They made me cut the cord. Let me be clear they didn’t “make me” but when a room full of women who are medical professionals hold surgical scissors in your direction and say “who wants to cut the cord” then they all look at you, you can’t NOT do that. I know its sounds weird to some people but I didn’t want to cut the chord. I’m glad I did but I really like to leave the professional work to the professionals, even the easy stuff.

If you go to a deli for a sandwich if they take the time to fry the meat up, put on the lettuce, tomatoes, onions, bread ketchup, and pickles, oils, pepper, salt and even wrap it in that deli paper and slice it for you I figure they can be the one who puts the toothpick in it.

I decided to write down my experiences really more as therapy though this transition. I know therapy and transition usually have negative connotations but I wanted to dedicate something to beauty. Being a parent is like a parallel universe this exists alongside the day to day society. Only others who have dedicated themselves to this cult can truly recognize each other. So far this parenting thing is a lot easier than I thought it would be, probably in part because he only eats one thing, he sleeps a lot and he can’t run.

There is just so much. I have a boy. My wife and I are responsible for the mind and upbringing of a little black boy in North America in the new millennium. There is a lot of subtext…we live in a time where he could run for president and come very close to winning the title or get shot 50 times the night before his wedding and not have any one brought to justice.

But for right now I’ll worry about him sleeping on his face and having to change a diaper (in public) that is so full of fecal matter that it creeps up the back of his pamper and on to his clothing. Then there is the explaining to the person who bought the soiled item why you never see your child in the outfit they handmade.

Baby steps.