For the past two weeks my oldest daughter and I have worked very hard on learning fractions. She has struggled with this concept more than any other. Long division was a breeze compared to this.  She was frustrated.  I was frustrated.   I walked her through each problem.  Sometimes we’d only work a few problems then take a break. Nothing seemed to help.  She could answer all my questions as we worked together, but knowing how to set up the word problems that contained fractions still eluded her.  Figuring out what more I could do eluded me.

Every time she came to a problem with a fraction, she would ask for help.  I worked each problem with her, but she did not achieve a greater understanding.  She would need help on the next problem. At wits end, I calmly but firmly refused to help her with her fractions homework. I told her to, “Do your best. If you get it wrong, then it’s just wrong.  You’ll just have to fail this part.”  I figured that we’d just return to it next year.  Hopefully maturing a little would help.

If you think that she finished quickly, you couldn’t be more wrong.  After an hour and a half, she still had not completed the first problem. She sat there insisting that she needed help or crying.  I didn’t think I could help anymore without getting frustrated. I thought her failing this section would be better than the both of us going through the “emotional math wringer”. She eventually started working on the problems and got through all but one (3.5 hours later).   She gave one last ditch, “I need help” for the final problem.  I kept my answer the same, “Just do your best. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong”.

I completely scandalized my friend who overheard this while on the phone with me.  She felt I needed to give her a hug, words of encouragement, then allow her to take a break.  My tactic sounded harsh to her. Yet, I felt like my daughter needed to get through this. There had to be a point when she wouldn’t succeed. Failure had to be an option.

I admit, I felt rather devoid of proper feelings after this conversation. I didn’t want to hug my daughter, dry her tears, and tell her it would be alright.  I sure didn’t feel motherly.  Her tears had not moved me to release her early.  Rather, I was determined that she complete what was started. My daughter failed to learn a lesson properly, and I failed to teach it. It was no longer about the math. There was a bigger lesson here. It was about doing something hard, failing, and getting up again.

When she was finally done, she gave me a hug and said, “It was hard”.  “I know,” I replied “It was hard for me too. You can’t be afraid to fail.”  She looked very sheepish.  I told her that her Aunt thought I should have given her a big hug and a break earlier.  She laughed and said it wouldn’t have worked, she would have gone right back to crying! After I checked her work, she was very pleased to have gotten a few right.  She said the three she got right meant more to her than getting most of her problems right easily, because she had to work so hard.  She was beaming with triumph. She failed and succeeded at the same time. I let her call her Aunt.

Last week I did the normal braid and band in order to wash my hair. I wanted to wash my hair this week, but I didn’t have time to braid, band, and wash before my toddler awoke from her nap.  Therefore, I decided to try a short cut.  Instead of the normal braid-out, I did a “twist-out”.  I basically took the same sized sections that I would use for braiding but twisted them instead. The hair stayed in the twist, and it was much faster than braiding.  I like the results even better than the braid-out.  The braid-out gave my hair tight crinkles, but the twist-out gave it a loose wave. Here are pictures to demonstrate what I mean. My hair is in the same style and the ends are curled under. The only change is braid-out vs. twist-out.  The back of the hair appears different because the twist out caused some of the hair to flip-up. 

 

 Twist-Out

 

 

Yesterday was the first time I washed my locks. I braided and banded my hair the night before.  To control itching, I treated my scalp with full strength apple cider vinegar before washing. I used my fingertips to apply the vinegar.  Personally, I didn’t care for the Sisterlocks shampoo. It didn’t get my scalp clean, but in all fairness I had a lot of skin cells from the subboratic dermatitis.  I ended up washing with the Sisterlocks shampoo, a tea tree shampoo, then the Sisterlocks shampoo again to make sure the tea tree shampoo didn’t leave any conditioning agents in my hair. I looked like a pick-a-ninny for a day, while letting my hair dry in a braid out. I slept on the braids overnight.  This morning I removed each rubber band and carefully curled only the relaxed ends with a curling iron. I rubbed Africa’s Best Ultimate Herbal Oil on my hands. There was a very light layer of oil left on my skin.  I then ran my fingers through my hair to separate.  The result looked pretty good. I don’t think I have much slippage or bunching, and my parts seem a little less visible. Next time I think I’ll wash in the evening.

As my children get older, we sometimes talk about my childhood.  Tales about the past always entertain them and inspire them to try “old” things.  They are often disappointed that many of the adventures I had as a child, are no longer available to them.  Riding a bike all over town and coming home when the street lights came on, was something they could hardly imagine. Tales of the “neighborhood kids” playing outside drew wishful sighs.

This week one of the stories told was about our high school JROTC drill team.  We watched youtube videos of various drill teams, and the kids were very impressed.  My husband pulled out an old rifle and began some basic drills. The kids were very pleased.  When he gave it to me I was stunned that it came back. I had so much fun spinning and throwing the rifle, that I asked to keep it.   Watching me, gave the kids the idea to get sticks and try it.  They made their own routine up.  It was very cool. Of course, later I hear sounds of screaming and found that my husband had turned it into combat. BOYS!

African Icon of Saint Mary of Egypt

    

     For black women, hair is personal. There is so much caught-up in the idea of “hair”, that any other ethnic group probably wouldn’t understand. Social status, economic status, self-esteem, our daily plans are often influenced by our hair. Breaking free from this hair bondage, is something that is often wished for, but never realized. The desire for convenience and the need to be accepted, often keep people on the well traveled, socially acceptable path. When black people ask why I decided to get Sisterlocks, it is a “loaded” question containing all the “drama” of our hair. I will, however, attempt to answer.  My answers are not an indictment of anyone’s choice for their own hair, just an explanation of my decision.

         
                I Chose Sisterlocks Because…
…Because I want to dance in the rain with my kids
…Because my hair doesn’t dictate my exercise
…Because God didn’t make my hair straight
…Because I love the idea of “wash-and-go” hair
…Because there is a better way than burning my scalp
…Because shower caps don’t look good as lingerie
…Because my natural hair is beautiful too
…Because I want a variety of styling options
…Because I want to swim more than once a week
…Because I can open the windows and the sun roof
…Because it’s all natural
…Because umbrellas are optional
…Because I can scratch if my scalp itches
…Because I can wash my hair frequently
…Because I’m a black person with black hair
…Because I can curl them or leave them straight
…Because I have other things to do than my hair
…Because there isn’t just one kind of beauty