Inked

Zsofi Writes

By DaMongMan/ Flickr By DaMongMan/ Flickr

I could sort of make out the outlines of the tattoo on my husband’s arm on the small photo on my phone. He took it in front of our bathroom mirror, holding up his right forearm in front of his face. I had to turn my head to the side to see that there were sun rays and a sword and a heart—some Masonic symbols that I don’t understand and perhaps I am not even allowed to understand. The tattoo stretched from wrist to elbow and wrapped all the way around his arm.

When we got married thirteen years ago, Drew did not have a single tattoo. I don’t think we ever talked about his desire to have one. Now he has four, with a fifth one in the plans. The first ones were modest, easily covered up by shirts and forgotten. I was away on a…

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Why Moms Have Eyes in the Back of Their Heads

Zsofi Writes

Photo by Gabriela Pinto, flickr Photo by Gabriela Pinto, flickr

Sam and I have been locked in an argument about my parenting skills. You see, he thinks that I do not have eyes in the back of my head. And I know that I do.

He is pretty convinced that he is right. He tells me, “Mama, you only have eyes in the front,” and pokes his little fingers at my eyeballs for emphasis. “But look,” I respond, “look right behind all this hair in the back of my head. My eyes are right there. That’s why mamas have long hair.” He digs around in my curls, parts my hair this way and that, just to be sure. “No mama, you are being a clown,” he tells me, laughing.

Despite the physical evidence and his conviction, he does bring up the topic quite often — especially when he is doing something he is not supposed…

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Teaching a child about death

Zsofi Writes

imrs

The assignment at preschool was simple: draw a picture of your family. The teacher stapled 15 little pieces of paper on the bulletin board outside of the classroom once the drawings were finished. There were big families and small families. Families with pets, babies, and families that looked like tiny aliens.

Our family, drawn on a piece of neon green paper with an orange marker, looked like your average stick-figure family. Mama on one side with spiky hair, Sam in the middle, tiny, and Dada on his other side, bald, and a bit taller than the two of us. Above our heads two orbs hovered, spirals of orange marker lines, with helpful notes from the teacher that Sam must have dictated: “My great-grandmother.” And over the other orb: “Grand-pap, my dad’s dad. He was special to me.”

Both great-grandma—my grandmother, whom we called “Dedi”—and grand-pap have been dead for more…

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When Being a Mother Is a Lonely Gig

Zsofi Writes

Zsofia-mothers-631x420

Right before my son was born my mother said something to me that, at the time, didn’t make much sense. She said: “Your husband will love you and support you and will appreciate all of the sacrifices that you are making in raising this child. But in the end, you will be all alone with every big decision, every crisis.”

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, especially recently as the three of us—my son, my husband, and I—were sitting in the emergency room of our local children’s hospital. That morning my 5-year-old woke up and wasn’t able to walk. We thought it might be a cramp from sleeping in a funny position and things seemed to improve as the day wore on—until they didn’t. So here we were, right around dinnertime, in a tiny exam room, eating graham crackers and oranges the nurses brought us.

The full story…

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Why I’ve Had to Change my Definition of Friendship

Zsofi Writes

beautiful african american woman checking her messages.

One of the most vivid memories of my childhood is a bit of an elusive, weird thing: it’s my mother’s devotion to her best friend. My mother felt and “did”—and still does—friendship so exuberantly, so passionately, that when I was a child I could feel the love wash through our house when her friend was around.

Her relationship with her best friend seemed almost like romantic love to me: long talks into the night, visits to the theater, tearful conversations over the phone. They lived on opposites ends of the same street and one night, not being able to finish their conversation and say good-bye, they walked each other home back and forth, several times on the dark, quiet street, until the early morning hours.

To my mother, a friendship is a connection of souls, something to be treasured and protected and nurtured. Friendship is unconditional, never-ending. She was—and is—always…

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My Husband’s Always Traveling. How Is It Affecting Our Son?

Zsofi Writes

travel

Last night my husband’s suitcase was on our bed again. I hate to pack, but I like to help him because I know that otherwise he will look like a sad, worn-out businessman at his destination. I can fit about a week’s worth of shirts and ties and sweaters into his carry-on, and they usually make it to Chicago or Cleveland or Richmond or Kansas City without a wrinkle.

We moved about a year ago for my husband’s job and a promotion, and now that things are going really well for him, his trips come more and more frequently.

I am excited for him. We are young, not yet 40, so when should he move up and ahead in his career, if not now? He loves his job and wants to feel like what he does matters in the world. But lately I’ve been feeling uneasy about his days on…

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Buying Self-Confidence (and Belts) at Taekwondo

Zsofi Writes

motherlode-buy-belt-tmagArticle Illustration by Abigail Gray Swartz

My 5-year-old son bounced toward me with his new trophy and his bright-white taekwondo belt that he had just received from his master. “Mama, look, I did it,” he said, beaming, as we embraced. “We are so proud of you,” my husband said as he took a turn hugging him.

Just a little over two months ago, during his first taekwondo class, my son sat on my lap and cried. “This is too hard, mama,” he said, sobbing. “I can’t do this.” But we stayed for the class, and by the end he was intrigued enough that he wanted to come back. So we did. And now here he was, taking his first test to receive his first belt.

But if I want to be honest with myself, he failed the test. He messed up his form and forgot one part completely. His master was…

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Birthday wish to a Bestiee

 Tomoro been 6th June,I will be celebrating a Bestiee whose Names are Onuzulike Stella Chidimma.

She is special,came from a Noble home. She is third of the five her mum gave birth to,A #Great zikit tho in 100levels buh will soon show Wah she’v got to offer

Wishing you  

  

like youLindaikeji  Great in future dearest……..Like you!!! 

Hair and boobs

Zsofi Writes

On the morning of my 39th birthday, I was grateful for two things: my hair and my boobs.

There were other things too, of course – the way Sam buried his little face in my hair at 5:30 in the morning. The way he and Drew planned how to surprise me with breakfast and cake and presents.

But my hair and boobs were on my mind the most because in the week leading up to my birthday, one friend had to shave her head and another friend found out she might be losing her breasts.

I sort of hate to feel gratitude like this—it seems like such a selfish feeling. Like by being grateful I am saying that I am grateful that YOU have this horrible disease and not me. I am grateful that I have my hair, but too bad about yours. That’s clearly not what I want to…

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