While my son is at the Y playing basketball, I’m trying to figure out which hat I’ve got on.  You know, out of the closet full of hats I’ve got: designer (I do design work for a company that creates and sells items for preschoolers), Mom (well he’s at the Y and Sara’s away in college, so I can set that hat on the back of my head for a few minutes), wife (okay, Ron’s out of town), writer — blogging counts.  Also performer, speaker, artist, daughter, friend.  My friend hat may have been slipping lately.  I may have lost one along the way due to all the hat switching.

When you’ve only got one head (and that’s all I’ve seen in the mirror) you have to make choices.  Mostly my friends understand.  My parents have been patient.  My employer doesn’t want to hear about it.  I pick and choose.  Lay some things aside,  pick others up.  But my Mom hat, though occasionally pushed back from my forehead, is never hung up.  No matter what else I am, I’m always Mom.  Even if it’s long distance with my girls or with one ear tuned to hear my son’s key in the door.

The pictures at the top are some of my functional art pieces  (Yeah, every now and then I get in the studio to create.)  The first one, “6 impossible things before breakfast” is a mirror I made after reading this fun quote from “Alice in Wonderland”

I can’t believe that!” said Alice.
“Can’t you?” the Queen said in a pitying tone. “Try again: draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.”
Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said: “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

The chair in the second picture is the first in a series of 4.  I call it “goddess I, the mother”  It’s one of my favorites.

He really likes pasta in white sauce.  It’s his favorite dish that I make.  But I stayed at the office later than I’d planned and didn’t get to the supermarket until after 7 p.m.  And I needed to go by and help my mother-in-law with her meds.  (She’s a very sharp 95, but all those pills with that tiny little print get to be a bit much.)  And by the time I got home Simeon had already left with friends to watch a basketball game at a nearby high school and I was exhausted.  The groceries are still sitting on the kitchen counter.  I ate take-out chicken.  I had planned to cook dinner with my son and to talk about what was happening in school.  We were going to make a plan for the rest of the semester.  It seemed like a great plan, but it didn’t happen.  The whole week has been like that.  My little brother Rod and his girlfriend came to town, I worked late several nights.  My son had basketball, drama and dance practice.   We  passed each other in the night.   I wish it were as easy as it is on TV.

Sara went on her first date when she was six. Now don’t start getting all excited. We didn’t let her walk out the door and hop on the back of an 8 year old’s 3-speed. (Hey, she had her own bike!)  She went on a date with her Daddy. He asked her out very formally, “I’d like the honor of taking you out to dinner.” She was so excited! She dressed in a long sleeveless dress that was lavender and covered with flowers and she wore patent leather shoes and her white sweater. She had matching barettes on the ends of her braids. Her daddy wore a jacket and tie. He held the door for her when they reached the car and he held her seat for her when they reached the Italian restaurant. This was just a Daddy/Daughter thing. I wasn’t invited. They had a wonderful time. “I wanted to show her how she should be treated,” he told me.

Sara and her daddy had several more dates over the years and at 16 we actually allowed her to date people she wasn’t related to! (She could go out in groups before then — she wasn’t on complete lock down!) My daughter is 19 now and she still remembers that first date. During her senior year of high school she wrote a paper about that evening. She said it made her feel special, and she liked that. I like that too. She is special. She deserves to be treated well. (We all do actually.) And she’s one of my favorite people.

Chris Brown could be my son. I mean, really. He’s a handsome guy. So is my son. He’s amazingly talented. So is my son. He can dance his butt off. So can my son. His singing can make even a grown Mama pay attention. My son has a beautiful voice. He is a Golden Boy. So is my son.

Except — right now Chris Brown’s looks and talent are overshadowed by the actions of this past weekend. And the question we’re asking is: How did this happen? How did this beautiful talented guy end up the center of rabid attention for beating his gorgeous girlfriend? I mean, he doesn’t look like a thug. He doesn’t appear to be the kind of guy I warn my daughter about. But there’s more to each of us than our appearance. There’s more to us than even we know. Right now I’m pretty sure even Chris Brown is asking himself, “What happened?”

I talked to my son, Simeon, about the situation as we drove to school today. (I was driving. He’s got his permit, but I’m more comfortable behind the wheel.) “Did you hear about Chris Brown and Rihanna?” I asked. “Yeah,” he responded, that’s messed up. She had bite marks and stuff.” “Wow,” I said, “that had to be a lot of rage for him to lose it like that.” We were quiet for a while as we crossed the bridge. “Son, ” I said, “If you ever find yourself in a situation where you feel like you’re losing control, walk away. Really, man, unless you are struggling for your own life there is never any reason to hurt a woman.” Sim nodded, grunting. We talked some more about men who hit and the women who leave — or sometimes stay. He said, “I know some girls right here at school though, who keep getting beat up and they keep going back. That seems stupid.” Yeah, I guess it does. But I can’t begin to understand their stories or what deep inside them leads them to make the choices that they make. They probably aren’t sure themselves. I doubt even Chris Brown knows what rose up from some place inside him that led him to hurt someone he cared for. He could be my son. But he’s not. I can’t reach out to him. But I can reach my son and tell him to walk away. That every woman is somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister. I can tell my son that a man is responsible for his actions. He is someone who protects, not someone who we have to be protected from. Chris Brown and Rihanna are in my prayers. My son is in my prayers and in my house.