Flip This House!


just another episode of the mama who flips out:

today is Sunday.

on Thursday night, i bought two 16 count boxes of go-gurt. today i look in the refrigerator and an ENTIRE box has been decimated to 3, THREE!!!! the only people who eat them are Kendi and Laila. Laila takes them for school lunch and doesn’t really bother with them at home. the boy, on the other hand, who wears size 32 pants and men’s medium shirts and size 8 1/2 shoe, eats them like he’s breathing. i can’t afford that.

Boy. you cannot eat an entire box of go-gurt in ONE effing day. One day! yesterday while was working apparently, also today is my solitary day off this week. i had intentions on studying for Microsoft MOS 77-423 (Outlook 2013) and maybe catching up on TV and dying my hair at best.

but i have instead, swept and washed counters and Swiffer wet jetted floors and cooked waffles and bacon and repeated myself way too many times when instructing children to clean up after themselves.


i am. i just want to run away. or send them to live somewhere with monks or ex-military types that will wake them up in the middle of the night to scrub toilets and baseboards with toothbrushes and the like. i don’t want to mommy right now. i barely want to ADULT for my own damn self, and you ingrates steadily looking at me with doe eyes when i proceed to go off so sharply that i can feel the veins popping out in my neck.

just do your job little kids. do your damn jobs. go to school. make decent grades. do what the hell i tell you to do. keep your living areas passably clean. that’s pretty much it.

the grown one is at work, but she’s just as bad as the rest. she spent $80 yesterday on Google app purchases. EIGHTY FUCKING DOLLARS! how do i know? because i borrowed $80 from her last week and transferred it to her card on yesterday morning. and when i checked the balance on mine, i saw hers pop up at $0.00 this morning. so being a mom, i clicked on her transaction history, and that’s what i saw. it wouldn’t really make a difference EXCEPT i just paid your cell phone bill on Friday.


i’m going to let that resonate with you parents out there.


yeah, so i’m in my room.

sipping on Wild Turkey American Honey and coke.

i’m done.

What About My Sons?

What About My Sons?

Am I the only mother who feels like her children aren’t scared enough?

Like I’m not teaching them survival skills?

I have two sons. Twins. One has a socio-emotional learning disability where he doesn’t pick up on social cues. It’s hard for him to get sarcasm or read tones of voice. What happens when the person who he believes is supposed to “help people” approaches him and he doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do? He is big for his age. And much like #MichaelBrown, described as a gentle giant a lot… Very loving and extremely sensitive. In a stressful situation, he is frequently all over the place emotionally and physically. I know at only 11 years old, he and his brother should have the luxury of being children. I take pride in the fact that my kids are still kids. Adult things and conversations don’t interest them. They play hard. Their play involves lots of Imaginext action figures, castles, Nerf guns, wrestling moves and super hero movies. They are great little boys.

So what do I do? What do WE do? I don’t want to terrorize my children. I do not want to see their eyes fill with fear or wariness when walking down the street. This world snatches childhood away on so many levels and so quickly now. I want them to be able to be little boys, not little black boys, for as long as they can. They don’t see the ugly, they don’t see the injustice, I don’t want that for them. But how can I love them and protect them and not show them how to be? I’m torn. I cannot fail them. But I don’t know the answer. It’s not supposed to be like this. They are children. They are not expendable.

We watch the news in horror at the fighting in Gaza, weep over the slaughter of innocent lives worldwide. Schools full of girls kidnapped, tiny bodies and bones broken in the streets, casualties of wars fought for centuries. What about my sons? What about the carelessness with which police officers sworn to protect and uphold the peace at all times use excessive force to shoot down black children in America? When does it end? What do I do to protect my beautiful brown babies from this unfortunate unnecessary reality? I need an answer. I need a conversation. I need rules and repercussions for this disrespect and disregard for our babies’ lives. It’s basic. My children deserve more than lying dead in the street for hours. Who does that? Where is the humanity in that?


It’s Father’s Day again.

imageMy dad was the greatest storyteller ever. It’s taken me this long to realize I probably get that gift from him. I miss him. There was never a moment in my life, whether I saw him every day or once a year, that I felt unloved by my father.

My father, Anderson Carthel Covington, passed away in 2002. He was a lot of things to many people. He was more than just my Daddy, he was the one person who “got me” from top to bottom. He always talked to me as a person, even when I was a little kid. He never sugar coated stuff and he wasn’t ever mean. And he loved his girls, all 4 of us.

Was he perfect? No.

Was he always there? No.

He had his own demons to fight. He used drugs, he went to jail, he had flaws as we all do. But he was a good man. He had a smile for just about everyone and he was loved so much.

Whenever I go to Orange, the small town in Virginia where my family is from, at some point some vaguely familiar person will walk up to me and say, “You’re Carthel’s daughter aren’t you? Which one are you?” And there’s always a smile and a story and an “I remember when…” That’s something. That’s a memory. That’s love. That’s my Daddy.

Happy Father’s Day to the men who inspire their kids to unimaginable heights by the simplicity of their presence and who make sure their babies know they are loved beyond measure every single day of their lives!

A Story About Family (NaPoWriMo day 16)

My sisters and I, circa 1983
My sisters and I, circa 1983

Today will always be a special day for me.

My parents were married on April 16, 1971.

And though the union did not withstand the test of time,
There was a lot of love.
From that bond, a family was created.
Four little girls were born.
Smart Hatiná, reading at 3 years old,
Compassionate Chisoni, taking care of everyone,
Spirited Autumn, beautiful inside and out,
Strongwilled Chaya, a fighter from birth.
And for a little while, we had a good time…
It wasn’t perfect, as no relationship is,
But it was ours.
Our time.
Our love.
Our family.
Momē we love you!
Daddy we miss you!
Thank you.