Before we had kids, Tony and I lived by the seat of our pants. We'd decide to go to a movie in the middle of the week five minutes before it started; throw house parties for no reason; find last minute flight deals and hop on planes to foreign countries just because we could. We were spontaneous and exciting and I liked it that way. If life got too predictable I became antsy and irritated, I was afraid that we would turn into my biggest fear: an old, boring couple.
Oh, how things have changed. I've realized that the answer to life with two young children is to keep a military-style schedule. If I have to run out at the last minute to buy an ingredient for that night's dinner or the baby skips his nap, we fall into a downward spiral of screaming children, ignored bedtimes, and irritated parents.
These days, there is nothing I find more comforting than routine.
Last year, during the height of the Trayvon Martin news cycle, I wrote a post in which I wondered if I should talk to my young son, Luki, about racism. Should I explain to him that, because of the color of his skin or his ethnic last name, he would have to tread extra carefully around certain people? Should I tell him that, regardless of his actions or intentions, he would always be perceived by some as a threat?
I wondered these things for a while and then forgot about them as the Trayvon story stopped being front and center news. But on the year anniversary of his death, and then Martin Luther King Day, I was confronted with the issue again.
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