Flying colors

I had a very interesting conversation with my child last evening.

She has a friend at school, she's telling me. One I had not heard her talk about before. A boy. And she seemed quite enamored of him as she talked about how funny he is and how cute he is and much he makes her laugh and how much she likes him.

"Oh?" I said, half teasing as I chopped vegetables for dinner. "Is this a new crush?"

"No," she said. Quickly. Too quickly.

Then there was a pause.

"I know this might sound offensive," my 10-year-old child said, her voice rising an octave with worry and a little bit of fear. "But I would rather date somebody who is the same race as I am."

"Oh!" I said, slightly caught off guard. "He's bla.."

"He's brown," she cut me off. "I don't like to say black. He's not. He's brown."

Even as a pre-schooler she would refer to her African American classmates and anyone else she knew as "brown." "That brown man," she would say. Or, "The brown boy in my class."

I always thought of it as childhood pure. She didn't see their race, she just saw a distinguishing characteristic, like the blond, the brunet or the redhead. The brown kid.

"Well," I corrected gently. "They prefer to use 'black.' Or African American."

"I like brown," she said. My stubborn child. Then her 10-year-old brain -- and heart -- went a step further.

"He's colored," she said.

"No," I said sternly -- but gently. "People don't really say that word. It's not nice."

"Why not?"

Then I tried to give a brief summary of overt racism in America, how that used to be "the adjective," but now it's insulting. And, for good measure, I figured I'd give her a life lesson.

"And we never, ever say the N word," I said.

"What's that?"

And I paused.

Do I say it? Do I teach it to her, even in a teaching moment? Do I utter the word myself, even in a teaching moment? I'd rather say the F word out loud in front of my child than that one.

"Say it once so I know what it is," my future lawyer-child said.

I didn't want to. But I did.

And I wanted to wash my own mouth out with soap.

She had never heard the word before. And I introduced it to her. I guess I had to. Maybe not. Maybe I could have, should have said no. Then again, I'd rather her hear it from me than someone else.

And she would have heard it -- eventually.

There are people in my family who still use it on a regular basis -- and not necessarily accidentally. It's a word I grew up hearing, in different times with different mores.

Then again, she could hear it on the radio or on TV and not know that it's a word she's not supposed to say. It's my job to teach her.

"Is it a nasty word?" my child asked me.

"It is now," I answered. "It's a word people used to use a lot, but now nobody says it. It's bad. Very bad."

"Oh," she said, before getting to the real heart of the matter.

"Well, I really like K. He's really funny."

And the moment was gone. I can only hope I taught her well.

I was reminded of my junior year in high school when the our student body overwhelmingly elected a hilariously funny African American girl, who also happened to be the head cheerleader, as the homecoming queen.

After the game, my friends and I were heading to the big party at a classmate's house. She wanted to go to, but had no ride.

"Come with us," I said.

She quickly agreed and I was thrilled. The most popular girl, the head cheerleader, the homecoming queen for God's sakes, was going to be riding in my car. It was a pure John Hughes moment.

But when we stopped at my house so I could change, my parents nearly died. They weren't impressed with her credentials, the sash over her shoulder nor the gleaming crown on her head. They just thought I had lost my mind.

"It's just not done," they said.

And when I got to Loyola, one of the first people I looked up was another former school mate, who had gone on to Tulane as a pitcher. Nice guy. Funny guy. But the kind of guy my parents would never let me date because he also was a Houma Indian. And we had a not-so-nice slang word for that, too.

Now I'm standing in my kitchen with one, a Houma Indian, adopted as a baby from my own home town and now asking me questions about race and color.

We both have a lot to learn.

The Newspaper Business

Here is a sampling of my newspaper work..

I have covered these girls since they were in the eighth grade. Both were outstanding high school players. Both went on to stellar college careers at my alma mater, Loyola in New Orleans. Now they're learning how hard it is to deal with high school girls like they used to be...

It was good to see them again...

I miss writing about sports. OK, I don't miss soccer. Yes, we play soccer in the winter in Louisiana. Apparently, no one else does. And there were playoffs yesterday in 40 degree temperatures and rain.

No thank you.

I enjoyed writing this one, even though I procrastinated mightily to sit down to write it. Another journalist pal of mine (a famous one at ESPN) said he procrastinates because he works so much better on a deadline. Must be a journalist thing.

I get it. Me too.

I used to just crank out stories like these -- sometimes three or four a week plus two live games and sometimes an extra Sunday feature or weekend advance. Those were the days.

But since moving to news/a life of crime, I've slowed to a crawl. These days I might write 100 words per day.

Or less.

And few of them even add up to sentences.

This is the fifth feature story I've written since August.

You read that right. Five in six months.

I fear my brain is turning to mush.

Girls will be girls

Got my dog Lollee Sue a hot new pink and purple polka dotted collar today.

I wonder if, in girl dog, that's like getting a new pair of shoes.

Harry Potter Palooza

She is obsessed a little bit, this child of mine.

And I'm very proud.

She currently is on the fourth book of the series and has become quite the expert on everything Harry Potter.

When she finishes this book, we can watch the movie together. I hope I don't forget all of my Hogwarts knowledge in the meantime.

And during our recent trip to Orlando, we spent a small fortune on a little side trip to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Studios. Parking $15, Entrance fee $150, Wand $30, t-shirt $20, Cloak $99 + tax, not to mention the frozen Butterbeer, bag of Bertie Botts beans and a chocolate frog.

Believe it or not, it was well worth the visit --even though she didn't make the ride (please remove any artificial limbs.)

So she decided her 10th birthday party simply HAD to be a Harry Potter epic.

Epic.

I think it was. I'm usually pretty good at this stuff, finding and making props. Should have been a party planner. Party City was NO help. But I had a good assistant!

After being the laughingstock of the neighborhood for three weeks, we finally look the icicle lights off of the house and hung them in the dining room. We were trying to make it look like the Great Hall.

My husband asked if we could leave them up.

Then there were Harry Potter glasses and lightning bolt tattoos for everyone, light-up wands and small Magic 8-Balls. We served Dragon Snot punch (green sherbet and Sprite) and Butterbeer (bottles of Cream Soda with labels I downloaded off of the Internet).

And she downloaded the theme song.

Yes. It was epic.



Click the bucket to view photos...

Ten

My dearest little Lora Leigh,

I simply cannot believe you are 10. Where in the world did the time go? Wasn't it just yesterday that Gail put your tiny little self in my arms? Wasn't it?

Sometimes it feels like it. And sometimes it feels like a million years ago. But I still remember every detail of that day you were born...
... and the day you became ours.

So now you are 10. And nearly as tall as me. And wearing my shoes. And some of my clothes.

And leaving them on the floor.

I finally gave in and let you have a Facebook so you could keep up with your sister in Houma and your sister in Florida, and you promptly signed up to play a dozen silly games and changed your last name.

Sometimes I just shake my head.

What an adventure you have been. Still are.

If not for you I would not know what a Muggle is or a Slytherin or a Golden Snitch. And I wouldn't still have icicle lights hanging in my dining room and puke-flavored jelly beans left over from your party. (And I wouldn't have gotten to see Aunt Jo eat one flavored like pizza!)

If not for you I wouldn't know who all those kids are on the Disney Channel. Or Justin Bieber, or the Jonas Brothers, or Hannah Montana or, heck, half of the artists on the radio.

And I might be shocked that the Naked Brothers Band played at the House of Blues.

If not for you I wouldn't have seen Miley Cyrus live in concert. Or the Jonas Brothers. Or the Naked Brothers.

If not for you I would be up and walking with my dogs at 6 a.m. instead of snuggled deep under the covers with you.

(It's a ritual we've kept since you were born. Every morning your dad would scoop you out of your crib and put you in my arms so we could snuggle. Now you come to me on your own, even setting your alarm clock a half an hour early to do so.)

If not for you I wouldn't have an entire collection of Disney Princess dolls gathering dust.

Or crayons on my floors.

Or a Pepto Bismol pink room in my house.

Without you, my world would not be in color.

Without you I wouldn't have gotten to experience the greatest love of my life, the greatest thrill, the greatest joy, the greatest fears.

Without you, I'd be so bored. And a little less loved. And a lot less happy.

Happy birthday, my little love. I hope all of your birthday wishes come true.

Love,

Mom

Wordless Wednesday -- Love

A death in the family

There was a death in our family last week.

Paw Paw Ed, a kind, gentle, sweet old man departed this life for the next and went to meet his maker.

It was not unexpected. He had been in declining health for several years, suffering from a myriad of illnesses and ailments that come from old age and years of hard work and hard living on the Louisiana bayous. Nearly a day after doctors removed the tubes that were breathing for him, he breathed his last.

And one sunny afternoon my nearly 9-year-old daughter got off her school bus with a happy smile and I had to sit her down and tell her that her grandfather had died. She got very serious.

"He did?" she said. "What time?"

I told her.

Then she put her head on my shoulder.

"That's sad," she said finally.

Paw Paw Ed was not my father. Nor was he my husband's.

Joseph Edward Lodrigue was was the father of my daughter's birthmother. Her grandfather. And she knew him well.

Well, perhaps not well. We have visited with him several times over Lora Leigh's decade of life, traveling to their little house on the bayou in Dulac for Good Friday seafood boils. He never talked much, but sat in a corner in his rocking chair observing our little reunions that took place in his kitchen. Sometimes he would reach into his pocket to give Lora a dollar bill, a south Louisiana tradition I had to explain to my husband.

With a twinkle in his eye, Paw Paw would observe this mysterious little child, this flesh of his flesh who looked like them but did not live with them because she was given to us at birth. It took him a full year to even look at a photo of her, his ache was too great. But by the time he died, she was just another one of his grandchildren.

So much so that, when the family began putting together a list of survivors for the newspaper death notice, they included her name among the list of grandchildren.

That made me smile. And cry.

On Sunday evening, the three of us battled cold and rain to drive to an all-too-familiar funeral home in my hometown. Hand-in-hand, we made our way through friends and family we did not know to find the few we do.

Aunt Shirley. Uncle June. Ashlee, Lora's sister by birth. A couple of cousins we've met over the years. And Gail, the woman who allowed me to have her child.

We hugged. We cried. They thanked us for coming, as if we had done something extraordinary by showing up. And they marveled at how tall Lora has grown to be (she is nearly as tall as I am.)

Some others just stared.

I caught a few whispers and meaningful looks from throughout the room as Lora's relatives pointed her out to one another.

"That's Gail's baby," I heard.

And that was a little weird.

I wondered what they were thinking. Were they checking us out, making sure we were worthy of their kin? Were they checking my child for signs of neglect or abuse? Were they merely debating whether she looked like Gail or her mother? Or me?

Lora, meanwhile, tried not to look at the man she knew lying in his silver casket, holding a winning hand of 31 and a dollar bill to ante up.

At one point I did take her to a set of framed photographs next to the casket. We saw Paw Paw Ed as a young boy, as a handsome young man and even as and older gentleman before his illnesses began to bend him.

We saw photos of Gail as a young woman with her brother June and sister Shirley. And we saw photos of their mother, Rose, who died well before Lora was born -- otherwise we probably would not have her.

I pointed each one out to Lora, making sure she saw them.

And I made sure she saw the photos of her in the frame, one as a little baby with impossibly beautiful curls and a few with Ashlee and Gail.

And that made us both smile.

It was perfectly natural and normal that they should be there.

This is her family. And now it is ours.