Fuck Claire Huxtable. I don’t care much for Harriet Winslow or any of those other sitcom mothers either. I often turn the channel when I see Lisa Bonet’s ass walk down the stairs in another picture perfect made for t.v. outfit that I have yet to be able to put together for myself.
On a regular weekday I walk up two flights of stairs in the dead of fall with seven bags of groceries, a twenty-three pound soon to be toddler, an overstuffed purse on one hip and a diaper bag on the other hip, only to reach my door in a cold sweat, breathless and unable to find the keys. Oh and may I mention that the same damn bill collector seems to call my phone nonstop as I climb each stair case? I never saw those bitches do any of that on television. Excuse my mouth but, I lost my tact a year ago, and since then I can’t seem to figure out why in my adolescent years I watched those sitcoms in amazement hoping to be the perfect mother I saw on television.
The most common issue for new mothers is they often try to portray the mother they grew up thinking they would always be. Every woman idolized a mother figure growing up and my muse was, Claire Huxtable. Honey, Claire could do no wrong! She cooked, she cleaned, she played with her kids, and may I mention home girl was a lawyer? I guess I can accredit the fact that Claire got everything done within her immaculate home, with time left over to look impeccable, to the one major factor and that is …Claire wasn’t a real woman.
Bill Cosby didn’t know shit about how in the year 2011 80% of us would do this thing called parenthood alone. How dare he write a sitcom that not only built my hopes up but made me think I could marry a doctor? Damn him.
Though I can play the blame game and curse and scream at writers, non-fictional characters, and non-existent male figures my theory is I am too busy blaming others to blame myself. In reality, I love the Cosby show but often feel disappointed in myself for not obtaining what I saw myself having. You ever been too ashamed to blame yourself? You ever ran from the truth like pedestrians on New York streets on 9/11/01 only to be engulfed by a tsunami wave of truth? It is easy to blame others for our current conditions but at what point is it appropriate to turn the victim symbol on top your head into the guilty sign so many hide under the beds?
It takes two to tango and baby I danced my ass off once. Danced until the sweat ran down my chest and I was able to taste the salt from my pores. Danced until I sweat my freshly pressed hair out and the roots turned to my natural curls. Danced so hard I ignored other partners or female on lookers who even looked like they wanted to cut in. I tangoed with the same unfaithful partner until the lights came on and the parking lot was empty, and now I wear wounds on my feet from those nights of fun. Wounds on my heart that Claire Huxtable doesn’t know shit about. Maybe I shouldn’t have danced so hard, no?
I am my own mother, making strides on my own path this thing called life isn’t sitcom pretty but I like to think I make it look glamorous on my good days. I am not Claire but, my theory now is that I don’t have to be. Let’s bring it full circle what’s you theory on who you are today? Did you idolize someone who is now a distance memory? Someone unrealistic or do you still think that when you close your eyes in that club and pop the bottle to the beat of the music that you are really Jay-z? Oh you do? Well okay then.
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