I was tired all the time, my energy was crap, the scale was showing numbers I’d never seen before and my pants—well, they were starting to scream, “Now you know you’re just one more pasta bowl from having to buy an entire new wardrobe.”

I was miserable.

And then I saw a miracle: an African American woman, grown and curvy and fit, exercising in the parking lot of the gym I pass every day while taking my daughters to school. Her trainer stood tall, commanding, instructing and encouraging her as she did lunges up and down the asphalt. They were beautiful. Inspiring.

And so, for my 44^th birthday, I gave myself a gift: I walked into that gym, introduced myself to celebrity trainer Cliff “Hollywood” Boyce and vowed to take control of my body and get healthy.

This much I know is true: I needed to make that change. For myself. For my family. Especially for my daughters. See, I know that I’ve aged and that my body has changed and that weight and all the complications that come from having it in excess is more dangerous than ever to my health. I can’t eat fully-loaded bagels for breakfast and rainbow sherbet and popcorn for dinner, stay up until 2 a.m., and do 20 sit-ups and five minutes worth of jumping jacks and lose five pounds, easy. Everything I put in my mouth goes straight to my stomach and lower body and it sits there—putting me at risk not only for gaining weight, but increasing my chances for diabetes, high blood pressure and heart disease and draining my metabolism. And I was feeling it, big time.

I borrow liberally from Sweet Brown when I say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

So with Hollywood’s help, last October, just days after I turned 44, I took control of my body and made the decision to get healthy. Note that I said, “healthy.” Not skinny. Not muscular. Not obsessed. Just healthy. Hollywood measured me up from neck to calf, weighed me, measured my body fat and then sat me down to discuss my ultimate health and fitness goals. He then used all of that info to craft a nutrition and exercise plan designed to boost my metabolism, build up my lean muscle, burn excess fat and get me back to a healthy weight.

I promise you, when I first started working with him, I thought for sure I would die on that treadmill—that my legs would fall off in the middle of those lunges and my arms would never, ever stop shaking and quivering from lifting those weights.

But here we are, seven months later, and I’m training with Hollywood twice a week, going to Zumba two days a week and taking Hollywood’s Tabata class at least once, sometimes twice, per week. I’m stronger. I have more energy. I got them grown woman curves fitting into clothes a size smaller than when I started. I’m eating more vegetables, fruit, seafood and lean meats, drinking more water, and cutting back drastically on the carbs and processed foods. Desserts still call me like the rock did Pookie in The Carter, but I’m better.

So much better.

And I’m proud of me.

This post was written as part of a MomsRising.org blog carnival to celebrate National Women’s Health Week. Today at 2 p.m. EST, I’ll be joining MomsRising and DubyaWife in a GoogleChat to talk about our health, fitness and nutrition journeys and our quest to take care of our bodies. Join us! I’ll Tweet and Facebook the link to the chat about 15 minutes before we get started, with the hashtags #HealthyHabits. Or you can watch here on YouTube. See you then!

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By NICK CHILES

Apparently there are some grownups in Polk County, Florida, who have some sense. We just got word that Kiera Wilmot, the 16-year-old who was arrested and dragged from the school in handcuffs for creating an early morning explosion on school grounds when she mixed toilet bowl cleaner and aluminum foil to see what would happen, will not face criminal charges.

The State Attorney’s Office determined that this teenage girl, a strong and curious student, will not be thrown in the pokey for actually doing a little science experimentation. Wilmot had heard that the particular combination of toilet bowl cleaner and aluminum foil might make some exciting things happen when mixed together in a water bottle, so she thought it might work for a science fair project.

The girl was arrested and faced felony charges for possessing a weapon on campus and discharging a destructive device. The school district’s zero-tolerance policy dictated that she be suspended from school and faced expulsion, according to her attorney, Larry Hardaway, who said she has already served a 10-day suspension and is now attending classes at an alternative school.

After the social media universe went berserk, expressing a wave of outrage over the actions of the Polk County officials in punishing the girl for being a curious student—an online petition on her behalf has more than 195,000 signatures—the office of State Attorney Jerry Hill said that it extended “an offer of diversion of prosecution to the child.”

That means some type of probationary-like program that allows her to perform community service or meet other conditions and then avoid a criminal record.

“The pending case has been dismissed. No formal charges will be filed,” the office’s statement said.

Kiera’s lawyer said he will now devote his efforts to helping Kiera avoid expulsion and return to Bartow High for the next school year.

It’s so rare for systems to acknowledge error that we felt the need to salute the state officials for backing off from this girl. The message sent in her case was a horrible one—that the system is more interested in its rules and regulations than the real-life circumstances of its children. If we were going to punish every kid for experimenting in science lab, there are many fantastic scientists and discoveries I’m sure our society would be missing out on.

Let’s hope that the intellectual curiosity and experimentation has not been frightened out of this child.

Kiera, please go ahead and do your thing, in science class and everywhere else in your young life. And be encouraged by the 195,000 of us who signed a petition on your behalf. Know this: We got your back.

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By SHAWN TAYLOR

“When di pickney dem growed.” This was my grandmother’s (rest her soul) response to being asked if children should be told about something heavy happening in the family. Translation: “When they get older.” She was a firm believer that you loved and cherished children, but they were in no way “lickle adults.” She set the tone in our family that kids were only informed about serious subjects when she thought they were ready. Death? Between 10 and 11 years old. Uncle Grenville’s male roommate being more than just a roommate? Thirteen. And I’m still waiting for the sex talk.

This was the conundrum I found myself in—how to broach serious topics with my daughter—until a set of situations made the decision for me.

It was a beautiful day. My daughter and I were getting along amazingly. We were both dressed fly; bills were paid and there was extra money in my pocket. I was really feeling my Huxtable. A homeless person approached us with heartbreaking humility and asked for some money. I gave her some and we continued walking.

“Daddy? Why did that woman ask us for money?”

“She was homeless.”

“What does that mean?”

“She does not have a home to live in, or money to get what she needs?”

“Why is she homeless? Does she not have family to love her? Can she come and live with us?

I was stuck as to how I should answer, but my grandmother’s voice in my head told me, “Bwoy, she nuh ready. When di lickle pickney growed…”

On our way home, it took a lot of effort to not listen to my grandmother’s voice attempting to persuade me not to engage my daughter around something so serious. Hell, I thought. If she’s old enough to ask, she’s old enough to receive an answer…

Read the rest of Shawn Taylor’s [Father/Hood] post, “When Do Kids Need To Know,” on Ebony.com.

First, let me say this: I think that Angelina Jolie’s decision to have a preventative double mastectomy to address her exceptionally high risk of breast cancer and buy more time to be a mother to her children was brave. So, too, was her sharing that decision publicly, and using it to frame a much-needed discussion about cancer, treatment options and affordable healthcare for women.

Problem is, the mainstream TV shows, newspapers and websites reporting on Angelina’s decision were so focused on the A-list actress’s breasts that all-too-many seemed to miss the larger point entirely: gene testing, preventative mastectomies and breast reconstruction—hell, options for preventing, treating and surviving breast cancer—is an affluent and mostly white woman’s bet, one that eludes poor and working women of color with little to no insurance, job security and the cash needed to buy those options.

Credit due to Angelina for at least trying to start the conversation in her New York Times op-ed, in which she detailed her discovering her breast cancer probability through gene testing:

I am writing about it now because I hope that other women can benefit from my experience. Cancer is still a word that strikes fear into people’s hearts, producing a deep sense of powerlessness. But today it is possible to find out through a blood test whether you are highly susceptible to breast and ovarian cancer, and then take action…

Breast cancer alone kills some 458,000 people each year, according to the World Health Organization, mainly in low- and middle-income countries. It has got to be a priority to ensure that more women can access gene testing and lifesaving preventive treatment, whatever their means and background, wherever they live. The cost of testing for BRCA1 and BRCA2, at more than $3,000 in the United States, remains an obstacle for many women.

All up in between those lines was Angelina’s acknowledgement that there are options for identifying and preventing breast cancer, but you’ve got to have the cash to get it done. The test, alone, would be completely inaccessible, to, say the grocery store worker who brings home a paltry $400 a week after taxes, which makes it hard for her to afford even a simple mammogram. And trust: the school janitor, or the sister at the McDonald’s drive-thru or your auntie answering phones at that secretarial job wouldn’t be able to secure the three months needed to have her breasts removed, heal from the surgery and then go back under the knife for reconstructive surgery and implants—no matter how many of the relatives that came before her were diagnosed with, treated for or died from breast cancer.  Those who lord over blue collar workers aren’t nearly as understanding as, say, a Hollywood producer or a company president who can spare a top manager.

Truth be told, a woman of color or of limited means would have a higher chance of having her breast cancer detected late because insurance doesn’t want to cover the screening, and dying because said company would be more concerned about treating the disease on the cheap rather than to make sure that the patient got the world-class service that Angelina got. Indeed, when it comes to women of color, the news is all the more dire: research presented by The American Association for Cancer Research just last month suggested that tumor makeup and methods for treating them may vary by race. This is a reality that makes it harder to treat breast cancer in black women, simply because race-specific research is scarce and black women are woefully absent from mainstream studies that focus mainly on white women. Add poverty, silence and racial inequalities to the mix and it’s no wonder that beast cancer mortality rates for women of color continue to soar.

Mind you, all of this is happening, despite that those pink ribbons are plastered on everything from eggs to panties, and billions of dollars have been collected in the name of breast cancer research that cancer charities claim will help prevent and “find a cure” for the disease.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if those reporting on Angelina Jolie’s radical, preventative double mastectomy decision stopped doing slow pans of her boobs and actually focused on those things—things that actually affect the real-life health experience of the average American working woman? What a concept.

I officially give up on Black radio stations that play Hip Hop.

Seriously.

I’m over the disrespect. Finished with the blatant disregard for the audience. Totally through with their insistence on force-feeding curse-filled, misogynistic, lyrical porn through the airwaves and expecting this self-respecting, intelligent, passionate African American mother to take it to the head, sans complaint or concern.

What’s got my Victoria’s Secrets in a bunch? Last week, on my way back from dropping my kids off at school, I tuned into Atlanta’s R&B/Hip Hop station V103 to listen to one of my favorite morning show hosts, Ryan Cameron and his cast of funny, down-to-Earth co-horts (whom I can’t listen to with kids in the car) when on came a new song fresh off the New Orleans plantation that is Cash Money Records: Birdman’s “Tapout,” featuring Lil’ Wayne, Future, Mack Maine and Nicki Minaj. What I heard was so foul, so vile, so effing inappropriate, that I actually had visions of smashing my own damn radio with a sledgehammer. Witness the opening lyrics to this musical madness, courtesy of Wayne:

If you hating you just need some p*ssy
She f*cked up when she gave me some p*ssy
I said I f*ck you better than that other nigga
She say Tune I’m about to c*m, I say I’m coming which you
She don’t like them pretty niggas, see dirty niggas
She ride this d*ck, her t*tties jiggle, that’s my pillows
That’s because I sleep in that ho
Hit it when I wake up tell the pigs I say assalam alaikum ugh
My b*tch a choosy lover never f*ck without a rubber
Sweet yellow bone thing I call her honey mustard
P*ssy like a sea shell, d*ck like a V-12
She say I drive her crazy, I say just keep on your seatbelt
Bend it over bust it open for me
Baby bend it over bust it open for me
She say she love me she loves this d*ck
Come put that million dollar p*ssy on me make me rich
Tunechi

The chorus and the rest of the lyrics, including those from Minaj, a celebrity judge on one of the most wholesome family shows on primetime, American Idol, are equally crude. The curses and smut are smudged out, but it’s clear what is being said and conveyed.

And V103, a top Atlanta radio station that bills itself “The People’s Station,” was playing that song at 8:24 a.m.

In the morning, y’all.

Not that playing “Tapout” at 8:24 p.m. would have made hearing it on radio any better, but really, what human being with sense and sensibilities and even a modicum of decency is okay with turning on a mainstream, free-to-the-public, anybody-can-hear-it-at-anytime radio show and hearing a rapper telling women to “bend it over and bust it open for me” before the eggs and coffee can settle in the belly?

I’m not mad at Birdman, Lil’ Wayne, Future or Nicki, et. al. I expect this from these artists. For years, their vile, explicit lyrics have literally fueled the rap game, earning them accolades, street and club cred and hundreds of millions of dollars, all while encouraging practically every rapper who’s come behind them to wax ad nauseum about phat asses, red bones, illicit drugs, alcohol abuse, cunnilingus, a variety of sexual positions, strip club antics and a consistent message that bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks to be used at a man’s discretion, whenever the mood strikes him, a woman’s pleasure or consent be damned.

There is an audience for this, no doubt. And between YouTube, iTunes, Spotify, Pandora and all the other places fans can seek out and enjoy their favorite artists’ music, finding these songs isn’t all that difficult—nowhere as difficult, for sure, as it was when we were younger and we had to actually go to a record store (remember those?) and search through the stacks for the cassette tape (remember those?) of the music we craved.

So really, there’s no reason radio stations need to play this mess on the radio—not when audiences can listen to it in their own privacy, and certainly not when the world is full of awesome music that doesn’t involve debasing women, disrespecting our children and encouraging boys and men to treat us like mindless animals, good for nothing more than providing the holes they need to get off.

And still, Hip Hop stations—even those that claim to be for “the people,” play it. Repeatedly. Unabashedly. With abandon.

Which makes them as complicit, if not more so, than the artists who traffic in this filth.

Please understand: I’m no C. Delores Tucker. I’m a journalist who values free speech—who is keenly aware of its import. But also, I am a woman, a wife, a mother, a consumer and a human being, and I expect that the businesses that I support treat me as such. I’ve asked Atlanta’s V103, “The People’s Station,” time and time again via Tweets to be mindful of this as they choose the music they play during Ryan Cameron’s morning show—a show that I thoroughly enjoy when the music isn’t playing—but all I’ve gotten is… crickets.

And “bend it over and bust it open for me.”

And Lil Wayne’s “Good Kush and Alcohol,” with Drake promising that he’s okay, “Long as my bitches love me.”

And Rihanna “pouring it up” in strip clubs where her “bands make your girl go down.”

And Kelly Rowland directing her lover to give her “kisses down low, make me arch my back, when you give it to me slow, baby just like that.”

As if great contemporary music by artists like Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, Maxwell, Mindless Behavior, Justin Timberlake, Ledisi, Raphael Saadiq, Dwele, Bilal, Common, Chrisette Michele, India.Aire, Janelle Monae and the like, plus newer artists we’ve never heard but who deserve a shot at a wider audience, don’t exist.

I promise you, I’m over it.

If it’s going to keep claiming to be “The People’s Station,” maybe V103 and other R&B stations that play Hip Hop could take some queues from Michigan radio station 103.7 The Beat and bar songs with foul lyrics that encourage and promote violence, drugs and the abuse of women from its playlists. Something tells me, though, that what the people who listen to the station want doesn’t matter. That much is clear.

Which means: Black radio, you just lost one.

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Child Safety Sign 360 Degrees, a self-installable sign warning drivers from every direction to slow down and watch for children, sponsored this post.

We spent a whole lot of time talking to Sweet Baby Jesus behind our neighbor Danny. I mean, nice kid. But he had about as much sense as a baby billy goat. And when he got his license and the keys to that white Mustang?

Whoa.

Overnight, that then-16-year-old turned our sweet suburban subdivision, with its beautiful lake and it’s picturesque, flower-spruced main road and quiet cul-de-sacs into the last leg on the Indy 500. You could hear him coming—that rumble of the engine, that screech of his brakes, his music blaring louder than that piping through the front row speakers of a hyped Grateful Dead concert.

And when he came around that bend by the lake and that street opened up to the wide, long strip of road through our neighborhood, all bets were off: senior citizens, kids, dogs, stray squirrels—none of them mattered. Danny was going to gun it.

Speed limit? 20 mph. Danny’s speed limit? Very clearly, he had none.

A couple of the neighbors complained to everybody but Danny. My husband and I sent word to the boy through our son, who sometimes hung out with Danny, for him to slow the heck down and save the racing for I-85. Somebody called the law a few times (as discussed in our neighborhood association meetings), but that only translated into police posting up in the cul de sac near the entrance and ticketing the law-abiding, more conscientious drivers for hitting two or three miles over the speed limit.

Danny never seemed to get caught.

Thank God he never hit anybody with that rumbling, speeding Mustang. But I can’t help but to think that he would have slowed down a bit if he had some kind of eye-level visual queue reminding him as soon as he entered our neighborhood that he needed to pump his brakes. Big time.

Which is where the Child Safety Signs 360 Degrees would have come in quite handy. The sign is like a bright orange ball of awesome: its high visibility graphics, set against an orange and white background that, at first blush, looks like a traffic barrel or regulatory buoy, warns drivers from every direction to “Watch For Children” and drive “Slow.” The sign, with its unique patent-pending design, easily attaches around mailbox posts, outdoor light posts, fences, driveway reflector stakes and even tree trunks, making it easier to place the sign at drivers’ eye level, where it practically screams, “Hey! Pump the brakes! You know there are babies around here! Somebody can get hurt, doggonit!”

Bonus: the sign, at 28” x 23”, attaches to posts by way of a two-way, all-weather adhesive, so you won’t have to worry about that bad boy falling down, and its material, printing process and adhesive are far more long-lasting than those wimpy “Go Slow” yard signs that I’ve seen popping up in some of our neighboring subdivisions.

The Child Safety Signs 360 Degrees is available at HomeDepot.com or www.safetysigns360.com for $17.99, and if you order at least three, shipping is free. Get your neighborhood association to buy a few, or talk to the neighbors about pooling your cash to buy a handful for your neighborhood. The signs also are great for areas around preschools and day care centers, apartment complexes, neighborhood associations, schools, summer camps and recreation areas.  Safety Signs, Inc., which designed and produced the signs, is also making them available at a discount to certain nonprofit groups, like dance schools and churches, for fundraisers.

If I weren’t so busy trying to hang mine around the neighborhood, I might consider attaching one to the hood of Danny’s car. Or maybe his forehead. (I kid. Kinda.)

Do you have a “Danny” in your neighborhood? Do you want a Child Safety Sign 360 Degrees of your own to slow your “Danny” down? Leave a comment by midnight Friday, May 17, 2013, telling me why you’d like the sign and SafetySigns.com will send three lucky MyBrownBaby readers, chosen via Random.org, free signs. Good luck!

By HEATHER HOPSON

The Call

“She’s in!” That’s what the director of a nationally recognized preschool told me over the telephone last week. Those two words triggered tears of joy—joy that my daughter will receive a top-notch education, and tears of pain—pain that my bank account will take a huge hit when I cut a check for the tuition each month. Did I mention my daughter isn’t even old enough to attend the school yet? I placed her on the waiting list for the two-year-old classroom shortly after she blew out the candle on her first birthday cake. Since I am a certified reading teacher who once worked at a high needs school, I know first-hand how important it is to start building an educational foundation early on. I read to my daughter when she was in the womb. Right now, she is mastering her phonics with my aunt, a retired preschool teacher. Some people might say I force her to learn. But I would respond that she enjoys learning. She’s a sponge–absorbing every bit of information she comes across. And each day, she amazes me with her knowledge.  Last night, she pointed to the ground and yelled, “Snow, snow!” I talk to her as if she is an adult. On the way to the car each morning, I tell her about the weather or the trees. A few weeks ago, she came down the hall saying, “Apple, apple.” I figured she wanted a snack, but when I looked up, she was holding the piece of fruit in her hand.The Classroom

According to a 2002 Harvard study entitled Getting Parents “Ready” for Kindergarten: The Role of Early Childhood Education,” when families are involved in their children’s early childhood education, children may experience greater success when they enter elementary school. Based on what I witnessed in the classroom, that is true. Some of my students read on a 3rd grade reading level when they were getting ready to go to high school. One class struggled with a book my 7-year-old nephew was reading for fun. I questioned authority as to why I had to teach my kids how to write an expository essay when they didn’t know how to write a proper paragraph. I wondered how they could thoroughly analyze The Willow and the Ginkgo when several students thought the word velvet in the poem referred to a color.  Confused, I asked them to explain, and they told me, “You know, like red velvet cake.” I desperately sought advice from a teacher down the hall. She told me that she didn’t assign homework, because they weren’t going to do it.

 The Challenge 

Instead of feeling sorry for my kids and sorry for myself, I raised my expectations. I assigned Drake songs to analyze and brought in rappers and spoken work artists to co-teach the rest of the poetry unit.  I closed the textbook, photocopied an August Wilson play and transformed my third floor classroom—which was barely air-conditioned—into the hot 1930s with props I dug up in my apartment. Changes weren’t only on the outside. They were on the inside as well.  Soon, my class repeated my favorite phrases like, “Doing half your work is 50-percent, and 50-percent is failing,” and “You use profanity in middle school only when your vocabulary is limited.” One young lady told me that I was the first person to tell her she was smart. Surprised, I said I wouldn’t be the last. Another wrote me a letter, saying that I was his favorite teacher, because I didn’t accept his excuses. I made him come to class, participate and second think joining a so-called gang. Although they believed I taught them how to read, they taught me so much more. They taught me how to be a good mother, because they let me practice on parenting them. Pregnant and unmarried, they taught me that my daughter wouldn’t be less of a person because her father didn’t live in the same home.

The Interview

Although my time teaching was short, it taught me that an achievement gap exists. The gap can close, starting with early childhood education and dedicated, effective teachers like the ones at my school who stayed after work longer than the janitors and engaged their students in learning day after day.  So, when I met Dr. Steve Perry, my education hero, recently at the Disney Dreamers Academy, I was excited to talk to him about getting our kids the education they deserve. 

Heather: Why is early childhood education so vital?

Dr. Perry: Too many of our people in our community don’t have access to it and they come to school ill-prepared. And when I say come to school ill-prepared, I don’t just mean academically, I mean behaviorally.  A number of students do not know how to sit still or participate in a regular school day.  So it takes them a number of years, especially boys, to get comfortable with it, if they ever get comfortable at all.

Heather: What about parents getting comfortable? A recent Harvard study reported that parents’ positive experiences with early childhood programs could help them prepare for connecting with their children’s elementary schools.  What would you say to parents who don’t know how to interact with the school system?

Dr. Perry: Parents need to understand how to communicate with the school.  This is where your child is—love it or hate it.  Until that changes, you have to figure out a way to build the appropriate relationships with them, so they can support you.

Heather: Often society paints the picture that children are less likely to achieve academically if they don’t live with both parents.  I totally disagree. My smartest students weren’t successful just because they had God-given abilities.  They obtained success in the classroom in part because they received support at home.  They had a caring adult in their corner—a mom, a dad, an aunt or a grandparent—advocating for their education.

Dr. Perry: Sometimes children don’t have access to their family, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t be successful.  So having caring adults who are consistently involved in their life is vital. It’s great if those people could be their parents, but it’s not a necessity.

Heather: You can overcome any obstacle. Your mother gave birth to you on her 16th birthday. You also talked about your father being in prison yet he still had a positive impact on your educational experience.  He told you, “If success doesn’t move you, try failure.”

Dr. Perry: Right. It’s very easy for us to look around—especially those of us who don’t have a lot of positive role models in our life, to look around and bemoan the fact that they don’t exist. But  that doesn’t change the fact that we can still make the most out of our environment. I can’t change where my kids live, but I can change how my kids view where they live. They can view where they live as the end of the story or as the beginning.

Heather: Thank you Dr. Perry for taking time to talk to parents. It was wonderful meeting you!

How are you getting a head start on your child’s education? What are you looking for in a preschool program?

Heather Hopson once hosted a television show in the Cayman Islands. Today, she’s back home writing a different kind of story as a new mom for her blog,  Diary of a First Time Mom. Heather is also a regular contributor for Kidville’s Voices from the Ville and Black and Married with Kids, where she pens “The Single Life” column. Follow her motherhood journey on Twitter @dearmomdiary.

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Editor’s Note: This will be the 10th Mother’s Day I’ll have without her, and though I’m sure it will nowhere near as painful as the first, Sunday won’t be easy. A decade doesn’t change that I still wish I could hear her voice again, or see her smile, or wrap my arms around her waist and tell her just one more time that I love her. I adore her with abandon. Still. Another woman made this so. And I am grateful to her, too. I wrote this post a few years ago, to celebrate not just my mother but the woman who bore me. This is for the both of them. Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy. Love’s to weak to define…

By DENENE MILLNER

I was 12 years old when I found my adoption papers tucked in a metal box under my parents’ bed. Too young to process alone the gravity of finding out my mother and father were not, in a biological sense, my mother and father, and way too scared to ask questions.  My mother went to her grave not knowing that I knew and that I had kept her secret for more than 20 years. My dad came clean about it the day we buried the woman we both loved more than air.  The details about how my parents came to adopt me are, to this day, scarce: My parents, having had two foster children both boys in their care, wanted a girl. And so they went to an orphanage in downtown Manhattan in search of a chocolate dewdrop of a baby and there I was, in a crib in a dark corner of the basement, chubby and curly-haired and giggly, arms outstretched toward the man who, with his wife, would love me and nurture me and care for me and pray for me for the rest of our days.

I don’t talk about this much with my father; it’s still an uneasy conversation to have. For him. For me. I don’t want him to think for a second that I have some kind of grand scheme to go searching for my birth parents. Because really, I don’t. I’ve known for what seems like forever that I have no interest in such folly; Bettye Millner is my mother and James Millner is my father and it is what it is and that’s that. The Heavens made this so.  I see absolutely no reason to change the order of this thing.

Still, I always pause when I read stories like this, about a 14-year-old facing manslaughter charges for neonaticide after police found a newborn, lifeless, in a plastic bag in the girl’s room earlier this week. Police were dispatched to the teen’s house after her parents rushed her to the emergency room, bleeding from complications after having given birth. The girl’s parents were clueless about the pregnancy, the birth, and the fact that their grandchild laid dead in their daughter’s room either having died at birth or having been murdered.

I know that but for the grace of God, this could have been my fate. The woman who carried me in her belly for nine months easily could have been a teenager, frightened by the prospects of having to tell her parents that she was sexually active and with child—a child that she could not reasonably raise on her own. She could have been a young mother, hands already too full with the duty of raising a grip of kids she could barely feed and clothe and house back in the late 60s, when meaningful work and decent pay never seemed to come easy to women, especially black ones. She could have been raped and impregnated by a stranger—or maybe someone she knew. Someone she thought she loved and who was supposed to love her. She could have gotten pregnant in a lustful tryst with a man who was not her significant other—her belly full of the evidence of her infidelity. She could have been many things. Or none of these at all.

In my mind, though, I like to think of my birth mother as selfless. After all, she could have easily given birth to me in secret, ashamed and scared and in deep denial—a pain so searing that she saw no other way out but to take my life. Or she could have found herself on a table in the backroom of an illegal abortion clinic, desperate for a way to end my life to save her own.

Instead, though, this woman gave me life by giving me away. She, or someone she knew, left me on a stoop, I’m told, somewhere down on Canal Street. As far as I know, there was no note—no details, no explanations, no promises. Just the expectation that the people who ran the orphanage would find a decent home for the chocolate dewdrop of a baby with the chubby cheeks and the curly hair, with arms outstretched, looking for a mom and dad to love me and nurture me and care for me and pray for me for the rest of my days.

It could be that my vision of what led me to that stoop on that day at that particular time—just four days before my parents came looking for me—is more romantic than the truth. Or maybe it’s spot on. Whatever it is, I know this much is true: I am forever grateful to her, this woman who gave me life, for letting me live and loving me enough not only to want for me what she knew she couldn’t provide but having the strength to find someone who could. It was a decision that led me to this specific place at this specific time—to a life filled with love and joy and peace and beauty.

What I’m sure she wanted for her baby girl.

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I was a young reporter when I met her—flat stomach, full of energy, still eating popcorn and rainbow sherbert for dinner, still 120 lbs. soaking wet. Despite having awesome health insurance, I’d gone years without seeing a doctor of any kind. When you’re in your 20s, laying on a table with your legs up in the air while a total stranger peers at and feels all over your goodies is never at the top of your list of things to do.

But she insisted I come see her. A woman, she said, needs to keep track of her health–no matter how uncomfortable, no matter how busy, no matter how fearful, no matter what. And so I called her office and made an appointment and not even two weeks later, I was on Dr. Hilda Hutcherson’s table, having my lady parts examined.

I’d submitted to nurse practitioners at local clinics when I was a college student; how else to get low-cost birth control without involving your parents? But Hilda was my first real gynecologist. Work brought her to me and me to her; as a young features writer for the New York Daily News, I was searching for a story to whip up for Mother’s Day, and her book, “Having Your Baby: For the Special Needs of Black Mothers-To-Be, From Conception To Newborn Care,” just happened to be floating around the newsroom and so it just made sense for me to write a piece about the joys and challenges of black mothers. Mind you, I didn’t have any babies of my own—wasn’t even thinking about being a mother anytime soon. But even then, back in 1997, a full two years before I would have a baby of my own, giving a voice to and telling the stories of African American mothers was important to me. Necessary. Witness what Hilda told me when, for this Daily News Mother’s Day story, I asked her how she balanced a thriving Upper East Side practice, writing books, and a husband and four kids:

“It’s a tradition of mothering that goes back hundreds of years,” Hutcherson offers simply. “I think that black women have always been valiant for their ability to do multiple things at the same time. They mother their children and take care of other people’s children, sometimes breast-feeding your baby and their babies, too . . . take care of the household, raise children, be a wife, work hard for little recognition and pay, and do it all well on limited means.

“I think that was very hard for my mother, her mother and other African-American women but somehow they managed. I was always taught that I could, too.”

Sure, some could argue that the civil rights movement and Martin Luther King Jr. made it so that, today, there’s really no difference between, say, an African-American mother with a career and a white counterpart with all the same responsibilities. But that counterpart probably wouldn’t have thought about it for longer than two minutes.

Most African-American women will tell you there’s an added struggle with being a black mother an extra pile of junk in the trunk. There are the stereotypes (all black mothers are single and on welfare), the hardships (pay scales, though better today, are still the lowest for black women) and the racism (people treat her differently or badly because she’s black).

It is our story. Our truth. Hilda’s too. Still, Hilda soldiered on—managed well. Since then, she’s become a leading authority on women and sexuality, having written three books geared to helping us be smarter about and get more pleasure from sex; worked as a sexual health columnist at Essence and Glamourmagazines and served as an expert on the Today Show and in O, The Oprah Magazine; served as a Clinical Professor of Obstetrics and Gynecology and Associate Dean for Diversity and Minority Affairs at Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons; and, through it all, ushered four babies through childhood (her youngest is 15).

While Hilda’s fancy titles, Oprah connects and sexual empowerment talks are impressive, none of them can compare to why I love her. It was she, after all, who, along with my husband, was present on one of the most important days of my life—she whose hands guided my first baby into the land of the living.

The crazy part is that she wasn’t even supposed to be there in my delivery room, you know. Hilda was on vacation when her colleague, worried that my baby would be too big to push through my teeny birth canal, called me in to the hospital to be induced. Of course, it was a tad heartbreaking that Hilda wouldn’t be in the delivery room with me, but I’d met all except one of her partners in her practice, and all of them were awesome so I wasn’t too worried… until the one doctor who’d never met me showed up to my labor room to introduce herself. She was disconnected, I was unimpressed. But when my water broke and those contractions kicked in, I didn’t give a damn who was wearing the catcher’s mitt—I just wanted the baby O.U.T.

Still, when the nurse announced I’d dilated enough to push, like a fairytale princess riding in on the prettiest white stallion, Hilda waltzed into my labor and delivery room. You can’t tell me there wasn’t a soft white light shining down on her head as she made her way over to the bed, the most beautiful, relaxed smile on her face.

It was just after 2 a.m.

And with the assistance of a nurse whose name I didn’t think to get, Hilda used her calm, soothing voice and her steady hands and her mighty powers to coax my Mari, my firstborn, the love of my life, out of my womb and, within 20 minutes of pushing, into my arms.

She may not recognize, remember or think that what she did for me that night was all that special; goodness only knows how many babies Hilda Hutcherson delivered in her years as a well-respected, top OB-GYN in one of the busiest cities in the world. But I will never, ever forget Hilda—the kindness she showed to me, the kindness she showed my body, the kindness she demanded I give myself by taking care of my health. And for sure, I’ll never forget that she left her vacation and drove three hours in the middle of the night to help me receive the most precious Mother’s Day gift this mom could ever receive: flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood—my beautiful baby girl.

Hilda stopped delivering babies shortly after Mari was born. I am so very grateful that she squeezed one more in before she changed her focus and took herself out of the delivery room.

For my baby’s pre-natal care, for my baby’s safe passage into this world, Hilda, I simply say, God bless you.

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Editor’s Note: Tarsha Hamilton is a woman who wears many hats. She is a singer/songwriter who has traveled the world sharing her gift. Married to R&B superstar Anthony Hamilton, Tarsha shares her experience as a wife and mother in the new anthology Where Did Our Love Go: Love and Relationships in the African American Community, edited by bestselling author Gil Robertson.

THE POWER OF ADAPTING
By TARSHA HAMILTON

I want women to be encouraged when they are in relationships. Don’t sabotage your own happiness. I think a lot of women – especially when they’ve been single for a long time – don’t even know they’re sabotaging their situation. They’re already coming in expecting too much from their man. And men run from that. They do.

So you’re like, “How did this chick over here, who doesn’t have anything going for herself, how’d she end up with a man like that? I have a college degree, my own house, and I’m doing this and that, but I can’t get a man?” It’s because you’re too power hungry. You’re used to running things yourself. You’ve got to back all that down so he can be the man. Men need to feel like they can be the man.

We shouldn’t settle, but don’t expect the moon and the stars because you’re not going to get it.

I think a lot of times we expect men to complete us, a marriage to complete us, and that’s exactly the total opposite of reality. When you sign on that dotted line and you say,” I do,” you’re committing to a job. It’s work. And you’re only rewarded from the work that you put in.

And then, people don’t get this: The ego has to go. It’s impossible for people to stay married with egos. I think that’s why we see a lot of what we do—in Hollywood, especially. Because you have these two power people and eventually those egos are going to clash and consume what they thought was going to be magical and last forever. There is only so long that you can suppress those egos.

I’m sure there are women who look at me and think that I have the perfect life. But they don’t see the tears. They don’t see all the praying and they don’t see the stuff that goes into making it work.

Marriage alone requires so much work, and if you don’t have a solid relationship, the kids can throw a nice wrench in it. We were married for five years when the twins came—five, almost six years, so we’ll be married seven years in August 2012—and that was a long time to be together. It’s actually going on a nine-year relationship. I think that had we had our kids sooner, I’m not sure how our relationship would have turned out.

What has got us through was trust and knowing that even though it’s not perfect, we aren’t going to leave each other. Because it gets to a place where a woman goes through some fear and insecurity, especially when she’s pregnant, and nobody can prepare you for that. Nobody really talks about how insecure you feel about your body during and after pregnancy, when your body has been stretched out and looks different. You don’t have this young, beautiful body anymore. Add to that being married to a celebrity who has women constantly throwing themselves, of course makes things even more challenging.

Since the twins were born, the time that we gave to each other was forwarded to them. So we ended up doing the thing we said we wouldn’t do, and kind of ended up neglecting each other. Sometimes because you’re giving so much to the kids, you find yourself too tired even to put in the effort. He’s a very hands-on dad. So it was taxing on us. He wanted to do things his way, and I wanted to take care of them my way, so we found ourselves arguing more than agreeing.

Raising the kids is just something else for you to have to agree on with your partner. Down to what they wear, to the toys we buy. Every single thing is a decision. But as they get older, we’ve learned to choose our battles. We find ourselves parenting them more together now instead of parenting them separately. I think I give in a lot more. I allow Anthony to do things how he wants to. I think I used to put up a fight more, wanting to control a little bit more of what goes on with the twins.

My marriage could have easily taken a fall if I continued to struggle with being an artist and not being able to do what I want to do, and if I continued to resent my husband because I felt I was stuck home with the children. With that attitude, I’m going to lose in the end because I’m not stepping up to the plate by staying home. I have to consider what makes sense here. He’s already celebrity status and he’s the breadwinner at this point. Why would he sacrifice for me to build when he’s already successful?

What I’ve come to realize is that I am a part of his success, because my presence allows him to go out and tour with peace of mind, knowing his family is taken care of, that the children are being loved by their mother. The house becomes home and it’s beautiful and peaceful, and he can come home to a meal or to whatever. I’m a part of this machine, I’m a part of this working and that’s the big picture.

You can read the rest of Tarsha’s essay, plus the thoughts of 40 other prominent African Americans from the world of the arts, medicine, religion and academia in the anthology Where Did Our Love Go: Love and Relationships in the African American Community, available online and wherever books are sold. For more information on the book, visit www.wheredidrlovego.com or check out the author, Gil Robertson, on Facebook and Twitter.