One step closer: Selling Lester's house

Miracles of miracles -- we are under contract on Lester's house in D.C.!

After our first date, Lester and I came here to this house and stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, talking about any and everything. Our first date was June 2, 2006 -- exactly 8 years ago today.

I don't know if we under-priced it or if we priced it just right, but we put the house on the market on Tuesday, and we had three offers by Thursday and a signed contract on Saturday. Whoa!

We're not going to make a ton of money, especially after all the seller's fees and paying off the mortgage and whatever taxes we have to cough up, etc. But selling this house is just one step on the road to getting out of our crappy neighborhood and into a better one, out of our teeny house and into a bigger one.

We have many, many, many steps left to go -- not the least of which is that both of us have to make more money. Considerably more. And we all know that better-paying jobs aren't falling off of trees these days. So, we're not really close to moving. But we're closer.

Selling the house also comes at another huge cost for Lester, because this house is the house he lived in since birth. He and his mother -- his first and closest friend -- shared so much in this house; it's the backdrop for most of his childhood memories, both good and bad. I could say a lot more about what this house means to him, but it's his story to tell, not mine, and so much of the story is hugely personal and tangled with mixed emotions.

So it means so much to me that, in order to help move our family forward, my husband is willing to part with this house that has helped to shape so much of who he is. 

And it also makes me feel even closer to his mother -- a woman I never got the chance to meet -- for her role in our family's future. She raised the man of my dreams here in this house. She left this house to him when she died. Because of this house, my children -- her grandchildren -- will have a more comfortable home to live in someday.

And her legacy just goes on...

Mom's birthday/my anniversary/Angel-takes-photos weekend!

My wonderful Mom's birthday is on Sunday. She'll be (cough, cough, ahem!) years old, but she doesn't look a day over 40.

To surprise her, my Nana (her mom), and her two sisters Fern and Valerie drove down from Boston today!

Aunt Fern is on the far left, my Mom's in the middle. Auntie Val is on the far right and my Nana is in the middle. The other two dudes are two of my Mom's brothers. (Uncle Mike didn't make this reunion.)

With all that family in town, we knew we needed to do something fab. So we're having a party this weekend!

I'll be busy, busy, busy (what else is new?) cooking for the party, dealing with the kiddos and basically being hostess-with-the-mostest, because my Dad has made me Chief Party Planner.

But I am so excited because my girl Angel C. is coming to take photos of the party, and some portraits of the Jackson girls (that's my mom and her sisters and Nana)! The photo shoot is my gift to my Mom and to Nana, whose birthday is on the 10th.

I get to see my family! And hang out with Angel! And get some kick-ass photos!! (You can see some of Angel's beautiful portraits at asc-images.com.)

And...tomorrow is me and Lester's 6th anniversary! 

AND...Nana and my Aunties brought LOBSTAH! (Gotta say it the Boston way!)

So this is going to be a great weekend! Can't wait!

Getting little pieces of myself back, 3 years later

Having children is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

But it also is the hardest. There are many, many reasons why -- some of which I discuss (ad nauseam, some of you probably say) on this blog.

One hard thing that I realized just recently, though, is just how thoroughly having children disrupts one's routines and habits, making room for the wants and needs of the little people you've created. This is not a complaint; it's just the way it is.

But just in the last few months or so, glory be, I see little pieces of the old me coming back.

For example, after I had twin boys, I somehow lost the ability to make my bed every morning. I'd make it sometimes, but not everyday. And this was a cause of stress for me. I like having a made bed. I like the way it makes even a cluttered room seem more orderly, and I feel like I sleep better getting into a bed that's been made, as opposed to one that sat all day, bedclothes in a heap, pillows flattened, sheets getting cold.

Then, before I could get back my bed-making groove, I got pregnant with Clair. So add in being pregnant, tired, wrangling toddlers, working, stressed, etc. etc., and the bed became collateral damage yet again. (I can't tell you how much it annoyed me -- and also how it somehow made me less tidy about the rest of the room too, which just compounded my annoyance and stress.)

But as of late, I have been getting up and making the bed first thing, just like I used to do before I had kids. I don't recall making a conscious decision to get back into it. I just got up one day, made the bed, and I've been making it ever since. Just like that.

My old DNA, buried under my new Mommy DNA -- and my new normal life of busy-ness and kids and schedule-juggling -- fought its way to the surface. It was a hard-fought, 3 year-long battle, but the Tanika who makes her bed every morning emerged victorious! And guess what? My bedroom is just a smidge tidier now too! Hooray!

Another casualty of having kids that has come back? Flossing!

Seriously, people. I cannot even tell you how far down on the list of priorities flossing dropped after having kids. It was like my brain could not make space for even those two small minutes -- in the morning or at night. Or ever, frankly.

But, as with my bed-making mojo, sometime recently I started flossing again every day! I don't know what prompted me to pick up the flosser -- but boy am I glad I did. I feel so much better about myself! Cheeeeeese!

I am getting this down in print for two reasons:

1) To give myself hope that more of myself will emerge over time. I love the new Mommy me. But after having kids, you do mourn a bit for your old life, or at least certain pieces of it. People who say they don't mourn are lying -- or droids. So it's nice to see these small slivers of the old me coming back so naturally, without a major declaration or a whole lot of effort. I guess this is just how long it takes to get back to the old normal.

2) To let other Moms and women-who-will-one-day-be-Moms know that this happened to me. In case anyone else is mourning pieces of her old self, know that it gets better.Whether it's big things like your career ambition or sex drive or body image (still working on that one, folks!) or little things like flossing or finding one ounce of yourself to even try to care about that pile of mail that keeps growing and growing in that basket over there. (You know the one I'm talking about.)

You can come back! You will come back! Maybe not all of the old you --and certainly not all of your old life -- but give yourself some time, ladies. And cut yourself some slack.

 *Now, if only the old Tanika who took her birth control pills RELIGIOUSLY, like clockwork, every single day would come back. That woman, if you're listening, way down deep under all the new junk I've acquired? Come out, come out wherever you are! Or I'll have to replace you with IUD Tanika. And I hear that chick is no joke.

Throwback Thursday stories

On Instagram (where I mostly lurk, but sometimes post), there's something called "Throwback Thursday." On Thursdays, many Instagrammers post old pictures of themselves or friends or moments from the past.

I really enjoy TBT, especially when there's a story behind the photo that the poster chose to unearth.

I never have any old photos to post, because the scanner we have at home is garbage, and also because most of my old photos, for some reason, still live at my parents' house.

But this week, my Mom had me look on the Facebook page of one of her friends, because he had posted old photos of her and my Dad from fall 1972 at Tufts University, before I was even conceived.

These pictures are priceless.

Check out my Mom, her earrings and her Afro:

She was 18 here. Eighteen!

She looks so much like Cary here, I can't get over it.

 

And here's my Dad and his Afro and his 20-year-old physique:

I have no idea who this random woman is, looking so happy to be squeezed by my Afro'ed Daddy.

Anyway, these pictures make me ask so many questions.

What was my Mom thinking when she was staring into space like that?
How did she get her baby-fine hair into an Afro?
What was going on in their lives and in the world at this time?

In other words, I love the photos, but I really want the story behind them!

Who is that chick with my Dad? Who are those people in the photos behind them? Were Mom and Dad dating yet at this point? Was Mom always so effortlessly beautiful? What is the story??

This is why my Mom and Dad should have had a BLOG back in the day! I would have devoured every word.

How I know I am not cut out to be a photographer

My Mom stayed the night with us last night. She had a conference nearby and elected to stay with us, instead of in the hotel the final night.

The kids were in HEAVEN! They adore their Nana so much it's ridiculous. Dean gave her unsolicited kisses, and both boys insisted on holding her hand when they were on their way to bed. (So sweet!)

Of course, I forgot to get photos of them laughing and smiling with her all night long, so I was determined to get one of Clair this morning, before Mom left for her conference. (The boys were still sleeping.)

I took a bunch of posed pictures that turned out terrible, because Clair refused to look at the camera, playing with her toes or staring at the comforter instead. So I was so proud of myself that I thought to snap a couple pics while she was lying on the bed, cooing at my mother, and wrapping her more and more around her chubby little finger.

Here's the thing. Even though these are basic B-level iPhone pics, a good photographer would have taken these two nearly identical photos and chosen the very best one to show here. But I cannot for the life of me figure out which is best. What are the criteria I should be using? Photo-people, please help me. Which of these two pictures would you throw out, and which would you keep -- and why?

Photo A

Photo B

In celebration of moms who say "Yes."

Mother's Day is coming up. Since it is the same weekend as my boys' birthday, it's likely to get short shrift.
So I thought I'd post a little something now about my Mom.

There are a lot of things I could say about her: she's an amazing homemaker, a fabulous teacher, an accomplished career woman, a fantastic cook, beautiful, (see photo above) smart, fashionable, handy, crafty, loyal, kind and hard-working. She sets a wonderful example for me, my two sisters (and two brothers, for that matter) and her grandchildren. I'm proud of her every day.


But the thing that impresses me the most about her is her strength. My mother is the strongest woman I know.

Let me tell you a little story about her:

When she discovered she was pregnant with me at 18, her stepfather, not condoning her unmarried state, kicked her out of the house. It was the early 1970s and he was old-school.

She was a student on a full scholarship at Tufts University in Boston, with no money, no place to live and a baby on the way. She had very few options. Some people suggested she "get rid" of her "situation." And if she did, who would've blamed her? I'm pro-choice myself, so I can understand her dilemma.

But my mother decided to do the harder thing. She decided to say "Yes" to this gift that had been handed to her unexpectedly. She decided to be a mother.

She dropped out of school, moved in with a family friend. She applied for a job that required she have a car. She lied and said she had one. Somehow she pulled together enough money to buy something barely drivable, but good enough to get her to work and back. It was a 5-speed, which she didn't know how to drive. Over the weekend, she taught herself, with the help of friends, to drive it. That's how determined she was to be able to support herself and me.

She worked hard, and finally got an apartment of her own. She took care of me by herself until she and my Dad -- who had reunited six years later -- got married and moved to Washington, D.C. Just the two of us, me and my Mom, we had a wonderful life. We were dirt poor, but I never knew it. Our house was warm and clean and full of things a little girl wants -- Barbies and doll houses and Lite Brite, spaghetti and chocolate pudding and endless games of "I Declare War."

I can't imagine how hard those years must have been for her, first as a homeless, pregnant teen, and then a single mother whose dreams of a college education had just been obliterated.

But all I remember growing up is love. I remember making Jell-o pudding on the stove in the little kitchen in the apartment on East Concord Street with her. And her letting me wash the dishes, with a plastic trash bag tied around my body to keep me from soaking my clothes. I remember my little bedroom, with the pink canopy bed and little wooden table and chair set. I remember her coating my face in Calamine lotion when I had the chicken pox, and us pretending to be Indians, all painted for war. I remember watching "Happy Days" with her, and begging to stay up past my bedtime to watch "Laverne and Shirley." I remember her saying, "Yes."

How strong my mother must have been to have made the decisions she made. The decisions that brought me into this world and helped make me the person I am. What inner resolve and tenacity. What courage. I don't know that, given similar circumstances, I would have been so able.

When I was a cub reporter in my early 20s, working at The Kansas City Star, a co-worker gave me the best compliment I've ever received. She told me that a friend she'd introduced me to told her later, "Tanika is the kind of person who you can tell never doubted for one minute that she was loved."

That stuck with me in such a profound way. I'd never thought about it that way, but it was so true. No matter her circumstances -- even when it was a detriment to her own personal success or desires -- my mother put her love for me first. And she continues to do that for me and my siblings today.

I am so lucky that I have a mother who, when the world was telling her "No," she chose to say "Yes."

 

I love you, Mom! And I strive to be like you: the kind of mother whose children will one day project to the world that they never for one minute doubted that they were loved.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Tahira! Happy Birthday, Aminah!!!