The Thoughts of The Gestational

15 Sep

There’s so much they don’t talk you about pregnancy. The carpal tunnel syndrome. The extremely lowered sex drive. The lack of bladder control. Hell, just reading these first few sentences makes me want to pee. But something that’s never focused on is the mental state of said pregnant woman. The thoughts that go through my mind constantly are crazy to scare the most experienced psychologists, yet by talking to other pregnant women/mothers who aren’t afraid to admit their fears, assure me they are indeed normal. In fact, I’ve been told that if I didn’t have a few of these thoughts, they’d be concerned.

Fears of childbirth

No lie, I’m petrified of actually HAVING this baby. As my due date draws closer (six days and counting), all I can think of is “No matter what, you CANNOT die during labor. Nile will NOT know how to do hair and Harper needs you to save her from a life of video games and Wendy’s.” Seriously, my fear of dying during labor is so present in my mind. I fear having an aneurysm from the pressure of pushing and just not making it. I know, millions of women do it daily. I get that. But I’VE never done it. And I WANT to be allowed my fears. I hate that I feel like sometimes my fears are diminished by others because they’ve already done it.

I fear the pain. That shit looks like it fucking HURTS. I know it does, otherwise they wouldn’t essentially PARALYZE you to numb it. There is a possible 8lb and some OUNCES baby that is about to do the Wobble on its way out of your vajayjay. Out of ten centimeters. TEN. I don’t even…bruh. The baby has shoulders. You ever been hit by somebody’s shoulder? That shit hurts, don’t it? All that bone. THOSE SHOULDERS GOTTA COME OUT OF YOUR LADY PARTS AND THEY CALL IT MIRACULOUS.

They tell you you’re gonna gain weight but….

They fail to mention what that weight gain does to you mentally. I’ve been chubby since middle school. Got semi fat late high school. I was cute fat in college. I’M GARGANTUAN IN PREGNANCY. There is a number on the scale that I have to see weekly that I’ve never seen before. And it’s scary. Because it’s high. I’m talking Paula Patton high. Method Man and Redman high. Rob Ford high. And it makes me feel like that number is plastered on my forehead for the world to see. I haven’t even shared it with my boyfriend because I don’t want to see his reaction to it.

I know it’s only temporary. He tells me all the time how much he loves me and how beautiful he thinks I am. I believe it, because I’d kill him if it wasn’t the truth. But I also believe it because of the genuineness in his voice as he tells me. It’s not monotonous, in fact he sounds like he’s in awe of me every time. But ask me about how I look, how I feel? I’m still damn cute, at least I know I am in my head. I just don’t always FEEL that way in more. Harper has given her Mommy acne, that infamous dark neck and stretch marks. JESUS THE STRETCH MARKS. I had them before, but Lord knows I’ll NEVER be able to wear a crop top now. It’s like Harper took a black sharpie and attempted to write her name in Morse code on my belly. All the Ixora BB in the WORLD ain’t touching this.

Am I going to be good enough?

It’s no secret that I just KNEW we were having a boy. When that ultrasound showed there was a little lady living inside me rent free, I knew everything in our lives would be different. Having a girl, especially a little black girl, in this world? I wasn’t prepared. I always had an idea of having a son first, just to protect his baby sister. Now it’s up to her father and myself. I worry about her being viewed as a sexual being way before her time. I worry about her thoughts and ideas being vetoed not just because of her skin tone, but because of the anatomy between her legs. I worry about her being considered “less than” by the media when she will ALWAYS be “more than enough”.

Being a little brown girl isn’t always easy. The pressure that is put on us by OUR community before we even branch out into THEIR society can be enough to break you. The comparison of hair textures. The amount of melanin or lack thereof. The shape of our bodies and how it stacks up against the girls next door. All the things that we never want to think about that molded us as young girls, no matter how we’ve changed over time. I just want to keep my little baby in the house as long as possible to protect her, but sheltering her from this world will do just the opposite. Instead, I can focus on making her strong in her skin, letting her know there is no one in this world who can come close to the woman she is destined to be and raise her in that truth. It’s hard, because her Mommy is still trying to find her own piece of something in this life, but dammit, I’ll teach you my shortcuts.



15 Apr

I remember this day like it never ended. I got up that morning around 4am. I made sure I didn’t wake him up; I wanted him to be in comfort for as long as possible. I started making my morning tea, and the last meal I would ever get to cook for him, at least for the foreseeable future. Steak, home fries with extra onions, how he liked it. Hard-boiled eggs and cheese grits. I was making his half cocoa, half decaf mixed before I saw him walking into the kitchen. This man. My man. My best friend. My Lover. My enemy at times and my comforter all the rest. All of that was gone now. His eyes were so empty, red and swollen. I knew that sight only once, when we lost the best thing we ever created.


I got up to greet him. Our morning routine in the kitchen was to do the Kid N Play dance and whoever stepped out of sync first had to do dishes. The scene usually ended with laughter and kisses. However, this morning wasn’t typical. It wasn’t routine. Throwing my arms around his waist, I buried myself in his stomach. It was silent for what seemed like an eternity. I could hear his staggered breathing. Then the trembles.


He let out a sound I had never heard from him before. This was the strongest man I had ever met, physically and mentally, yet here we were, on the kitchen floor in tears. We had never spoken about this day, but we knew it was soon to come. The house full of moving boxes, furniture disappearing when friends came to select what they have spent years coveting. I thought back to when we first saw this house and knew it was our dream. The move in day that was ruined by a flash flood. We spent that first weekend in our home making love on every surface, barely noticing the power outage or lack of furniture. Now here we were, 3 years later saying our goodbyes, to not only the house, but also each other.


We dragged out breakfast for as long as we could. I spent the time not eating, just taking notes. Getting his affairs in order was number one on my honey-do list. Making sure everyone in his life would be taken care of. In all the madness going on in his world, he had time to create of detailed binder of what he needed to be done for other people. We made sure everything was as good as it could be and got ready for the longest drive we had ever taken.


His best friend Walt picked us up that morning. We sat in the backseat and took Grand River all the way from Novi to Downtown Detroit. We rolled our favorite strain into a pair of Garcia Vegas cigars and made our plans for 2023. I planned for everything to be perfect, down to Reasonable Doubt playing on the radio. It was important to me that he knew that I remembered everything. That I would do any and everything.


The last blunt was burned a few feet from the courthouse. I couldn’t tell if my eyes were red from crying or Kush, but I knew they needed to remain tear free for the next 30 minutes. We waited until I saw the man I had seen too much of in the past 14 months. His lawyer was a man of little words, and that day was no different. We silently walked past him to the stairs. The real walk of shame, reserved for criminals and those who love and defend them. A place where you are innocent until proven guilty, yet innocence is defined as having great counsel. It always smelled of wood, leather-bound books and fear. I squeezed his hand tighter for reassurance. His or mine, I wasn’t sure, but we both needed it.


I had to say my final goodbye in a small room with a guard right outside the door. That entire moment felt like a bad dream. We upheld our promise from years back. That night on TybeeIsland, we were enjoying the deck of our rental home, talking about going crabbing in the morning. All of a sudden, he turned to me and stated “If anything ever happens to me, don’t let my last image of you be sad, ok?” I don’t know if he was foreshadowing, or just drunk, but that question always stayed with me. Afterwards I would always make sure to tell him “I love you” before a phone call, before he left, or even after a fight. He made me think about the last memory that I leave people with. How fitting that I can’t forget that memory of him.



21 Feb

I’m not used to uncertainty. At the first sight of it, I take it as a weakness and I relieve myself of the other person. I can’t take an unsure mind. But you were different.

Your uncertainty of this made you that more appealing to me. To be with someone who believed that feelings can’t be confined to traditional methods of expressions. To be with someone who understood my want for companionship wasn’t a cry for a relationship.

You became more than what you were meant to be. You became my friend. You became my lover. You became someone I could trust when I needed someone the most. You became what I needed before I was aware I was missing anything. And I thought I stumbled upon something special.

You were just being you.

The Number Game

12 Sep

“You sure you want to do this?” He asked while puffing on a cigar. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing.” I was 616 miles away from my home, in New York City’s Le Parker Méridien hotel. I was inebriated off expensive red wine, uncomfortable in an outfit I got from Fredericks of Hollywood during the shopping spree earlier in the day and I was nervous. I was planning to give away my “special gift” to the man I had been in love with for 2 years to the date, almost. So why was I so afraid?

I met him on the campus of Howard University, October 29th, 2004. His peanut butter complexion, slate black eyes and killer smile was the first thing that attracted him to me. His tall, thick build wasn’t a turnoff, either. His broad shoulders were draped in a purple fraternity jacket, and gold boots adorned his feet. “Yo Slick, come meet my baby sis!” my sister hollered across the yard. I began to turn my head to search for this Slick character, thinking ANY man with a nickname like that can’t be any good. Much to my delight, the one they called Slick was the one in my sights.

We exchanged pleasantries. Rick was a business major, graduating in the winter with honors. He played sports, was heavily involved in his frat and was 21. I told him I danced and I was from Detroit. He looked at my Wayne State sweatshirt and asked my year. “Freshman.”, I replied. He didn’t need to know that my school was down the street from Wayne at Cass Technical High School. This was just my sister’s friend, why was my age important?

That entire weekend was an experience like no other. That night after the step show, Rick and his line brothers showed up at my sister’s apartment for a little soirée she was hosting. While she had her pledges clean her house, she took me in her bedroom and applied my makeup. “Makeup for a house party, Shai?” I asked her as she painted my face with her MAC brushes with ease. “I’m gonna melt!” My sister, used to my dramatics just laughed at me. “Did you see the way Slick was all into you on the yard?” she asked while curling my lashes and pinching my eyelids. “We gotta get you dolled up so you can get a boyfriend.” I was a little confused. Shai was the big sister that didn’t let me play with the neighborhood boys because “These kids are filthy and beneath you.” The older guys that would ride up our block in the summer with the Marauders blaring Blade Icewood from their speakers that tried to approach me and my friends were always ran off by Shai and her ever present pistol. So for her to say she was going to set me up with anyone, let alone a grown man, was scary. But this was my big sister, and I trusted her. I let her finish, pick out my outfit and drank my first cocktail of Armadale and cranberry juice.

He walked in a little past midnight. He had replaced his t-shirt and camouflage with a crisp blue button down shirt and dark jeans. His bald head was shining like a crown of jewels laid upon it. “Fuck, this nigga is FINE!” was the only thought my mind could form when I saw him. He walked through the small crowd, speaking to his friends, making promises to hook up later that week with a few people. Then, he finally caught me staring at him. He grinned, and held up a finger to indicate he’d be over in a second. I went into panic mode. “What if he thinks I have on too much makeup? What if he doesn’t like my outfit?” I asked my sister. “Courtney. Get off the stool and go talk to him” was the reply I got.

We found a spot on the couch by the balcony. We begin to just have casual conversation, talking about our families, how we grew up not far from each in Detroit and our plans for the future. He wanted to open his own auto repair business, and because he was a Detroit boy through and through, he was going to specialize in American vehicles from the 1980s. I told him about my plans to open an advertising firm that catered to the Big 3. We talked until the party was empty and decided to clean up together as a gift to my sister. After the last solo cup was tossed, I found myself pinned in the corner. “So, let me ask you a question, and can you please tell me the truth?” he asked. “Sure,” I said eagerly, “Ask me anything.” He stepped back a little, sighed and asked “So how old are you REALLY?”

“Fourteen,” I replied. “I’m fourteen.”

After revealing the secret I’d been holding from him for 8 hours, I felt relieved. I knew this guy was too smart to talk to a girl my age, and although he intrigued me so, I knew this is when he would run for safety. “SHIT!” he shouted. “Four-fucking-teen?? Court, do you know how old I am? How much trouble I can get into?” “Yes,” I added, “And I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore.” I watched him grab his keys and bottle of water.

“Be ready for breakfast at 11,” he told me when he reached the door. “I gotta work something out with you, Miss Courtney. You’re too good for me to let go.”

Sleepless Nights

9 Aug

I used to wake up to the sounds of my mother screaming nightly as a child. My older brother had grown accustomed to the soundtrack, and learned to sleep through anything.  I would pretend to be sleep, but silently prayed for my Daddy to come back. The man in the next room, choking my Mommy within inches of her life, looked just like my Daddy. Minus the growls, screams, obscenities he hurled at my Mommy, you’d think it was him. In the morning, that bad man was gone and my loving Daddy would wake me up to watch Steve Young clips on ESPN with him before work. I felt it was all just a bad dream for so long.

One night, my nightmare became reality. This night was different. The screams weren’t coming from their bedroom next door, but far away. I knew the bad man was behind this, and I couldn’t fathom why my father was nowhere to be found. He always told me he’d be there when I needed him. But now, when I needed him most, he was nowhere to be found.  The search for my Mother led me to the closed basement door. I was always taught the basement was off limits. But this situation was different. My Mommy needed me! As I descended the stairs, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

My beautiful Mommy. Sitting hogtied to a chair, naked, covered in blood and bruises. Her eyes were closed, her face twisted in pain. I was still, too scared to move or think. Behind her, holding her throat like a wad of cash, was my father. He was stoic, yet his normally hearty tone was replaced by a sinister voice movie villains would envy. “I told you to fucking listen to me, you dumb bitch. You always gotta question some shit! Now look at you.” I gasped. My Daddy didn’t curse. This further proved this man was a stranger! My father turned around and gazed into my eyes. He was so empty. Soulless. “Go to sleep, Court. We’ll be up in a few” is what he told me in a voice dripping with evil intentions. Even though I was only four years old at the time, I knew there was a chance my Mommy wouldn’t be coming up with him.

I ran up the stairs, grabbed our brand new cordless phone and called one of the only numbers I knew- my Grandmother, my father’s mother. Those 5 rings seemed like an eternity, and when her answering machine picked up, my heart fell to the floor. She was my only hope, and it seemed to be lost. Thankfully, her sleepy voice came over her greeting. “Daddy hurt Mommy. She’s sleeping in blood”. I’ll remember those words for the rest of my life. Those words saved my Mother’s life.

Cops arrived at my Rosedale Park home and broke down our front door before my Father had the chance to come up the stairs. He was immediately taken into custody, my Mommy rushed to Sinai Hospital. 3 days in the hospital, 4 broken bones, internal bleeding and plenty of scars, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I didn’t see my father for 3 years after that. I don’t know where he was. I spent hours calling him and leaving the “823911” code on his pager for emergencies that he taught me, wondering why he didn’t respond. I felt abandoned. Unloved. Lost. But for the first time, in a long time, I wasn’t afraid to go to sleep.

 *If you, or anyone you know is suffering from Domestic Violence, please encourage them to call 911 or the U.S. National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. Please talk to someone. You are not alone. Speak up. Please.

10 Reasons Why I’m Going to Start Dating White Men

25 Jul
I'm get one too, Sanaa!!!

I’ma get me one, too.

So, while on the Twitters today (you can find me at @CeeNCrumpets), there was an article floating around written by one of “Black Twitter’s Elite Idiots”. Some guy name Ice wrote an article entitled “10 Reasons Black Guys Prefer White Girls”. I read. I shook my head. I realized how idiotic it all sounded. Then, I started thinking “This is just HIS opinion, this isn’t ALL black males, right????”

A glimpse of my timeline showed me, sadly, there are other guys out here who feel this way. And I by no means am knocking ANYONE’S dating preference. But I’m saddened by the amount of sheepish black men who subscribe to this same thought process. So instead of me filling up your timeline with my thought, I took it to the blog. Here we go!

10 Reasons I’m going to start dating White men:

10. White guys LOVE my hair. Whether it’s weaved, pressed or naturally twisted, I’ve ALWAYS received compliments from the men of Caucasia. They touch it (with permission), play in it, even had one help me twist it. Also, they understand that while we don’t often get our hair wet, we don’t smell like wet dog when we do.

9. White men listen. I don’t have to tell Tom more than once what I need him to do. I’m STILL asking Dayquan to get his brush and du rag out my car,

8. White guys are family friendly. Your Grandmother isn’t worried that Trent is going to steal her Sterling Silver gravy boat at Thanksgiving. He’s also bringing over a bottle of wine for Auntie Tamika to add to the punch.

7. White men aren’t bothered by my lack of restrictions in the bedroom. I believe that sex should be more than a nut. It is a bonding experience designed for pleasure and growth. But suggesting any position in the bedroom to a Black man leads to accusations of unfaithfulness and them questioning whether they have entered a relationship with a hoe. White guy? “You said you want a finger in your ass, honey?? Left hand or right?”

6. White men aren’t trying to be music A&R on Twitter. Some of my Black brothers spend COUNTLESS hours on Twitter, dissecting mixtapes, albums, blogging, but have never said anything like “hard day in the office” or “my manager gets on my nerves”. You’re not all producers or tastemakers. Most white men have goals, and will let you know of those goals within the first 30 minutes of your conversation. Check out white twitter during 9-5…CRICKETS, People!!!!

5. White men have no problem giving their women gifts. I’ve known this white dude for 4 days, and managed to get a bouquet of exotic flowers, an edible arrangement and a $200 date. A Black guy will buy you lingerie for Christmas and get mad when you’re not excited. I’m not saying that material things are important, but it’s MANY Black men out here that won’t loan their “Woman” $20 til her next payday because it’s be deemed as “tricking”.

4. White men act like they have some good gotdamn sense. I do not constantly have to yell at Rob for coming home late because Rob respects me and is home in bed by 1. I don’t have to nag Rob because he handles his business without me reminding him of his responsibilities. I don’t go through Rob’s phone or email because he’s never given me any reason to suspect something fishy may be going on. I also don’t have to worry about Rob calling me 5453 times in a row because I didn’t respond to his text quickly enough. Rob doesn’t accuse me of sleeping with every male that I say “Hi” to. Rob doesn’t ride past my house to make sure no other cars are there, either.

3. White men love to take care of their women. You need your car washed, oil changed? Those gutters clean enough? How’s that new chandelier Joe installed?

2. White men in the bedroom. Ever got some head from a suburban boy with full lips and an appetite for days??? None of that cute shit, them boys get DOWN! From the roota to the toota!! And he’s not done until you are.

And Finally…the TOP REASON…

1. White men just seem to have it together. I mean, look at Robin Thicke, Chris Noth, Robert DeNiro, Justin Chamber, Roger Ebert and David Bowie. Hell, Even Brad Pitt!!!!!! What do all these powerful, rich, famous, melanin challenged men ALL have in common??? They’ve all either dated or are MARRIED to BLACK WOMEN.