By BRITNI DANIELLE

Last week I filed my first child abuse report.

After becoming utterly annoyed by a student’s immature and disruptive behavior, I called his mother. I explained the situation and asked if she wanted to speak to him. Instead she told me she was on her way with her belt “to whoop him in front of the class.”

My mind went blank.

I tried to convince her not to come. After all, it was a shortened day and we were going to be out of school in less than 20 minutes, but she would not be moved. About 10 minutes later, both parents showed up and my students and I had a front row seat to abuse.

A hush fell over the classroom, all of the students waited to see what would go on. I thought that this kid’s parents would pull him aside, talk to him, and at worse make him cry, but I was not ready for the sound of the slap that echoed off of his face. I’ve never seen anyone—in person—slapped so hard in my life. I hurt for him. The other students sat in awe and I was thrown, completely thrown at how to handle it. Do I call the police? Do I call school security and tell them what just went on? I was at a loss.

After he got slapped, my student tried to play it off like nothing happened. You could see the tears welling in his eyes, but he wanted to show strong for his friends. One student voiced what we all thought, “Ms. I know he acts bad, but he didn’t have to slap him like that.”

At first, I wasn’t sure it was my place to file an abuse report and perhaps throw this family into the system and under the watchful eye of child services, but I couldn’t ignore what I saw.

After work I discussed the incident with a few co-workers and asked them if they thought the slap constituted abuse. Most agreed that I was right to file a report, but one said, “Well, that was daddy being daddy. I wouldn’t file a thing.” This threw me. When did slapping a child in the face become an acceptable form of discipline?

Growing up, my parents subscribed to the belief, “spare the rod, spoil the child.” My mother wasn’t afraid to break out “Mr. Leather” if she felt we were doing wrong. However, she didn’t abuse us, never left a mark, and never spanked out of anger. But we quickly learned to abide by the rules or get ready to feel the sting of leather on legs. But slapping? My mother never hit us in our faces, cursed us out, or did any of the other things that many of my students seem to encounter at home.

Many may shrug at my student being slapped by his father, but does this type of discipline work? No, it doesn’t. After being slapped, my student not only continued to be the same immature, fidgety 7th grader that he was before, but now he has the added shame of being pimp slapped by his daddy in front of his peers.

I look at my students, at their behavior, and I often wonder: What systems of discipline are in place in their homes? Why is it that they only seem to respond to being yelled or cursed at? How can they be disciplined without abuse?

Most parents abuse their children because they don’t know any better. They are merely repeating what was done to them. It doesn’t make it right, but it gives us a jumping off point to teach parents that disciplining children does not begin and end with a slap—that slapping a child doesn’t teach them a lesson, but often causes them to act out even more.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:

Britni Danielle blogs about her experiences raising a son while his father is incarcerated. She is a teacher, writer, and avid music junkie, and mothers over 100 brown babies a day in her classroom before coming home to her own. Check out more of her incredible writing and poetry at ThisSideoftheWall.

By VIVIAN EISON

I snapped hundreds of photos of my youngest son, but my favorite is a black and white of him at age two. He’s wearing the cheesiest smile and holding on for dear life to his Batman and Robocop toys. His saucer-shaped eyes are playful and slightly mischievous. He’d just bounced back from his bout with chicken pox. Life was sweet, simple and uncomplicated. I’m a softie for nostalgia.

My son is 20 years old now—6’2” and tipping the scales at a rock solid 195 pounds. Troy is a senior at the University of Akron and was a wide receiver on the football team until two weeks ago. The call came while I was standing in line at the bank. “Mom, I just quit the team. I thanked my coach for the opportunity. It’s over.”

Stunned, I grabbed my deposit slip and ran into the parking lot. “What happened?” My heart was racing. “Are you okay?”

He calmly explained that while he loved the game, he couldn’t stand the coach favoritism and empty promises. He added, quietly: “I lost my ambition.”

I hurt for my son! He’d worked his butt off to be a legitimate athlete for the past 10 years; he was 5’9” and 150 lbs as a high school senior—not a physical powerhouse, but he had heart and guts and a dream to play in the NFL. I will NEVER forget his first touchdown. Of course, I acted up and screamed his name like any red-blooded mom would do. Troy’s catch made the front page of the local newspaper. I ran my mouth! You would have thought he won the Heisman.

Troy joined his college football team as a freshman walk on after getting only limited playing time in high school and getting passed over when the college scouts handed out football scholarships. He spent his summers on campus, religiously lifting weights and running routes with teammates, even though it wasn’t mandatory.

Still, this year he was frustrated that he wasn’t “getting in” during preseason practices with his team after sitting out his junior year to satisfy NCAA rules for players who transfer to new schools—a red flag of how the regular season with his newer, bigger school would go down.

I didn’t want to make matters worse by talking him to death and letting on that this situation had my stomach in knots. When your child is an adult, you teeter a tight rope between being a loving, concerned parent and a total nag. Angst and panic often hitch a ride on this neurotic super highway. You have to sharpen your listening skills and your intuition, and know when to back off or you’ll be spoon-fed incomplete information or, worse, be completely left out of the loop. But you never, ever stop worrying—even if you keep it to yourself.

You do, however, get to witness firsthand how well a job you’ve done as a parent. Though my heart ached for my son, I was proud to see that his decision was mature, not knee jerk or impulsive. It wasn’t the product of rage, big ego, whining, jealousy or arrogance. He was relentless, self-motivated, disciplined, coachable and driven, and pushed himself mentally and physically to meet the demands of college football while sitting pretty on the Dean’s list.

What my son did wasn’t about quitting. It was about knowing when to say goodbye—being content with his decision and walking away with integrity when he gave his all. Troy dared to dream. His dad and I encouraged his passion and didn’t kill his spirit. The Jim Kelly, Peyton Manning and Chris Carter camps were worth it. The lingering smell of Icy-Hot on his banged up legs and requests for back rubs and jugs of Gatorade warmed my heart. The life lessons learned on the football field about working hard and dealing with adversities will go a long way with him as he enters the working world and has his own family one day!!

Next year I’ll get to act up and scream his name again with pride when he WALKS ON the stage to get his Bachelor’s degree in Mass Communications. My kind of cheering—with a box of Kleenex and all.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Vivian Eison is a divorced mom of two grown sons. In addition to being a registered nurse, she is a contributing writer for BlackPower.com, and is writing a book about surviving divorce. She lives in Connecticut.

I met today’s MyBrownBaby Mom of the Week through the comment junkie website, The Secret is in the Sauce; we were comment neighbors that day, and though I can’t remember who visited who first, I became an instant fan of her site—A Thorn Among Roses. It is there that Danyele Easterhaus, mom of four beautiful girls—one, a brown girl pie named Jada—writes and photo journals about her parenting journey and her family’s wonderful life. I absolutely adore her stories about her girls, who are so stinkin’ cute and sassy and funny and nutty, they’re addictive. And while it isn’t the focus of her blog, I especially love that Danyele really does think about the impact of raising Jada in an all-white household, and ponders often what she can do better as a mom to make sure her beautiful, brown baby lives an authentic, God-fearing life, confident in who she is—and sure that she is loved beyond measure. One post in particular that truly moved me was SADNESS, in which Danyele chronicles the heartbreak she felt when her then-3-year-old brown baby told her she wanted her skin to look like that of her white sister, Brooke. While Danyele struggled with what to say, Brooke said some really wise words that most grown folk wouldn’t have been able to conjure up: “Jada, God made you and He loves you. He does it all right the very first time.” Couldn’t you just reach through the screen and squeeze her? Out of the mouths of babes, I tell you. Well, that kind of wisdom comes from solid parenting—and Danyele is a heck of a mom. After you read more about her, go on over to A Thorn Among Roses and give her some MyBrownBaby love! Without further ado, our MyBrownBaby Mom of the Week:

My name is… Danyele Easterhaus…or mommaof4wife2r.

I live in… Indiana…and there’s more than corn in Indiana, I promise!

My brown babies are… Well, now isn’t that an intriguing question! I have only one brown baby girlie and three vanilla girlies. My brown baby is Jada, #3 of 4 girlie pies. Jada is 4, and is fashion savvy, opinionated, sweet and cute, loving, playful, poignant, girly, and fancy. Paige is 14…in high school…too pretty for her own good, but doesn’t know it. She’s kind hearted, gentle, a softball rockstar, dedicated and just plain fun. Brooke, 6, is starting kindergarten…vivacious, witty, smart, keen and hilarious.
And Sofia, 18 months, is amazingly tiny, cute, smiley, witty, strong willed, loving, and a miracle.

I make a living… changing diapers, loving hubs and the girlie pies, cooking and shopping, doing coffee time with my teenage daughter, leading Bible studies for teen girls, cleaning (when it’s convenient), laughing and crying, guiding and directing and teaching my kiddos to love and respect. Oh, and I don’t get a paycheck… I’m a stay-at-home mom now—retired from automotive engineering.

The last time my kids cracked me up… Are you serious? My kids constantly crack me up…read my blog. It could be jada screaming at b

The last book I read with my kids was… Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy, with b and jk; My Big Animal Book, with Sofia, and; our Bible study book and Bible with Paige.

My favorite place to take them is… on our “alone time” getaways with each of our girlies each week. And it’s different for each one. For Paige, it’s coffee and shopping. We chat and laugh…and I try really hard to embarrass her and I often succeed. Time alone is just precious and super fun! Brooke’s favorite place is the pet store, but I love taking her to the playground or on bike rides. She is so full of energy and creativity that she just “goes” and has a blast. Jada’s favorite thing is definitely french fries. I love that girl. Anything we do, she wants fries first, and I love a girl with priorities. We end up at the park or at the bookstore, but for her, the french fries are the important part. Sofia is still little, but I love spending time alone cuddling her and reading books, and if we’re out and about, it’s definitely playing at the park. We do life as a family, so I love just all of us being together—in the back yard, playing softball or soccer, or at the park. When we are together, life is better.

My proudest mom moment was… When I saw the face of each of my girlies for the very first time, I just couldn’t believe they were mine…each of them have their own story and their own “first sight,” but they are all my proudest moment as their momma.

My most embarrassing mommy moment was the time when… so many to choose from and I must only choose one. Hmmmm. Maybe when I laughed so hard, I peed myself in front of about 75 women on a retreat. I wasn’t mortified, but everyone there remembers me as the peeing girl.

The thing I most want my children to know is… Apologize. Love. Praise. Laugh. Serve. Humble yourself. And pray always. God is passionate about you…he will never leave you…you will never be alone.

The one family tradition I hope my kids continue when they grow up is… eating dinner together every night at the table. It seems to be a lost art these days. For birthdays, we always make homemade cakes and make our own decorations.

If I could invent one thing to make being a mom easier, it would be… a big red flashing sign that said, “(Insert your kid’s name here) don’t do that. It’s against the rules and you WILL be busted. Step away from the temptation. Step away from the temptation.” And, of course, if they didn’t, a little water spritz or something could nail them in the face and they would get their second chance before I would have to constantly bust them and put them in time out. I would still do the discipline, but they would get the warning—big flashing lights and spritz is a good warning.

The best invention for kids ever is… For babies, definitely The Bumbo. Ingenious and cute! For preschool/elementary kiddos—cereal bars. That means a few minutes of extra sleep some days. And I can take every wink I can get! For teens—cell phones. Good and bad, I’ll take it all. I love texting my girl, Paige when she’s away and I can keep tabs with her. Hate all the nonsense that goes along with it, but Paige is a no drama girl, so it’s been fine.

The kid snack I’m most likely to get busted eating is… Sadly, cheerios. I love those dumb things. And since I have my own “mommy food stash”; I don’t need to sneak their goodies (because they don’t get any candy) unless, of course, it’s Halloween or Easter and then it’s totally free game.

The most important life lesson I want my kids to learn is… the choices you make don’t affect just you, they affect everyone else around you. Don’t fall for the lie the world sells on this one; everything you do is important. Every word. Every deed. Every action and every inaction. Fearlessly be yourself.

The one thing no one knows about me is… I am a motor head. I love old cars. I still have my first car—a 1966 Mustang. I rebuilt the motor and got her back into shape. Oh, and I’m a total daddy’s girl…still.

The thing I lost as a mom that I wish I could get back is… quiet time for study and reading and sewing and sitting and scrapbooking. But I am in a season right now {keep saying it, danyele…keep saying it}. The day will come when the girlies are older and I will again have my own quiet time, and then, I will probably want more girlie time. Ok, so maybe it’s my waistline. i miss my body…and I know two of them are adopted, but seriously, I gained way more weight with them than the pregnancies!

My “I’d Rather Be…” bumper sticker would say… laying on the beach with a Diet Coke in my hand, donned with a pretty pink umbrella in the foam cup…watching my family play in the sand and surf. (I’d be skinny too and wearing a really great bathing suit).