Black Childhood be Like…


As I’ve gotten older the more I’ve realized that black people seriously live the same lives. Few things make me happier than starting in on a childhood memory and having a friend know EXACTLY what I’m talking about. When I was younger I swore my mom was the only person on Earth participating in all of this foolery, but apparently, I was so wrong.

Mama’s weekend cleaning playlist

The other day of a friend of mine tweeted: “Every time I hear Avant I inadvertently want to start vacuuming.” This had me on the floor. It took me back to being a child on the weekend and waking up to my mom blasting oldies. I would lay in bed completely devastated knowing that for the next few hours I’d be cleaning baseboards and wiping counters.   I’d try to lay in bed as long as I could, but the ending was inevitable lol. While I despised waking up to these classic jams as a kid, I appreciate them so much now because my musical palette is amazing.

No black necks, knees, or elbows

One thing that will forever baffle me (and always brings hella laughs to family gatherings) is my mother’s obsession with black necks, knees, and elbows. I remember playing cars on the carpet with my brother or letting Barbie cruise the streets in her drop top only to hear my mom fuss about how black my knees would be if I didn’t say off of them like that. The first check out of the bath was, without question, the backs of our necks. She’d say “get in there and scrub that neck before I come in there and do it myself.” LMFAO!! and if she had to come in there she was going to scrub the friggin skin off that thing.

Like most kids, my siblings and I played hard- wresting in the front yard, basketball for hours, and yes to anything involving mud. Because of this, my mom was always forced to break out the most intense defense against dirty skin,  bleach baths. Yup, you read that right and I know you remember them.

Pressing Combs

It would be remiss of me to speak of black childhood rituals without mentioning the pressing comb. Before training bras and the terror of your first cycle, there was sitting in front of the stove praying to God that your mom didn’t burn the shit out of your ears and the back of your neck. Weekly my sister and I would fight over who had to go first because honestly, neither of us wanted to. It wasn’t all bad though. After it was done I felt like a friggin beauty queen. For real, was I the only one who stood in the mirror brushing and flipping my hair for hours? This is probably one of the only “beauty is pain” practices that I will stan for until I’m pushing up daisies. Nothing, and I repeat nothing, touches your edges and kitchen like a pressing comb.

Buying your way outside to play with your friends

“Mama. My room clean and my homework done. Can I go outside.” Is a phrase I’d bet money every black person I know has uttered. Growing up we didn’t get allowance, so our currency was literally chores. If you weren’t leading with what chores you had already completed and your plans the remaining few my mom was not trying to hear you. We chored our way outside. We chored our way to birthday parties. We chored our way to practice. My mama didn’t care who was out here tryna be the next Sheryl Swoopes if there was still dishes in the sink.

“You better not miss that bus”

I relate to this video on so many levels it’s not even funny. (I mean really it’s hilarious, but my mans is dead ass terrified because he knows he’s fried when his mama gets home.)

For most of my younger life, y mom was the alarm clock. And, without fail, after leaving my room from waking me up for the second time she would hit me with the most serious and threatening “…and you better not miss that damn bus.”

Even once I got a cell phone and she wasn’t waking me up anymore I still knew her word was bond. She could be in the bed, off for the day, not a single plan in the world and I knew better than to take my ass in there and take me to school because I had missed the bus.

Name call followed by silence

I don’t know where the hell moms learned this, but for those of you who don’t know, this means come here AND more than likely she doesn’t want shit. This was the bane of my existence as a child. Imagine being upstairs in your room minding your own damn business and having your name called. You answer back “YES!!!” as loud as you can, and nothing. So, maybe she didn’t hear you right? So again you yell “Yes!!” Still nothing. You put your video game on pause and run downstairs because shit she’s not answering maybe she’s had a heart attack. You enter her room, heart racing, only to have her ask you to bring her a damn cup of water.

Aint no Tupperware bih

Country Crock butter container or NOTHING AT ALL!!!!!

Honorable mention: Crazy threats

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Lifestyle blog- Nashville TN- TiffandCoco

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