Lately there is the thought of another daughter in all of my thoughts and plans. Sisters. The girls. My mind has already created a new category of feminine affection.
"I should start looking for a complimentary antique iron bed for the girls room."
When Sprout and I went to The Nutcracker I bought her a ballerina tree ornament, and I picked up a gorgeous dark skinned ballerina ornament as well, for next year, for sister.
I tuck my favorites of Sprout's outgrown clothes into a visible shelf in my closet, and picked up a gorgeous hand tucked dress too small for Sprout, but not too small for someone...smaller.
Today I found some Anne of Green Gables clips on YouTube, and some Little House on the Prairie, and felt all aflutter in my heart at the loveliness those books and media brought to my girlhood, and the anticipation of sharing them with the girls.
On my knees, scrubbing the ever present drips and runs on the cabinet doors below the sink, it suddenly struck me how amazingly WHITE my treasured childhood stories are. "What are the equivalent time period dramas for little Black girls?" I wondered.
Then my breath caught. My stomach slumped into an instant ache. When Anne was finding her footing on Prince Edward Island, little Black girls were slaves. When the Ingalls were heading West to financial opportunity, little Black girls had no such freedoms.
When I started this blog, navigating a new found awareness of race was front and center in my parenting experience. As we moved to Australia, the myriads of interactions all charged and shadowed with American racial dynamics simply fell away. It felt so free.
These days I find race taking up more of my head space than it has in some time, and I will start to write about it again. I am the mother of white and Black children, and that role takes on such a greater weight in America.
I wonder if there are any wonderful historical book series for African American girls? If not, maybe I will write one. I've always loved children's literature the most.