I’m an African American mom with brown babies, and I take great pleasure in writing about the issues that moms of color and mothers of children of color face as we raise our kids. And while I happily co-sign the idea that at the base of it, all we moms want the same things for our children -- for them to be happy, healthy, smart, kind, honest, trustworthy, successful human beings -- we simply do not all parent the same, and there absolutely ARE issues that I deal with as an African American mom that white moms would never have to think about if they’re not raising a brown child.

It’s not that I hated how I looked, really. It’s just that after a while, it was hard to be judged, and not start co-signing the judgments. Maybe my skin was a little too dark. My hair a little too kinky. My affinity for books and dolls and sewing a little too nerdy. My butt and hips a little too big for a kid my age.

I wasn’t perfect.

Plenty of folks -- mostly adults -- stood at the ready to remind me of this. Picking on kids and their flaws was, like, a thing for the grown-ups in my life. Adult cousins thought nothing of saying I shouldn’t play in the sun because I was “dark enough as it is”; my mom’s grown friends often clucked that the chlorine from the pool would make my hair “even nappier.” One woman, the mother of my best friend, made a point of telling me every time she saw me that I was “getting fat.”

My talk with my mom about menstruation went something like this:

Me: “Mommy? We learned about periods in health class today. The teacher said we should get this kit. It comes with books and pads and stuff.”

My mom: “Okay.”

Uh, huh. That was the end of the conversation. She ordered the kit for me -- it came with three books about puberty and an assortment of pads and tampons -- and when it arrived, she handed it to me and we never talked about periods again.

I have a friend who has achieved every kind of success known to womankind, from school and career to perfect hair and flawless skin, but her mother is deeply disappointed in my friend's choice of future husband. It's unfathomable to me, that such a thing could cancel out the entire string of her life's A-pluses, but I suppose it's difficult to let go of the picture you create for your child's future.

A born people pleaser, I've spent an embarrassing amount of time examining all the ways I might be letting my parents, Phillip's parents (really, ANYONE) down. After my friend shared her trials with her mother, my ruminations on disappointment took me all the way to high school, where I seriously wondered if my high school English teacher would be disappointed that I spend my days chasing after two small children (and, shudder, blogging) instead of trying to get my fifth book published. Or something like that. I can get really ridiculous about this stuff.

But one thing I haven't thought much about, at least not until Phillip asked me a few days ago, is what my kids might do that will disappoint me.

Living in Texas with its rather ambiguous seasons, it is not always easy to tell when spring cleaning time should fall. One day you are in coats and gloves, the next you are sweating in shorts and a tank top, wondering to yourself where spring went and how you missed it. Over the years, I have found small, subtle ways of finding that perfect window when I can finally throw open the windows, air out the house and start scrubbing down the crooks and crannies of my home.

I can see it all around me. No, not trees sprouting new buds. The first thing I notice is that the dust bunnies in the corner of the living room are planning a family reunion with the dust bunnies in the game room. Those small bits of dust have grown up and become like silent family pets. However, we can't have those bunnies hosting family reunions all over our home. Once I see the invitations go out, it is time for the eviction notices for those bad boys.