Black Babies and Clocks

I went shopping today.

I bought some firsts for each of my kids. Training pants for one, school supplies for the other.

Some might say they are both a little too young for these things, but knowing their potential, knowing what they are already capable of, to not help them along will limit them. They are showing signs that they are ready.

These kids are Black boys. So when I see them growing, I’m cheering for them, louder than the whole rest of the world. I also feel what can only be described as dread; begging time to slow down long enough for the world to be saved… For the world to be changed before I release them or before they are taken from me.

Most days, I’m okay, going through the motions of arguing over whether or not they should have 2 cookies or 4, chasing kids around to get them changed or dressed or ready for bed. But then there are days like today, and I don’t want to get out of bed. I want to pile in with my husband and kids and hold them all while making them laugh and telling them how much I love them until we are exhausted and fall asleep. I want to hide. 

The world is still happening outside of our bedroom. People are still filled with hate and power. People fighting their hate are still being labeled criminals. Our world is upside down. I just hold them tightly, breathe in their innocence and youth and keep watching the clock. I can’t help but watch the clock.

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