Digital Nomadcy

This is my dream. I dream of living the life of a digital nomad. Seeing the world, experiencing cultures, learning languages, and having a truly remarkable life. 

Of course, like most Americans, I am drowning in student loans. My only hope is to continue to work for a governmental agency or a nonprofit. I am searching, but finding jobs like that is extremely difficult. 

The other concern is Munchkin. In ninth grade, I was in my tenth school.  I was not raised in the military, which I understand provides a lot more support for moving kids. 

Growing up, I was a painfully shy introvert, struggling with anxiety and depression. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t anxious or depressed – the first anxiety attack I remember was at kindergarten graduation. Being raised in a Southern Baptist family, the solution presented to me was prayer and when it didn’t work (gasp!), I was scolded for not having a strong enough faith. 

The studies on nonmilitary introverts who moved frequently as a child show these children grow into adults with no self-esteem, inability to have fulfilling relationships, general loneliness, and they even die at a fairly early age. Aside from the fact that I am still alive, I am the poster child for this study’s results. (I am commenting about the actual study, but here is an article about it: http://www.apa.org/news/press/releases/2010/06/moving-well-being.aspx)

I am terrified of having Munchkin suffer like I have. I fear her being all alone as an adult with zero support and the horrible loneliness I suffer every day. 

I know that she is an extrovert. I know that the studies show different results for extroverts with this background. I know the world is different now. Say what you will about social media, but kids that bounce around now have a way to stay in touch and to be less alone. 

Do I work towards getting rid of everything and taking my daughter around the world? Or do I try to keep her in a more traditional life than the one I had?

If I don’t find a way to do this, I am terrified of her first DWB and her first active shooter lockdown.  Do I traumatize her emotionally with moving or put her at risk of being black in Murika.

The politics of black hair remain brutal

Munchkin spent all day yesterday rolling around in wood chips. Given her hair has been up in puffs for a week, this was not good for her hair.

White friends: she spent almost four weeks in microbraids. She needed a week off to let her hair “relax” and prevent part fatigue.

I have made a conscious decision to let Munchkin have fun and not emphasize that she is making my life difficult in regards to her hair. I want her to love her amazing curls and the intricate styles available to her.

Having planned to wash and style her hair today – after gymnastics – we went to a “pumpkin patch” before her class. We played with bunnies. She rolled in hay, and she bouncy-castled herself into exhaustion.

We then went to gymnastics. Munchkin hugged everyone. She comforted two crying two-year olds and then sang You Are My Sunshine with an elegant black woman who was there with her niece and nephew.

This woman was amazing – especially given the two children weren’t hers. And she immediately fell in love with Munchkin.

Another black woman came up behind us and said something I didn’t hear, before swiping a child up and leaving. She was very careful to make sure that I didn’t hear what she said, while making sure I knew it was about Munchkin.

Incidents like this aren’t exactly rare, but they aren’t common either. The poor woman who was there with her nibblings was incensed. Once she got over her shock, she expressed outrage over how rude the other woman was. It was touching how upset she was on my behalf.

Finally, she asked me if I had heard what the rude woman had said. I hadn’t and pretended to shrug it off. This lovely woman informed me that she wouldn’t repeat it, but that I didn’t deserve that.

It didn’t take a mind reader to know what the issue was. I smiled at her (despite my anger and insecurity). I assured her that Munchkin’s hair didn’t usually look like that.

The woman assured me that she had the same type of hair as Munchkin, that she knew the struggles, and that she has seen the braids I have done in the past.

Her outrage on my behalf was generous and appreciated. What scares me is that Munchkin is getting to the point that she understands things. I fear the day she can understand the cruelty about her hair and my parenting.

To all the amazing black women in my life, I thank you for your help and support. I will continue to lean on you. And I will soon need your advice on how to make Munchkin love her hair as much as I do.

I am a terrible mother

Me:  *shrieks hysterically at Baby*
Me:   I am so sorry. Baby, Mommy shouldn’t have yelled at you.
Baby:  It’s okay, Mommy. I am sorry I yelled at you.
Me:  Thank you for being so sweet and forgiving Mommy.
Baby:  Tomorrow, I don’t yell at Mommy and Mommy doesn’t yell at Baby.
Me:  *the GUILT!!!*
Baby:  I love you, Mommy! Thank you for taking care of me.
Me:  I am dying.
Brain:  Drown in your guilt. DROWN!!!!