycle remains unbroken. Perhaps our children will pass this gem on to their offspring as well.

Stronger Today

One year has passed since an angel drove out of our lives on her way to her destiny. Last year this time I admit to being a mess, today I am stronger. That does not mean that the heartbreak is any less intense, it simply means that we ( and I believe I speak for anyone who went there with me) have come from disbelief to acceptance via crying episodes aided by love and now healing. For months my eldest would break into tears at the sight of a burial ground but now she asks, "Is she there Mummy" to which I answer "No Honey, She is with God."

Rest In Peace: Tatiana Renee McIntosh - Gone but never forgotten.

Rites of Passage

In Jamaica, at about age 10 or 11 a child could be eligible for and actually enters high school or the secondary education system. I suspect that this tradition is not peculiar to Yard alone, throughout the Caribbean there are territories whose educational systems have retained the British influence in the way they teach their young which adhere to same. Needless to say that because of the prevalence of this event, certain showings of “maturity” are also linked to that leap from childlike existence to budding young adulthood which I’m sure are uniform enough in their observance throughout the region, to make them rites of passage.

Enough big talk, in the Guys it’s the change from short pants to trousers and in the girls it’s when they get their hair “creamed”!! Because I can’t attest to the significance of the change to long pants although I’m sure its great, I’m going to speak about the “creaming” of the hair – so called in my day as a direct reference to that noxious vat begetting a white creamy mixture of stuff that goes on the hair of the woman of African descent in order to straighten it. - I have a whole other story of when I went away to college in D.C. and went into a foreign hairdresser’s salon for the first time and told her I wanted my hair creamed and hearing her say “permed” and being convinced that a perm was the stuff that was placed in the hair of the other folks to make it curly – insisting that my hair needed to be creamed - the hairdresser acceding to my demands charging me $15.00 more for what I now know is a perm – but I digress.

You know if you see a little girl on her last day of elementary school in Jamaica with her braids or plaits you would not dream that she would become this new person with vavoom hair at the end of summer. And rest assured that the do is not just decorative, but it serves as a transitionary bridge in that young lady’s household too, because hair that formerly needed a mother or someone else with an amount of manual dexterity to tame, could hence be handled by the owner and thus freeing up getting ready time for other tasks. Nary one mother in fact a generation of caregivers find themselves rejoicing on that first day of school after receiving the gift of some unaccustomed me time in the morning.

And then our girl goes to school and flashes. For the first time, the elements can actually move the hair, it blows in the wind, the texture is different, the color has changed, she wants to run and let it flow but since she has a modicum of decorum she resists the urge. However if anyone asks her to do anything she is going to run – because she got it like that!!! Curlers, hair spray, split ends and hair dryers now come into play. Our princess has to learn how to set her hair at night and sleep in torture devices that she only saw her mother use previously - through the night without having them arraying her pillow anon, she now knows that her head sweats at night, humidity becomes a much discussed element amongst her peers of hairdo getters, things change. She carries a comb, brush, hair pins and a mirror where formerly there was none, she goes to the hairdresser every six weeks or more often than that dependant on he whom doles out the cash for a touch up, lets not even mention the scabs in her head from where the stuff stayed too long!!!

Not everyone gets the new do at the beginning of the school year. Those poor souls are subject to the tittering amongst their friends and their mother saying, “if they really were your friends they would not laugh!” Yeah right mother your girl just missed the boat and the others will not let her forget it. But when that swan with the recalcitrant mother finally gets her do she has the most beautiful mane of them all and much to her glee she finds the painful wait on maturity had some benefits.

Reviewing all these traditions makes me wonder about my two girls and I know I am going to be a swan mother because I now know that the avoidance of the vat is best for our beautiful black tresses. But because I did not grow up in this system I am not certain when the onslaught of do requests will become an issue but I am prepared to dig my heels in. I know that if I can survive up to age sixteen with the hair undone, they will start to embrace their naturale beauty and appreciate it for itself not to mention harness creativity and ingenuity as they seek to find different ways of jazzing it up. Wish me luck!!! Maybe by that time I can begin a new rite of passage starting with my eldest and an afro comb!

Eeeeeeh?

Years ago my cousin - who must have been about four - came to Kingston with her parents from Westmoreland to stay at my family's home for the first time. (For those who are not too familiar with Jamaica, Kingston is the capital and therefore the big city so to speak, while Westmoreland which is considered to be rural Jamaica, is quieter and more laid back.) Oh she was excited about any and everything during her stay and as the days progressed, she developed a fondness and camaraderie with my mother. So that Saturday morning when my mother was leaving to go about her usual Saturday errands - or rounds as she called them, she was stopped by my cousin.

Perturbed that her buddy was going out without her, the following conversation ensued –

Cousin: Aunt ------, Ah whey yu ah go eh, eh? Ah whey yu ah go?

(Indignant!)
Cousin’s Mother: -----, You know you can speak better than that, say it properly!!

The little girl thought about what her mother had said and then began to rework her speech in her mind. As I stood there amused, I could literally see her little brain computing and fixing because she was determined that she would get it right the second time! After a pause of about two or three minutes well, my cousin redelivered her question to my mother and her anxiously awaiting mother slowly and more guardedly at first, but as she became more convinced of her correctness more quickly and with confidence because by golly she was correct!

Cousin: Aunt-----, Aaaah wheeeey yuuuuu aaaaahhhhh gooooo eeeeeehhh?

Isn’t the innocence of childhood too precious?

Superdelegates

Who these nameless few? Friend or foe? Why are they super and when they rip open their shirts do their Clark Kent personas change to men or women of steel - all wielding S’s on their substantial chests? That could prove bothersome at the democratic convention, elbows smacking each other as they tear open their shirts while searching for a phone booth, an aspiration which could prove tricky even in Denver, Colorado. But my biggest question is how come I never heard of such a delegate before – were they there in Democratic party obscurity waiting patiently and just recently received their super powers? How did they get these powers - can regular folk get some powers too – do any of them have heat vision or the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Now that’s real super!!

My thoughts have turned to same given that the results of tomorrow’s showdown in Ohio and Texas could make these hidden figures the deciding vote and therefore the tweekers of history – so to speak. Do they take their responsibility seriously? Do they lie awake at night pondering the tremendous weight of the task ahead? Have they already made up their minds or are they leaving the decision to the convention voting day? Are they firmly in one camp or the other? I guess this is what makes them super – the super responsibility that confronts them in the future. To those whom much is given, much is expected. I guess that the world will just have to wait and see how the superdelegates exercise their super powers - should be interesting!!

A Very Powerful Seven Year Old

My oldest is a very imaginative, expressive and competitive little girl. She gives her hardest try to everything she attempts – a trait that I admire but am a bit mystified as to its origins. Over the weekends she always gives herself a project to complete. One weekend she constructed a “doctor bag” – complete with Red Cross emblem emblazoned on the side, intrigued with the intricacy given the project, I had to add cotton swabs, cotton balls and bandages – after all every physician needs the correct tools. On another occasion she constructed a water lily, complete with lily pad and water surround, she didn’t even know the name of the flower, just that she saw it on TV and as per usual she happily took it to school on Monday morning.

I thought that her motivation was simply a need to make material the workings of her little mind but how far from truth was I. You see last week no project went to school. It was either that she was unable to complete her latest endeavor – a jewelry box- or she was dissatisfied with its construct or so I thought. Thus I enquired and was told “Mom, it was not good enough to beat -------.” I furthered, “who is that Honey?” She sighed dramatically (believe me I was expecting to see the child throw her hand up to her brow and swoon next) her eyes wide with conviction, “------- is a very powerful seven year old.”

Immediately my mind conjured up images of a godfather type seven year old puffing a Cuban while ordering her six year old hench people to make my daughter’s projects sleep with the fishes – we are in Jersey after all; or a seven year old in a wall street power suit with a strange comb over hairdo telling my daughter’s projects from her comfy leather seat over a rather large boardroom table – “you’re fired.” I had to ask…

What makes her so powerful Honey?

She always trys to beat me at everything I do and on Monday mornings she always says her project is better than mine and she’s seven, I‘m six.

Oh. Well keep up the good work!
Daddy, your sister and I think your projects are just great!

What else could I say? I think,...I’m sure glad,... Maybe, we got that settled. Did we?