There is something about life that changes when a person becomes a parent. Specifically, for the person who carries a child and brings them into this world, the resulting event is far greater than just a physiological change. For me, I became a different person after having my first child, my oldest son. As a Black mother of Black children, I started a process of frequent mourning that I simply wasn’t prepared for.
The very publicized deaths of Black children have been constants throughout the building of my family.
My oldest son was three years old when 7-year-old Aiyana Stanley-Jones was murdered in her living room while napping next to her grandmother. When 17-year-old Trayvon Martin was killed, I had just welcomed a baby girl. And, when 12-year-old Tamir Rice was killed in cold blood in November 2014 by Cleveland police officers, I was still nursing my third child, another boy. As these Black mothers were mourning the losses of their babies, I was doing my best to preserve and protect my own amidst the constant reminder that they could be taken from me at any moment.
Read the full article at Water Cooler Convos.