I said I would never put my baby’s picture on the Internet. Three months later poor little guy is a Facebook model. What went wrong? Why would I expose my child to the voyeuristic world only for random associates to peruse at leisure and offer pithy comments on at their discretion? Whatever happened to mothers sheltering babes from exploitation? Clearly, I’ve relinquished my good judgment and taste.

It started innocently enough, at the hospital hour’s after baby boy’s birth, when they asked me if I wanted to order baby pictures. There they were — in neat rows of squares — ads for the posed birth pictures that reminded me of Glamour Shots from the 1990s. I crumpled up the special ad offer and left documentation of baby’s first pics the new-fashioned way — one cell phone camera on the day of his birth, another the following day when his father remembered to bring a digital camera from home. Before I had a chance to spread the word, baby boy’s photo was circulating among our first email recipients — another child of the digital age born.

Home from the hospital, the digital camera was my window to studio photography. I began to organize mid-morning photo shoots, positioning baby just so in front of the streaming window light, and then snapping dozens of flicks until I had just the right jpeg at my disposal. I downloaded the results into iphoto. At first I circulated a few choice photos among close friends and family, until I made a group list marked “Baby” and began the email push, announcing our son’s arrival to the world.

As the word spread about the child’s birth, I received a few emails requesting photos on facebook. I looked at other people’s kids who popped up in my list — friends from various stages in my life - grade school, college, the scene. Their kids looked sweet and innocent and beguiling. It’s not like their home addresses were published on the page, I rationalized. Perfectly harmless and before I knew it I was downloading away. Then, the comments flooded in — fetching accolades from associates, a play date inquiry from a girl I went to high school with, and people’s pleading emails for me to post a new batch. Here was a way for people to peruse my proud mother moment at their leisure. No need to keep track of the family webpage or wait for a large email to come through. Just one simple click on an album and there he is a beguiling blue-eyed baby boy.

As the months past, the photo upload has become a regular habit. I find myself clicking through the album to catch a glimpse of how he was last month, last week, yesterday. Is this how I will document my son’s advancement on the public stage in intangible pixels? For good measure, I ordered some prints and started inserting them into his baby book, where I can show them or keep them all to myself.

We don’t speak the same language, but we understand each other. Baby boy has a formidable handle on gurgles and oohs and ahhs that leave us with the acute impression that he know exactly what he means - a man of obtuse words. He is quite articulate and prolific in his discourse. With each passing day more of his waking hours are spent in deep concentration and a thorough follow up of said sounds. I’m not sure if he follows researcher and mezzo-soprano Priscilla Dunstan’s patterns, who has coded baby language into five definitive noises. Perhaps in our shrinking adult minds and bodies, we are unable to converse to master his instinctive form of communication.

Yet, it’s not what he says, but what he does, living up to the adage at an early age — that actions do indeed speak larger than words. And so it goes that our youngster has an uncanny sense of timing. At parties, he is a welcome favor, instinctively batting his eyelashes at cautious childless strangers, waving his arms, and emitting gurgles of glee that endear him to crowds. It seems that we have a charmer on our hands. A few times his reaction has puzzled me. Only once has he frowned when a perfectly nice person cradled him, only to find out that this friend was suffering from depression. Oh the wonders of my intuitive child! Yet, I wonder if it is a budding sense of humor that inspires him on other occasions. It the only way I can explain his with utter delight when he wakes up precisely when we (his charges) think that we can grab a few stolen moments of romantic bliss.

It starts with a rustle in the bassinet at the foot of our bed. If we do not heed his warnings, we will soon be bombarded by the distinct noise of whooshing breath and finally the crack up of sobs as he proclaims, “Don’t forget about me.” He calms as we peer above him, our super-size faces hovering inches away from his. How can we be annoyed with this enchanting flirt who hovers near? He breaks into a crooked smile and kicks his feet out in an exclamation of satisfaction.
After a few minutes, we attempt to lay back down — he in the bassinet, we in our bed. Yet, our presence is not enough to calm him. He feels us near and has decided that the king size bed is a preferable to the bassinet. He knows how to get his way as we crumble to his disciplinary reprimands. And yes, he joins us, the strict chaperone enforcing the rules. Only then moments later he falls into deep slumber, a slight smirk on his innocent face and we are forced to do the same.

I found out that I was pregnant in a hotel room in my hometown, on assignment, waiting for my love to join me the next day. The timing was too perfect — home in Michigan — for me to miss the opportunity to share the news with my parents face to face before I returned to New York. I had made the mistake of excluding them from my life decisions in the past, in a feigned attempt at rebellion, to prove that I was an adult, capable of independence. I didn’t want to go the childish route again, which always seemed more lonely and illogical after all was said and done. Nor did I want to reveal the news across miles and murky wires.

We met them at an unexpectedly good Italian restaurant in a northwest suburb where the warm salty bread was comforting and the mozzarella sweet and tangy. We waited for dessert to deliver the news, stalling since life after would never be the same. Wide-eyed they looked at me, strangely quiet , wondering I presume, about who they would become in all of this. Their little girl who had somehow become an adult was having a baby with a grown man. How would this all turn out? We did, too. (more…)

What’s the hardest part of having a baby? Sure labor is rough, but it doesn’t last forever. (Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t talk since I had a relatively easy, short one. The baby was born in a flurry, 45 minutes after I arrived at the hospital… but that’s another story.) It hit me many hours later, after the visitors had gone home, after his father had kissed his new baby and held him and brought me good food to eat. After the work of labor was done and the celebration of life was spreading around our circle of loved ones. I positioned the newborn next to me in a tiny hospital crib and pulled the sheet around my sore body. The maternity ward was quiet and the dull hue of fluorescent lights illuminated my cubicle. I watched his tiny chest rise and fall in rapid rhythm. I realized I was too scared to sleep, too scared to shut off the light. I stood up, and moved his bed three or four times, uncertain that he was able to breathe. Exhausted my eyes began to shut, soon interrupted by his innocent whimpered. I sighed and rose to pull him close. Eventually, I laid him on my chest and took solace in the warmth, our heartbeats intertwined again. It was the longest night of my life as I felt the weight of his need, exposed to the world, and the real beginning of my motherhood.

In a healthy baby situation, the toughest part about having a baby is the disintegration of slumber. How a tiny being that sleeps up 18 hours a day could possibly tire you out in their wee waking moments is a feat that took me a few weeks to understand, but I think I’ve figured it out — it’s the nature of rest that changes. Make no mistake, those bags under new parent eyes are real. If you have a baby, you can’t say you weren’t warned. Of course you were. As you get rounder in your final point-of-no-return trimester, knowing parents smirk in elevators or shake their heads in pity standing in line next to you as they issue the decree “You’ll never sleep again.” Ha! What do they know?” I thought weeks before my delivery. “I’m a former club kid and a natural night owl,” I told myself. “What’s 4 a.m. to me? ” Ahh the days of bliss, when I thought with mind and body, I could conquer anything.

What I didn’t realize is that as a mother, I think that l will never sleep soundly again. Sure, I drift away and sometimes even start dreaming, but even in the deepest slumber, some part of me is now trained to pop up, probably similar to what happens to doctors on call. Initially, it’s the frequency of feeding that triggers this response. Somebody needs me for sustenance. I am the lifeline. And yet, while he’s learning to sleep through the night, (He’s up to 5 hours now!) it’s just not the same kind of sleep for me. Inside, I know that he needs me, and that without me he is lost in the world, at least for now. And at the core of this is the instinct to protect.

My baby was born in the year of Obama. In January, when Barack Obama began to take over in the primaries, my baby was forming his most important vital organs in my womb. As my baby gained the ability to hear, he was subject to passionate political discussions and the constant hum of news from the campaign trail as Obama supporters stepped forward, one by one.

When Senator Obama stopped in Puerto Rico shortly before their first historic Democratic primary in June, 5 months pregnant, his father and I waited in the sweltering heat to hear him speak in person, as fellow supporters fanned us and offered cool water and shade. There was no better way to spend our vacation to his father’s homeland than to bask in the infectious presence of this man as he humbly addressed the crowd and made his case for the presidency.

In the final weeks of the campaign, at 5 weeks old, my baby boy slept on my chest as we made Obama calls at the local phone bank. On voting day, he accompanied his grandmother to the polls. And at 11 p.m. on Nov. 4, my baby’s eyes grew wide and wondrous as we whooped and shouted and shed tears, watching from the house I grew up in, where I was raised to believe in hope, too and that I could do whatever I wanted, if I believed in myself and tried my best. As I gently put him down to bed after 1 a.m., I exhaled a sigh of relief as faith in my principles was at last restored and the pride felt in my family’s immigrant experience. And last night I slept soundly with the dream that anything is possible for my baby, born in a new era of American life.

“That’s the true genius of America. That America can change. Yes We Can.”

—Barack Obama, Nov. 4, 2008.

I’ve never been one who is so good with time. Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you how I’m one of those 15-minute late ladies. I know, I know, it’s rude, presumptuous and irresponsible. I’ve tried to fix it, but there always seems to be something getting in my way. Usually, it has something to do with a daydream, a thought that I simply have to complete at that moment, or what my man refers to as Murphy’s Law – this can include spilling the beans (coffee) across the floor, missing keys, or a broken elevator/train/late car. Now, with motherhood, I’ve really met my Murphy match.

I think this is the biggest daily challenge I’ve faced in the six weeks since my son was born — how to get somewhere in some kind of reasonable time. Inevitably, a dirty diaper, messy outfit or a well-meaning hungry mouth adds minutes to my already late minutes.

And so, I am faced with the fact that I probably, finally really need to change. If I don’t I will never get anywhere ever again. While I’ve always been one to stretch minutes, I’m now reassessing each moment’s precious value. Efficiency, realism and consideration are now on the doctrine. That being said, time to go. The friend who volunteered to watch the little guy is due to be relieved shortly. I’m leaving 15 minutes early.
I leave you with Emily Dickinson to contemplate. It must have been hard to be timely in those days. Pity me for taking precious time for granted. There I go again.

The Future never spoke,
Nor will he, like the Dumb,
Reveal by sign or syllable
Of his profound To-come.
But when the news be ripe,
Presents it in the Act–
Forestalling preparation
Escape or substitute.
Indifferent to him
The Dower as the Doom,
His office but to execute
Fate’s Telegram to him.

In case you haven’t heard, the new online magazine GoTryke.com is up and running!  GoTryke.com is the brainchild created by fellow native Detroiter Chuck Gibson and me. We bring it to you live from our Brooklyn base. At GoTryke.com you’ll find everything transportation oriented, and all the cool culture you can stand. Check the About section for more details. The site includes all kinds of fabulous functions and ephemera that you never thought of, the kind of stuff you can find on this blog, and more. We’ve been dreaming up this site for nearly a year. It started when we couldn’t find anything on line that captured our interests in one fell swoop, so we decided to create a home for our quirky tastes.  We researched, and we continue to research as we tweak our topics, but we think we’re onto something. Props to Fusicology.com and Cultureserve.net for encouraging us and signing on early.
That means that Tamarawarren.com/blog is going to focus more on the intimate, personal observations of a writer, this writer, to be exact.  Join me on latest journey, as I try to make sense of it all — learning the ropes of motherhood. There’ll be a few newsy bits here and there, to keep it spicy. But it seems there are a lot of questions and curiosity so I intend to break it down in the best way I know how. Forgive me for missing a few days here and there — I’m a new mom with an erratic schedule, a fuzzy brain, and a whole new way of thinking.

Thanks for reading.

Tamara

The wind blows in gusty insistence, churning and gurgling, as tree branches moan and twist outside my window. It’s a quiet afternoon, interrupted by the weather’s swoon. If I close my eyes it seems that I am away at sea. But I am here in the quiet of my living room, stealing a moment of contemplation. Everyone is napping at home except for me. Man snoring in a messy bed, baby arms stretched out like he wants to take in the whole world. Life changes in progress, give pause for reflection. It. happens. so. fast.

Write about it, Tamara. That’s what friends and colleagues tell me. But it all feels so personal like a big diary entry, unedited emotions as hormones settle and routines. Words are murky — somewhat awkward, muddled by sleepless euphoria. Something so every-woman, but internal. Everything shifts - most noticeably the tiny being growing in my care, the way I spend the hours in the day, the way people look at me on the street, the conversations I have, the social calendar I keep, the fullness of my breasts. More subtly, my priorities, my thoughts, my relationships, my identity. Motherhood.

What do you know about the Obama Hustle? They’re doing it Detroit — a flurry of smooth sways, bops and carefully timed turns. Choreographer Crystal Smith has put together what could be the election’s signature dance set to Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” That’s Detroit doing Obama proud. While ‘92 heralded the call of “The Macarena,” the Obama Hustle is coming on strong with 422,748 hits on YouTube at writing. This variation of the line dance is popular in pockets around the country, with Detroit as one its  hubs. Here’s what I had to say about the hustle in Detroit in 2006, in case you’ve never heard of it:

Hundreds of women and a handful of men line up on the dance floor in neat rows every Thursday night at the Rhythm Universe on Detroit West’s Side, waiting for the cue from hustle instructor Alyce Razor-Bey. “Step to the right. Step to the left. Ballroom turn. Cha-cha. Kick, turn. Now roll.” These are familiar commands on the Detroit hustle scene, the play-by-play instructions that make up the steps in this stylized line dance that’s taking Detroit parties by storm.

The line dance widely associated with the disco scene of the 1970s has seen resurgence over the past decade at clubs like Rhythm Universe, cabaret parties and even during a hip hop function at Grand Central Lounge last Friday when two young men broke out with one version, drawing at least 20 people to the dance floor.

“The average age is 45 and it’s almost all women,” Rhythm Universe owner Mike Ukomadu says of the Thursday evening affair, where about 200 people attend the class every week. “They dance for four hours straight are fit and they have a lot of energy.”

With its growing popularity, hustle routines are introduced and taught in classes all over town, at cabarets and to sold-out group of 992 hustlers from around the country this week at the United We Stand 6th Annual Reunion this weekend.

“Detroit is one of the hustle capitols of the world,” says DJ Maestro, a DJ who spins at Ice and Innuendo where hustle is the dominant dance and produces music specifically for hustles, including his latest composition dropping this week, the “Turbo Hustle” and the “Freak Beat Hustle”, a quick-paced bass beat that appeals to younger crowds.

“Practically every week there’s a new hustle to learn and we have a lot of places you can go to learn the hustle,” Erma Watt an instructor at the Grenadier on Wednesay nights says, who knows at least 75 different hustles. “You do them often you have to do them regularly to remember them.”

“You’re going to move your hips and I’ll probably make you do a box step,” Razor-Bey, says a 59-year old Detroiter, a teachers with the largest following. Her dances are popular among hustlers around the country, including her signature dance the Alyce Special, choregraphed to Kirk Whalum’s “Do Your Feel Me.” “Most hustles when you play the music they know the music that goes with that song,” she says.

The hustle scene is traditionally made up of mostly women, who are often the first to hit the dance floor. “Men don’t like that because women can go to parties and not to have to be asked to dance they can get up and dance themselves,” Watt says.

“Every year there’s more people starting to dance,” Diane Walker says, who hustle with the New Hustle Generation group and takes up to three classs a week. “You see younger people now then you had before. More guys are dancing as well. It’s just a good form of exercise.”

While line dancing and the hustle is popular in pockets around the country. Detroit hustles draw from other dances popular in the area, including ballroom, cha cha and step dancing. “We here in Detroit we put the capital h in hustle,” Crystal Smith, an organizer of the upcoming conference says who travels around the country for hustle events. “In Cleveland they have passion but not like Detroit. We’re a little bit faster, and more upbeat because we took elements of ballrooming.”

Maestro, who has DJed in cities outside of Michian where hustle is done agrees. “We add a lot of style to the hustle and we put our own twist on it,” Maestro says.