When Monkey was little, people would comment that he looked like me. He had my eyes, and a resemblance to my father. Yet, after Munchkin was born, people suddenly started saying he looked "just like his father" even though they'd never met my husband. Monkey's features didn't suddenly change, but peoples perception did, based largely on the color of my children's skin. 

While my complexion has olive tones, Monkey's complexion has brown tones reflecting his dad's Indian heritage. Munchkin however, has inherited her complexion from my mother and paternal great-grandmother which are paler than mine. Now that we have two kids with different complexions, everyone seems to align fair-skinned Munchkin with me and bronzed-skin Monkey with my husband, no matter whose features they actually have. 

The color of my children's skin isn't an issue for me. What disturbs me are the playground conversations. If other parents or nannies aren't asking if I'm Indian, they're asking me about Monkey's heritage. His name is Indian, so as soon as others in my very South Asian-populated neighborhood hear it, the questions begin. Then they ask me about Munchkin and prattle on about how she doesn't look Indian. I understand curiosity, but going on and on about appearances while both children are in earshot makes me uncomfortable. I fear that their appearances are defining them. Or rather, that others are defining them by their appearance. 

In the last few weeks, there has been much discussion about race. More accurately, there have been discussions that tiptoe around the realities of race and racism and how they affect this country. I understand some of the caution. After all I've been wanting to write about race for over a year, but I've been fearful of doing so, questioning whether I have the authority to do so. 

The reality is, we should all be talking about race and how it affects peoples' lives daily. I applaud President Obama's remarks about the Trayvon Martin case because not only does he gives an honest assessment of what it is like to grow up Black in the United States, he gives suggestions about how every American can work towards equality and peace. 

While I can't talk about what it's like to be African American in the US, I can talk about what it's like to be different. I'm Bolivian which, for many who don't know (and trust me, the majority don't), makes me Hispanic. According to the US Census, "Hispanic" isn't a race, it's an ethnicity. There are Black Hispanics, White Hispanics, Hispanics with blond hair and Hispanics with black hair like mine. Yet all my life, I've been questioned and labeled. Some people think I'm Asian, Italian, Middle Eastern or--my favorite--Hawaiian. Others tell me, "I just thought you were white" as if they were giving me a compliment. Being white is what it is, but I don't want to be "just white" because I'm not. Much of who I am--my values, my manners, my second language and even the way I raise my kids--is thanks to my Bolivian upbringing.

Growing up in a very white Midwestern community, there were challenges being part of the only Hispanic family in town. People couldn't figure out "what" my sister and I were and I never quite felt that I fit in. When we left for a two-month trip to Bolivia, all people could think to talk about was the cocaine trade, not the beauty or diversity of the country. It wasn't until college, where there was a sea of dark-haired kids, that I felt I could blend in at last. Ever since then, I've lived in large cities, happy to be surrounded by people as different as me. 

When I married my husband, who was born and raised in India, I knew there would be a melding of cultures and I knew our kids would both have black hair and dark eyes. In a testament to the intricacies of genealogy both children have brown eyes but neither has black hair. I have just started to talk to my children about race and acknowledge that people have different colored skin. As a small child, I remember noticing my father's colleague's dark skin and asking my parents about it. As this article indicates, not talking about  skin color doesn't mean that kids think that skin color doesn't matter, but that, "...skin color does matter, just in a secret way that nobody is going let you in on."

As evidenced the last few weeks, skin color does matter in this country. This video is a testament to that fact. It is also a testament that kids associate positive traits to people like them. The key to more acceptance and more understanding is to teach our children--and ourselves--that people of all complexions are, in fact, like them.

Last night at the gym, I heard a woman telling her friend that she rented a room in an apartment, living with a family. She said that the mother cooked a lot and was a “housewife.” I hadn’t heard that term--outside the realm of reality shows--for a long time. I’m not really fond of the word--maybe because it seems old fashioned, but probably because, as a kid, I used to think housewives had it easy. I thought they spent their time at home relaxing, cooking gourmet meals, and then beautifying themselves in time for their husband’s arrival. (Don’t blame me, that is what early television would have me believe before Claire Huxtable came along.)

Now that both kids are home full time with nary a babysitter, a drop-off program or camp in sight, I can say that I, as a housewife (or SAHM), am exhausted. Sure, I get to take the kids swimming, spend much of the day outdoors and have no corporate meetings to attend. However, juggling two non-swimmers in a pool, facing the blazing sun when the kids want to go down the slide, “one more time” and not having a minute to myself are not exactly so enjoyable.

Since Monkey’s been in school I haven’t had both kids home with me full time for longer than a couple weeks. I’d forgotten what it was like to make big shopping trips with both kids. I’d forgotten what it was like to maneauver them into every store I go to, keeping them distracted long enough to make the necessary purchases. They’re great kids, but neither one of them wants to see me try on clothes*.

Then there is the food issue. As much of a pain as it is to pack lunches, snacks and drinks every day of the week for school, I’ve realized that the sheer repetition of providing healthy meals--and the table-wiping, spilled-drink-cleaning, crumb-sweeping that comes with it--three times a day is its own special hell. I can’t count the number of times my husband has come home, annoyed at the dinner crumbs on the floor when I’ve already swept six times that day.

I’ve learned that it’s good for us to go outside twice a day to keep the grumpiness away, but with each outing comes planning and packing. Swimming requires changes of clothes, extra diapers and sandals. Playing in sprinklers requires much of the same, but with water shoes and towels added into the mix. Heading to our urban beach or giant sand pit requires lots of sunblock and methods to contain the sand. All of these items, plus sandwich boxes, snack cups, water bottles and kiddie umbrellas, pile up in our entry way.  Unpacking and packing all the items twice a day is a messy, Groundhog Day-esque activity.

I think the part that drains me the most though is not having anything to myself. My kids are (mostly) happy to eat their food, but then they harass me for mine. I play with them on the floor, but when I get up to use the computer, they climb onto my lap, bang on the keyboard and play with the mouse, forcing me to give up. I bend over to pick something up and Monkey tries to climb onto me for a piggy back ride. I sometimes feel neither my body, my food, my time, nor my clothes are mine and that feeling saps energy from my soul.

Despite the trials of full-time housewifery, I have really enjoyed sharing this summer with the kids. It’s be great to see Monkey become more confident in the pool and kiss Munchkin’s ouchies. I love to see Munchkin’s development and bravery at the playground and to be able to introduce Monkey to Candyland. I love it, I really do. I’m no desperate housewife, but I am desperate for a nap and a lock on the bathroom.

My kids are bored. Not at this moment, because they're taking puzzles apart and having a ball. But they were bored earlier this morning and they'll be bored again, I'm sure, later today I'm trying to keep them busy by going out frequently, meeting up with friends, and taking them to classes they enjoy. But in the gap between waking up and going out the door, or nap time and dinner, boredom finds them. 

Munchkin's vocabulary is rather limited, so she can't say "I'm bored" yet, but Monkey has taken to asking, "What are we going to do NOW?" followed by "THEN what are we going to do?" signaling he is this close to finding the day's activities insufficiently entertaining. When Monkey starts asking to watch a TV show or play a computer game I know it's not only time for me to help redirect him, but teach him to find something else to do. As a parent, I have a lot of responsibilities, but keeping my kids busy 100% of the time is not one of them. I learned that lesson thanks to my mother who would constantly tell my twin sister and I that we were not allowed to use the word "bored" at home. If we were bored, it was our own fault and we were responsible for becoming un-bored. 
 
I've been gradually teaching this lesson to the kids so I was happy to discover the incredible book, "The Princess Who Had Almost Everything" at my local library. The principal character is known for grumbling, whining and yelling that she is bored all day long. The princess' parents give her everything a princess can dream of, but it's not until someone teachers her to DO something that she stops being bored. This has, luckily, become a favorite among my kids.

Judging by current articles on parenting, my generation of mothers is hell bent on protecting their children, providing for their every need and stimulating them almost every minute of every day. My view is that while we are meant to protect our children, a parent's main purpose is to prepare their children for the future. That future doesn't mean just college, it means sleepovers, week-long camps and school trips where they will have to be able to set the table, fold laundry and entertain themselves with nary a parent in sight. 

Since I'm home full-time, it's sometimes hard to not only draw the line of how I keep the kids amused, but maintain it. Sure I could turn on the t.v., but if I don't. the kids will find something to do. I could also play with them every second of the day, but that's not a sustainable reality. (Won't they also get tired of me?) I could create a day full of activities from 8am to 5pm, but that would be exhausting for everyone. Sometimes I go back and forth on when to give in to t.v. or a distracting treat (Rainy day? Exhaustion? General grumpiness?) but I found a good analogy for a reason to not consistently give in when visiting the mall two weeks ago. 

I had met my friend by the infamous kiddie trucks to entertain our kids on a rainy day. Most days Munchkin and Monkey climb on and off the school bus or take turns driving the train and sports car, without spending money to turn on/start up/shake/whatever the play vehicles. This time I let each of my kids pick a vehicle to spend $1 to ride. They each gleefully smiled and enjoyed the ride, but when it was over, Monkey asked for more money. When I said no, he pouted for a minute and then badgered me to check if I had more money for rides just in case. I realized that no matter how many dollar bills I gave the kids, I was going to eventually run out. Whether I had $1 or $20, there was going to be a time where the kids were going to have to make believe on the bus again. The sooner I teach them that, the better they'll become at getting over the boredom bump and coming up with a million different ways to have fun, without my help.