There are so many joys to being a stay at home mother. At just 19 months old, my Andrew can say his ABCs all the way up to "D"--he can count up to 10 and he can almost write his name.  He's a great pretend reader. He knows all his colors too.  He gets one-on-one attention from his mommy and we have a wonderful bond that I know we wouldn't have if I worked all day long and only saw him after I got off from work at 6:30 p.m.!

Nobody has to tell me that my son said the word "refrigerator" today, because I heard him say it  myself.  I just enjoy being home with him and the freedom it gives us to raise him the way we want him to be raised and instill the values we want him to have!

But...........

I got 10 years worth of college that is going down the drain man.  The other day, I was so frustrated y'all. I'm changing Andrew's diaper and he's kicking his legs--chocolate cake batter going all over the place. Before it's all said and done, he's knee deep in triple chocolate cake batter and I'm elbow deep in it my damn self.  I'm sweating and frustrated and crying--Andrew is laughing and singing. 

I just look up to heaven and cry out "Lord, I ain't go to college for 10 years to get a 4 year degree to change diapers!"  Not one college class in the school of communications prepared me for this.  And I'm paying hundreds of dollars a month in student loans--for classes that have nothing to do with my new profession: stay at home mother.  Hell, I could have saved all that money I spent on college; hell, I could have left high school in 11th grade and got a GED. 

Let me tell y'all something, white mommas are the most prepared group of people I've ever seen before in my entire life.

I'm in a play group on Thursdays (we started going back to "play groups" after the snow melted and winter ceased to exist--we joined in January and ain't been since the temps dipped below freezing), and of course, being in Minnesota, I'm the only black one in the crew--cause black women are working--they ain't got no time to play!

When we first get into class, all the moms take off their kids' coats and hang up their diaper bags on the coat rack.  Now, our diaper bag has been through the storm. I've had it since Andrew was born--someone bought it for me--and it's held up under pressure. I mean, the zipper is broken and the handle came off, but other than that--it holds the diapers--and that's all that matters.  I looked on the coat rack and all the other moms had designer diaper bags that double as hand bags.  One was so nice, I could have taken it to church--it had rhinestones on it and er'rething.

After class, one of the mothers had the brilliant idea to go out to lunch. I was like "Oh, I'm out of pampers, I only brought enough for Andrew while we were in class and since he had a 'special delivery', I'd better get home."

"Oh no problem," one of the moms told me, "I've got enough for me and you!"  Girlfriend opened her diaper bag and it looked like the damn baby aisle at Target.  She had wipes, pampers, snacks, blankets, extra clothing.  Hell, she had everything in that thing except an extra damn baby!

So we get over to the restaurant, and we all sit down at the table... I got Andrew some little Cheeze Its and Vanilla wafers.  The white women in my play group had organic dried fruit and 100% juices--we were drinking Kool Aide (also known as Dye-Sugar Water)!  When I got ready to pull Andrew up to the table and feed him, I wiped off his little area with a Clorox wipe and laid down a napkin--the other mommas had plastic place mats with suctions on them--in all kinds of designs--and they put their kids' food on that!

I was like "Man, these white mommas are going to make me go to Babies R Us and spend money I don't have. Then I gotta go to the Whole Foods Store and get organic snacks and stop feeding my son Cheetos."

On the ride home from lunch I was feeling all inadequate--I called my girlfriend Tamara whose son Lincoln is a few months younger than Andrew.  She was like "Girl, those white mommas are gonna make us mind. We gotta step our game up to hang with them."

"You're right!" I agreed, "Cause everybody else in my play group is driving a Porche Cheyenne. I'm pulling up in a Nissan Sentra-and it's dirty. Hell, I ain't have time to take a bath this morning, so you KNOW I ain't had time to get by the car wash."

"Well girl, don't feel like the lone stranger," Tam said in a comforting voice, "I went to lunch with this white momma in my gym class and forgot all Lincoln's snacks.  She had to let me borrow some snacks to feed my baby. That's a shame.  Then I had to use some of her wipes to clean him up!  'Cause I left my towels at home too."

Lawd have mercy, my husband is surely going to start beating me!  He's warned me over and over again "Honey, watch your language!  Don't cuss or say bad words in front of Andrew--he's picking up everything you say!  He's absorbing it like a sponge."

I always just brush him off like "Yeah, yeah!  I got this. I'm his momma. I know how to train him right.  I'm reading my mothering books and remembering how my aunties taught me... so I definitely know what to do and what not to do."

When I was about seven, my aunt Mary Joe had taught me all the cuss words and by the time I was 9, my aunt Darnitha would let me light her cigarettes on the stove in the kitchen!  And I'd better not get them wet by puffing on it.

So I know I ain't wanna go that route--but old habits die hard. I still cuss a lot--I gotta catch myself!  And I use the word "ni$$er" like it's going out of style. 

I've cut back a lot--but sometimes--if I'm around the house talking on the phone to an old friend, I slip back into my former cussing life.  And Andrew is always RIGHT there to hear what I'm saying.

I was on the phone this week with somebody, I can't even remember who--and I was like "Oh no, that's bull$hit!" Child, I thought Andrew was in the playroom--but oh no, he was right there at my leg--and yelled out, in clear English "Bull$hit!"  I nearly died. All I could think was "Shawn is going to kill me!" 

I tried to tell him "No son, don't say that... bad word!"

He looked at me, smiled and said "Bull$hit!"

I wanna know why it takes me two days to teach him words like "table" and "chair", but "bull$hit" he picks up instantly?

We were running in the house the other day and I hit my bare foot on the table--and yelled out "Damn!  That hurts!"  Of course, my son said "Mommy, that damn hurts!"

I was too shame!  I called Shawn at work and broke the news to him--that his wife is ghetto--is trying--but can't stop cussing completely and is negatively influencing his child.  He informed me that he had another woman on standby who wanted to be his wife and Andrew's momma--and he was giving me a two week notice that he's phasing me out of my position as stay at home mom.

We agreed, any time I cuss or say a bad word--I gotta put a $1 in a "cuss jar" that we put in the kitchen.  Needless to say, we got two of 'em--and they are both filled to capacity!  Between this past week when crazy a$$ co workers were acting a fool and crazy a$$ bosses were acting an even bigger fool, I did a lot of cussing and fussing!

Since the $1s were actually coming out of Shawn's pocket--he decided I wasn't learning my lesson.  So every time he hears me cuss or say "ni$$er"--he gets to punch me in the arm.  I got a low tolerance for pain, so I'm doing much better on the cussin'--but the word ni$$er is another story.  Do I say the word outside the house? NOOOOOOOOOO! Cause I don't want white folks like Dog the Bounty Hunter and Don Imus to think it's cool. Do I say it in casual conversation with my cousin Demond in New Orleans when we chat on the phone YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! 

And of course, Andrew is right there--listening to every word and learning er'rething he ain't posed to pick up on.

So the other day, Shawn and Andrew were reading the animal book and Andrew was sitting in his lap--while Shawn turned the pages and made all the sounds--it was so cute.  I wanted to give them their "daddy/son" time so I went to the kitchen to get ready for dinner.  I was in there 'bout 4 minutes when Shawn yelled out "Sheletta, come here now!"  And I mean he yelled. And he never calls me "Sheletta".  He calls me "honey" or "baby"--so when he called me by my slave name, I knew I was in trouble.

I tipped in the room and Andrew was looking at me like "Mommy, you're in trouble!"

Shawn asked me "What is he saying?"

I was like "I don't hear him saying anything!"

Shawn looked at Andrew and told him "Say it son."

Andrew grinned and said "Drigger."

My heart hit the floor. I tried to pretend I didn't understand what he was saying "I don't know honey--perhaps he's working on an animal sound!"

"No, he is saying ni$$er!  Did you say ni$$er around him?"

"I'm not sure," I tried to shuffle around the question, "I don't think so. I might have slipped up!"

Shawn knows I can't lie, so I just went ahead and told it on myself!

My husband didn't even bother to talk to me, "Hand me the phone." he demanded.

"Who are you calling?" I wanted to know.

"Andrew's social worker," he informed me, "I'm turning you in!"

I was gonna sign Andrew up for swim lessons at the YMCA. I told all the ladies at our Wednesday play group that we would be going to the "Y" so little Andrew could learn how to swim.

Man, I know, I'm nearly 40 and I can't swim. My momma was scared of water--her momma was scared of water--so they made sure I was terrified of water. I don't even draw a large bath--I'm scared to let the water get over my ankles or I will drown.

Plus--you know--or perhaps you don't know--sisters don't like to get their hair wet. I got that tight "Kunta Kinte" grade of hair. If my hair even sees water--it locks up like Ziggy Marley dread locks.  So I try to stay away from getting it wet.

But I ain't want my baby to grow up with the same fears that I had--so I figured we'd go to the local "Y" and get him used to being in the water.

Plus that's just something else fun to do with my little one--more "mommy baby bonding time".

Well, all the ladies in class kinda stuck their noses up in the air at me. I wasn't sure why that was the case.  They explained that the water at the "Y" isn't heated so when the kids get in the pools, they can't really enjoy themselves because it's too cold to do anything except freeze to death. 

They suggested I go to Foss Swim Academy (NOTE TO SELF: Anything that has "Academy" in the title is just a fancy way to charge you more damn money!)

I had no idea--I went and got my little $35 back from the "Y" and canceled our lessons--told them (in my most snooty voice) that my son and I would be going to the Foss Swim Academy.

I figured I'd only have to add a few more nickles to make up the difference in price--WRONG! And MORE wrong!

I went on over to Foss and they greeted us with a smile. They were all so nice and sweet.  They took Andrew and played with him--let him stick his toes in the pool.  They talked to me abou the importance of aquatics--and how it's good to ease their fears now of water.  I was very impressed... they even had tea and cookies for us to snack on.  Went on a tour--all the kids were happy and having a good old time.

I was hooked. "Where do I sign up?" I asked the girl (holding on to the $35 I had taken back from the "Y").

She pulled out some paper work asking for all the essential information.  I quickly filled it out--ready for Andrew to jump in the pool right then and there. 

So then I asked that all important question, "How much do I owe you for this?" pulling the $35 out of my pocket.

The girl smiled and in her most sincere voice said, "It'll be $203!"

I dropped the pen and looked her square in the eye, "For what?"

"For use of our facilites and the lesson." she responded, smiling like she ain't have no idea I was bout to slap hell out of her before I robbed the place--cause at least five people signed up before I did.

I had to be frank with her, "Listen ma'am, if I sign Andrew up and pay for these lessons today--he won't be able to eat this week and if he runs out of pampers before my next pay day--he'll be self-potty trained."

I got my baby and drug him out of there kicking and screaming!  Now mind you, I could have written a hot-check and enjoyed the classes until it bounced back to their offices--but I'm trying to do right.

Only way I can afford that damn swim "Academy" is to get out on the side of the street corner with a cardboard sign that says "Will work for swim lessons!".

My husband came home from work the other day and told me about a big news story--I nearly fell out my seat when I found out that an 18 year old baby sitter let the two kids she was supposed to be caring for wander off and drown in a pond while she took a nap. (NOTE TO SELF: Ain't gonna be no baby sitters under the age of 45 for my son.  Cause if I come home and Andrew is face up in a pond--she gonna be face down on the ground with smoke coming from her back.  The mortician will bring her momma a crisply folded flag. 

That heffa was supposed to be babysitting the kids--not napping!  You don't get paid to sleep on the job.  That heffa can sleep when she gets home--she got paid to sit those kids--not to call hogs in her sleep.

That's why only women who qualify for AARP benefits can keep my kids--something about old ladies--they know babies--and they know how to take care of 'em. They ain't gonna be falling asleep or mistreating the kids. That just ain't gonna happen.

But these young girls--they come to the house--talk on the phone--fall asleep--don't watch your kids--you come home from the club and the baby is wearing the same diaper that he had on when you left him.  See--that right there is enough to get you a case--and y'all know I already got five restraining orders--I do one more thing and they are throwing me in the hole.

Which is why ain't no baby sitters coming here to watch Andrew--we go out to the local watering hole--we pull the high chair right up to the bar.  We want to do a romantic dinner--high chair included. Everything is done as a family.  'Cause I don't need no 18-year old sitter mistreating my little one. 

Oh, that ain't even what I'm supposed to be talking about today--my friend Chris--asked me the other day if we could talk about something other than Shawn and Andrew--I was stumped--the phone went dead for at least 30 seconds. My response:  "I can not accommodate you on that one."

I ain't realize it until then--but that's all I do--so that's all I gotta talk about--my man and my baby. Chris is like "When you get some more interesting $hit going on in your life, call me."

If he wasn't such a good friend--and my son's god-father--I swear I'd cut him off.  But Chris has been known over the past 10 years of our friendship to be brutally honest with me about everything, and I do mean everything.

That day I waited to see who'd call me. The phone rang a few times, mostly bill collectors and people with exciting new offers--not one friend.  Finally my husband called--just to check in to see how we were doing.  After that--I saw spiders making a web around the receiver--cause I never touched it.

Since I dedicated my life to being a wife and momma (also known in some circles as "slave"), I've been so preoccupied with my duties on the home-front, that I don't have time for friends anymore.  Everybody is gone--off doing their own thing.  Oh we talk occasionally and do a few e-mails with Andrew's photos of course--but good solid friendships and long phone conversations debating the philosophies have disappeared.

How do you continue to foster friendships and take care of your infant child, try to bathe every day and still do those things that will please your husband? I don't' know how to find that balance--cause now--I'm consumed with baby and my boo.

And that ain't a bad thing--I enjoy my new role--but I knew things were changing when Fanchon, my best friend of 25 years couldn't remember my phone number the other day.  This girl and I have talked every morning--no matter what--since the day we met in 6th grade. And now, she don't recall the digits.  She got three kids-I'm trying to figure out how she talked to me every day while she was raising hers (cause they damn near grown now). 

But wait, now that I think about it--I recall one day when Fanchon declared we couldn't talk every morning anymore for a while--because she had to get her kids ready for school.  My friend Chasity did the same thing--she got two small boys--and we talk occasionally--but she's usually rushing to t-ball practice or just getting back from karate--so our conversations are brief to non-existent.  I called my friend Angela just last night to check in and see how she was doing--our conversation was cut short within minutes of saying "hello" when he daughter Chelsea decided to turn the bath tub into a swimming pool.

I guess life is changing for all of us who embark on this thing called "motherhood".  Ole' Chris will see soon when he and Amber start planting seed and gathering a harvest of little Williamseses. 

I just think God loves me extra special.  I know--that ain't right--He loves us all the same--but I feel--in my spirit--He just loves me and my family and because of that--we got favor!

I know that every day--I pray over Andrew--while I'm feeding him--while I'm rocking him to sleep--while he's napping--while he's playing.  At least 20 times a day--I'm making petitions to God on behalf of my baby.  That he stays healthy all the days of his life--that his feet will never run to evil--that he will be favored in his classrooms by his teachers and the students--that he follow in the path that God has for his life. 

Any momma out there reading this--if you believe in Jesus--pray for your baby now so that tomorrow he will be covered and protected from the bad things in this world that will seek to destroy him. 

Cause the devil--believe it or not--is real! And he starts extra early on our kids--trying to get them into drugs--away from God's plan for their lives.

My girlfriend Fanchon told me she prayed for her children's success in their careers when she was still at the hospital--immediately after her delivery! She prayed for their future spouses--and their spouses families.  That blew my mind. Now, at the time, I thought she was a little wacky (Fanchon can be that way sometimes)--but this time--she was right on.

I ain't even realize I was doing it until I was feeding Andrew some baby cereal the other day--and I was just praying outloud--"Lord, bless Andrew--keep him away from drugs--bless him to follow after you--to stay away from devilish things. Bless his friends Lord--and all the people who will surround him.  Bless his teachers...."

Andrew looked at me with the most calming emotion on his face--as if to say "Thanks mom!"; then he reached out and kissed me.

My main prayer--the one I concentrate on the most is for health!  Andrew has Shawn's sickle cell trait--which means that things like a common cold or cough can turn drastically bad really fast.  Case in point--last year--Shawn got pneumonia--which can be treated in normal circumstances--but because of his SC Trait--he had to be hospitalized for 10 days--got two blood transfusions--was in ICU for four days--and it got so crucial at one point--they called in a chaplain!

So when Andrew started sneezing Tuesday--I was very cautious. I immediately cut out any appointments--stayed in the house--Lysol-ed everything down and prayed for the best results.

Well--the opposite happened.  He got sicker and sicker--he couldn't breathe and by Saturday--he was barely getting any air. I ain't wanna go to the ER--cause that's where not only do they leave you sitting in the lobby until you just drop dead--but they often mis-diagnose you and try to hurry and get you out of there--to make the bed available for the next victim patient.

So--I called Andrew's doctor Saturday morning--after days of old school remedies and Tylenol--and on a Saturday  morning--she was on duty and had several appointments.  WHAT? You mean that my son's pediatrician has an opening when he needs to see her? Let me tell y'all something--it's easier to find Osama Bin Laden than it is to find a pedi-doctor on a Saturday to take care of your kid. 

Shawn took Andrew in and he needed breathing treatments--he was sick--with a respiratory infection.  They gave us a machine to hook him up to--tubing--and some medicine to help open his lungs.  With that SC trait--his little cough and cold had turned into a respiratory infection!  What you say? Lord have mercy!!  Had the doctor not been open--we would have been doping him up on Tylenol and wondering why it didn't work!

So--I said all that to say God loves us extra special--cause He made it possible for Dr. Kelly's schedule to be open--He made it possible for them to properly diagnose my baby--and He is making it possible for Andrew to be healed from this cough/cold/respiratory infection!

Thank God for Jesus--for His healing power and for answering the prayers that I pray every day for my baby!

So--it's up to us--pray for your babies--while they are sleeping, while they are praying, while they are eating--cause prayer is the only way to protect them and keep them safe from hurt, harm and danger.  Their momma's prayers will sustain them during tough times!  Some of us are still living off the prayers of our mommas and grandmommas.  Don't let your baby go out into the world without being properly prayed for!

Andrew and I probably got a combined 4 hours of sleep last night. He's coughing and sneezing and his nose is full of snot (which he enjoys eating by the way) and his chest is congested. He won't let me use the little suction thing to get the gooey stuff out of his nostrils and we slept under a machine last night to add moisture and medicine to the room. All we both got was a damn heat rash.

My mother in law said "Hang some garlic over his bed!" Hell, after no sleep, hearing him cry all night and seeing that he was unable to breathe--I would have shot Shawn in the heart with a silver bullet to help soothe my poor baby. He couldn't get NO sleep either. He uses his pacifier to put himself to sleep every night--but since he couldn't breathe out of his nose--he couldn't get calmed down enough to suck it--cause he was breathing out of his mouth.

So please--somebody--I can't blog long--I just need to find out what y'all know that I can do to give my poor son some relief.  My usually happy baby is screaming at the top of his lungs cause he is tired, worn out and CAN'T breathe. Hell, I'm crying and screaming too!

I woke up this morning--happy to have a good night's sleep. I been fighting this cold off--but the battle has lasted longer than the war in Iraq (at least it seems like). 

For two weeks I been coughing and having a scratchy throat and runny nose.  So last night--was one of the first nights in a longgggggggg time that I was able to sleep through the night.

Andrew woke me up about 5 this morning--of course--it was time for his diaper to be changed and get the day started.  My plan was to feed him--get him ready for church and then head off to work while he and his daddy went to worship The Good Lord.

I ain't see my house shoes--but Shawn's were at the foot of the bed.  I slid them on--and headed downstairs with the baby to get him ready.  Shawn rolled over and caught a few more Zzzzs before he had to get up.

I was walking down the steps--lost my footing and there went Andrew--he went one way and I went the other way.  We both started crying!  Shawn came running down the stairs--Andrew was inconsolable.  He was crying--tears streaming down his face.

Shawn checked his head and his body for bruises and knots--but there was nothing too alarming.

I went and looked--we fell down three steps and landed on the 4-th step.  Andrew hit his head and butt--I hit my arm and back and head.  But nobody was bleeding--so that's a blessing.

Shawn looked at me and rolled his eyes.  Suddenly, I felt like this was my fault--surely he knows I ain't plan to "drop" my baby down the stairs.  But that's how his glare made me feel.

"Are you mad at me for losing my step?" I asked.  Andrew had his head on Shawn's shoulder--still crying.

"No, I am mad at you for wearing the wrong shoes," he responded.

So what if I had been barefoot? Two words: Accidents Happen--no matter how careful a parent is--things will occur with kids that you can't control--scrapes, bumps, etc.

The good thing is that Andrew is alright--he calmed down--he stopped crying and he's kicking a$$ and taking name's just like he usually does.

When I get home from work today, Shawn will have probably devised a harness system with a pulley to get Andrew up and down the stairs so I ain't gotta carry him.

On her most recent visit from Ohio--my mother in law and I were sitting in the living room while she was rocking the baby--just chattin' about life.  She looked up at me and asked "So, what do you do all day?"

I didn't quite know where you were coming from--so I was like "What do you mean by that?"

She came back at me "Well, I mean--you ain't working--you ain't got but one baby--what do you do all day long?"

I had to clear my throat and suppress my desire to scratch her eyeballs out and I replied with a fake smile, "Well, I take care of your grandson, keep the house clean, make sure everything is in order--do the grocery shopping and such..."

She interrupted, "Well, I had FIVE kids and I still did all that and I was working."

At this point I was ready to poke hols in her oxygen tubing and strike a match near the tank in order to ignite the explosion.

But I swallowed the urge to put her 6-feet under and I responded purposefully, "Things are a little different now--and with the high cost of day care and child predators, I figured it'd be best for me to stay home with the baby."

"But that still don't answer my question," she wasn't satisfied, "I wanna know what you do all day."

I hear that over and over again from people--especially sisters who are single parents--and who work one or two jobs while raising their babies.

"Well, let's see--I wake up, fix breakfast for Shawn--change the baby--feed him--get him cleaned up--we have play time--I put him down for a nap--I clean up--make up the beds--sanitize the restrooms--wash the dishes--put clothes in the wash--check e-mails and blog--by that time the baby is up--it's time for lunch--we clean up yet again--and we read books--I run any errands that need to happen--drop off dry cleaning--pick up groceries, toilet paper, etc.--come home and cook dinner for Shawn--by this time Drew needs a snack--then I put him to sleep--if I'm lucky, while the food is cooking, I try to bathe, brush my teeth and put a comb in my hair--when Drew wakes up it's time for Shawn to come home--at which point he plays with dad for 5-minutes before Shawn walks upstairs to take his time and undress, take a long hot shower, get a beer read his e-mail and when Shawn is done and relaxed and ready--we eat dinner--after we eat--I feed Drew his dinner--his daddy then takes him while I clean the kitchen and wipe down Drew's high chair--if I still got clothes in the dryer--I go ahead and fold them and put them up.  When all that is done, I sit down in the rocker--at which time I take Andrew and give him a warm bottle--rock him to sleep and put him in the bed."

But should I have to explain all that?  I'm working damn-it. My job is stay-at-home momma and part time broadcaster--and I make NO apologies for being dedicated to my family and being at home all day.

White women been doing it all along--they get pregnant--they stay home with their kids--nobody makes them feel guilty about it.  It's encouraged.  But I stay home with my son all day and suddenly I'm lazy!

Ain't a damn thing lazy about being a stay-at-home momma! It's EASIER for me to go to work--ship Andrew off to the day care and only see him about 4 hours a day when I get home from being cooped up at the job all day.  But, I sacrificed my career and my status at the television to stay home with my baby--and to some--that makes me less than a real woman. 

Even Shawn gets in on the act sometimes--he don't know how close he's been to death. He'll come home from work and I'm still in my nightclothes--ain't had time to comb my hair--and dinner is a bit late.  Andrew's been fussy all day and Shawn has no idea baby boy's been cuttin' the fool--or I've had a writing assignment due that I had to craft with one hand cause I was holding Andrew in the other.  And Shawn looks at me sarcastically and asks, "Why you ain't comb your hair today?"

Well, the tables were reversed this weekend--I had to pull a 12-hour shift and Shawn was home with Andrew all day. I walked in the house and that negro literally threw that baby at me like a bag of dry cleaning.  Shawn looked beaten--'cause Andrew had busted his head in!  That joker picked up his keys--kissed me on the forehead and left.  "I need a break!" was all he said.

And I knew he needed to get away--cause being at home with the baby all day is hard work.  Ain't no ifs-ands-or-buts-about-it.  I really hope he remembers that--cause I don't get no break!

I’m typing with one hand, ’cause the other hand is holding an eight-ounce bottle of formula. My son Andrew doesn’t care about deadlines.

I’m a stay-at-home mom and part-time comedian, but nothing humorous is going on right now - motherhood ain’t no joke.

I ain’t had a bath in five days, can’t remember the last time I was able to brush my teeth, and my feet are so crusty, when I went to bed the other night, my husband Shawn thought I had on socks.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my son, but it’s like the Army: I do more before 9 am than most people do all day.

People keep asking, “Are you going to do it again?” That’s like asking Rodney King to get hammered on PCP and go speeding down the freeway in a Hyundai again. Or sending Henry Whittington bird hunting with Vice President Dick “Buckshot” Cheney again. Or asking OJ Simpson to date another White woman - wait, scratch that last analogy!

I firmly believe hospitals should let you stay six months after you deliver. But just three days after Andrew was born, Woodwinds packed us up and put us out on the curb. I tried going back inside to reclaim my bed, but the doors were locked and they wouldn’t let me in. Security was called.

Like ET, I phoned home, and my momma reassured me everything would come naturally. If I could curse in this article I would, ’cause that is some bull manure.

I tried breast feeding - that’s supposed to be natural, right? But I was putting out a shot glass of milk a day, not even enough for a cup of coffee.

Let’s not talk about how expensive formula is! When I go to buy Enfamil, I just sign the back of my paycheck and hand it to the cashier.

And believe it or not, I cannot hear my son crying when I’m sleeping at night. I’ve tried baby monitors and putting him in a bassinet in my room. I even laid him in bed with me, but it’s like I’m in a coma!

Good thing I’m not a single parent. Otherwise little Andrew would crawl across the street at night looking for something to eat.

I feel alone in this thing. All my friends had their babies when they were young. Their chil’len are getting ready to graduate from high school while mine is learning to crawl.

I realize I need some new friends - a network of sisters to talk to, confide in and schedule playdates with. I can’t be the only one! Where are the other Black mommies around here? You know, the stay-at-home kind, like me, with small children and a husband supportive enough to bring home all the bacon (and sometimes fry it up for me when I’m tired).

That’s why I’m starting a Mocha Moms Chapter for women living in the St Paul, Maplewood, Cottage Grove and Woodbury areas.

When I found out the folks from Last Comic Standing were going to be in town, I got giddy.  I crafted a two-minute routine that just couldn't loose.  I couldn't even get through it myself without chuckling at the jokes.

The commercial said to go down to the Acme Comedy Club in Minneapolis around 6 this morning to line up and the auditions would start at 9 AM!

I thought "Cool, I'll get Andrew full of food, take the lawn chair, put on some comfy clothes and we'll go sit out there until they call my name.  I talked it over with Andrew and he was game (yeah right, the boy ain't but 8 months old... he ain't put up much of a fuss after I put that cookie in his mouth). 

I talked to Shawn and of course he was against it, "Honey, Andrew isn't feeling well. He's teething and pooping like it's going out of style.  Perhaps you should pass!"  Shawn always supports me in my comedic endeavors. He flew me to Denver when I made it to the regional round of Funniest Mom in America... and anytime I'm on stage, he's front and center, laughing the loudest and clapping the hardest!

Now I love my husband and most of the time, OK, some of the time... all right, every now and again, I do exactly what he tells me to do.  But this time, I was hell-bent against his idea of missing out on this opportunity (even though he's right 99.9% of the time).  So I nodded in agreement and while he was showering last night, I secretly packed a bag for Andrew, some snacks for me and threw the lawn chair in the trunk. 

When he left for work this morning, I watched him drive down the road--when he turned the corner, I hurry up and got dressed, warmed up the car and woofed down breakfast.  I was right on schedule until I went to get Andrew ready.... he was a little cranky and kinda moody--which ain't like him, cause he's a morning person! He usually wakes up laughing and singing--but I wasn't gonna let that stop me--I was determined to get to this audition!

I brought him downstairs for breakfast and it happened--he baked a cake in his diaper. Not a regular cake, it was a three-layer-triple-decker-German-chocolate souffle!  So we cleaned up and tried to resume our morning ritual... but when I turned around to wash my hands, I realized that he had baked me some muffins.  OK, we cleaned up yet again and this time, I waited before giving him some food... which was a good idea because before you could blink--he had baked some chocolate tarts!

My poor little baby was sick from teething and his system was (in the words of Tom Jackson from ESPN) Jacked-Up!

He started crying, I started crying and it was then that I realized that this little baby is the most important thing and although this audition was a wonderful opportunity, it wasn't worth putting my baby boy's health at risk.  I am going to sit at home, nurse him, make sure he gets the fluids he needs, keep checking his temp and don't let him get dehydrated. 

At home is where I need to be... not in a two block line--outside in cold temps with my baby trying to audition for Last Comic Standing. 

This comic is sitting down, taking care of her baby and for once heeding the advice of her (almost) always right husband!

I'm just gonna tell y'all, it is a lot easier to be a bad mommy than it is to be a good mommy.  I'm struggling, I really am... I constantly got two "Sheletta mommies" on my shoulders... and I never know which one to listen to.

The crazy "Bad Sheletta mommy" on the left has a tail on her backside and a pitchfork in her hand, the nice and sweet "Good Sheletta mommy"  on the right is sporting a white gown and wearing a halo... and them two heffas is doing battle.

My son Andrew wears me out... and sometimes, I wanna cut corners... you know, take shortcuts so I can get some stuff done. 

Like when I'm cleaning up or attempting to anyway... and Andrew is crying and cutting the fool cause he wants some "attention" from me.  Good Sheletta mommy says: Take a 15-minute break from dusting and cooking and cleaning and washing clothes and pick up my baby and play a game or read a book with him.  Now, Bad Sheletta mommy has a completely different philosophy... she's telling me: He had two hours of play time with mommy already.  He's dry, he's clean, he's fed and he's in the exersaucer that you paid $140 for so that he can entertain himself... if he keeps crying, give him some prescription cough syrup and put him to sleep for a few hours. 

The other day my son was sleeping peacefully in his swing.  I was sitting next to him taking a break and reading my latest edition of Oprah's magazine when I realized that I needed to run to the store and get an onion for dinner.  Good Sheletta mommy told me: Go and get the car seat, load him up and take him to the store with me while I went to get the one ingredient I needed for dinner.  Bad Sheletta mommy lives by a whole 'nother creed: It's 3-degrees-below-zero... it's gonna take 20 minutes just to get his coat on and get him loaded in the car.  When you get to the store, you gotta unload him, find a shopping cart that's child-seat friendly... and all that for an ONION?  Leave his butt in that swing... run to the store, grab the onion and hurry back... you won't be longer than five minutes and even if he wakes up... he's swinging, he'll be fine.

Now y'all know how much I love Oprah... I was wearing my favorite Oprah sweat shirt when I realized Andrew needed to have his diaper changed.  I brought him to the changing table... and took off his pamper... the moment I lifted that pissy pamper off his bum-bum... his little wanky-doodle shed a tear and next thing I know... he peed all over my sweatshirt.  Now, Good Sheletta mommy told me: Calm down, it's not a big deal.  It can be washed out. He's just a baby he didn't mean to do it.  But Bad Sheletta mommy was ready to throw down: No that nucka didn't!  Oh I'm bout to beat him like he stole something. He done peed on the queen? I don't think so... I'm gonna put him in baby time out... strap him in the car seat and turn him face the wall until his daddy gets home.  Shawn can deal with him then...

Good Sheletta mommy can usually talk some sense into me and stop me from putting my child in harm's way.... but sometimes, every now and again... Bad Sheletta mommy wins out and even though Andrew ain't coughing and shows no signs of the sniffles... he gotta take a "swig" of that prescription cough syrup.  Sorry son...

That's probably the reason my baby has his own case worker. I caught him calling social services the other day... he knows his own file number and everything... he was like "Hello... this is Andrew, client number 2358-A... I need to speak to my case worker Mrs. Johnson... my momma went to the club for her birthday and left me in the car.  Say what? Mrs. Johnson is on another line.  Well I'll hold..."

I'm going to keep a log... every time my baby son pees on me... I plan to return the favor when I get too old to control my own bladder (wink, wink)!

I swear, I think Andrew is aiming for me... and at a mere 6 months old, I believe with all my heart that he is taking great delight in hitting his intended target!

Case in point, this morning, I'm changing his diaper... I take it off quickly and prepare to put on the new diaper... he looks up at me and smiles... so I smile back... and in just that one instant, he goes Lil' John on me: "Skeet Skeet Skeet"!  Now, mind you I wear glasses, so that means his aim is totally on point!  He bypassed the bi-focals and hit me dead in the eyeball! I scream; he giggles... and I get him dressed to take him to the fire station... you know you can drop off your child at the fire station and they won't ask you ANY questions... no prosecution... nothing! Andrew is about to replace the little Dalmatian dog as the mascot for Engine Company #9 in Saint Paul!

It wouldn't be so bad if Andrew ain't laugh when he did it.  And it ain't like it happens once-every-blue-moon... he does it all the time. And it's like he's disappointed if the pee don't get me right dead between  the eyes.  He looks a little unhappy if I actually rush and get his pamper on before he can get the re-release off. 

So, I bought a small notepad and I keep it near the changing table... and every time that little joker pees in my eye, I log it... put the date down and if I can guess the actual amount in ounces, I put that down too... cause I plan on repaying my son for all those R. Kelley moments he gives me on a daily basis.  He gonna be the one Stepping in the Name of Love when I turn 60!  And I'll be sure to give him the same toothless grin when I do it that he's giving me now!