Every word spoken. Nugget of advice given. Article written. News story reported. Question asked. 

And no, you are not immune to bias here at the Gritty Pearl. Let's find out why!

I'm beyond grateful to be home. Now let's catch up! We'll talk giveaways, updates, and then, a little story about mindset during stressful times...

I stand a silent witness, his tears drying in their own time, leaving salt-powdered trails down that beautiful, round face. His hands are clenched over his eyes and, despite the fact that I have discovered him crouched behind the bathroom door, he's certain that he's invisible so long as they keep tightly closed. Cheeks pink and hair rumpled, my precious three-year-old sits motionless, expressing feelings in the only way that he knows how.  Unable to put a name to the hurt in his heart, he hides - which makes all the sense in the world. 

I rarely refer to my college days when I write to you all. I'm not completely sure why, though it's probably because those years were such a time of immaturity and growth, cringe-worthy at many points. This week, though, I can't get those years or the people out of my mind. Especially Faith. She was the first "Black" girl that ever told me to my face what she and her friends really thought about me. 


I heard someone say a while back that the thought of replying to every comment online is silly - that we shouldn't feel pressured to, and perhaps, that we shouldn't even want to. He was commenting on the chaotic state of our social media lives. While I agree with the gentleman to some degree, I propose that we should actually be commenting more often. Now stay with me a hot second...


Week-after-week I plop my bum in front of this computer with the hopes of sending you something brilliant. Something useful. And week-after-week, I churn out stories about family, health, and relationships. In fact, I've barely missed a blog in two years (pats self awkwardly on the back). But I bet you wouldn't come around anymore if you knew that I'm a fake. A fraud. A mess. There, I said it.

School days. The first (traditionally scheduled) week is flying by and Moms and Dads everywhere are catching their breaths. Transition. While some of our young ones pop up from beneath bedsheets and leap into action at the first beep of the alarm, others require being dragged out of bed by a leg.

There it is, still sitting on the counter. Mocking me. Pineapple juice oozes over the side of the cutting board and onto the countertop. I picture the August sugar ants beginning to gather, arranging their formation march - up cabinet doors and onto the table top, following the scent of the delicious mess. 

My husband. He did this on purpose, probably just to spite me. I've never been so sure of anything in my life. 

You don't own me...
I'm not just one of your many toys.
You don't own me.
Don't say I can't go with other boys.
Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Baaaa...

And don't tell me what to do,
And don't tell me what to say.
And when I go out with you,
Don't put me on display...

Sometimes I don't know how exhausted I really am until I sit down at night. Before long, couch-blanket draped across my legs, my eyes start to feel heavy and I miss bits and pieces of any show that my husband and I attempt to watch. You know the drill: up before dawn, get kids ready for school (we're on year-round schedule), work, work, work, prepare meals, and exercise somewhere in between there. Pass out.