Monthly Archives: November 2009

Got tattoos? Will hug.

I got my first tattoo when I was 20. The tattoo was a Native American image of a medicine man, which I got on my right shoulder from Big Brad, a 6’5″ tattoo artist (who looked every bit the part of a Hell’s Angel) at his tattoo parlor in South River, New Jersey.

I tolerated the mild sensation of pain, knowing that on the other side waited my first tattoo. Afterwards, as it healed, I marveled at how it looked, and knew that I would get another.

My second tattoo was a hand-drawn design (my representation of a phoenix) which I had Brad put around my belly button. The pain was markedly different from that of my arm, but tolerable, and I focused, once again, not on the pain I was experiencing, but on the knowledge that when Brad was done, I would have, yet another tattoo.

My third tattoo was a griffin lion, on my left shoulder blade. Before I knew it (and with considerably less pain than either of my first two) I was done, and clearly addicted to tattoos.

Since leaving New Brunswick, and college, I have gotten 14 more tats, including the names of my wife and children on my arms, a tribal dragon on my left thigh, a tribal double dragon across my lower back and my sides/ribs, a band on my right forearm, three tribal freehands on my right and left biceps, and left forearm (one which I got in Bali on our honeymoon), a full mosaic on my back depicting a prophet receiving the word of God and a trio of angels, and a Japanese tiger on my left pectoral.

Ladies, please control your hormones.

Some of my tattoos were completed in one sitting, while others took several sessions lasting up to four hours each. All told, I’ve spent no less than 48 hours under the gun. I’ve become quite intimate with my tattoo artist, Flash, as a result of all these tats. No homo.

A few of my tattoos are abundantly personal, others whimsical, and at least one, totally impulsive. But I love them all, and will probably get a few more before I’m done.

Why all this talk of tattoos? Let’s just say I’ve got tattoos on the brain.

I spent Thanksgiving evening at the Princeton Marriott Hotel and Conference Center at Forrestal with the family and we went swimming in the heated pool. While we were there, there were these two little boys, who just stared at me the whole time.

I thought they simply lacked home training, until my wife pointed out that I’m covered in tattoos, and the kids had probably never seen a dreadlock with tats before in their life.

Last night, I responded to my friend’s indirect Facebook query about tattoos. The takeaway being that anyone covered in tattoos has something wrong with them.

In all fairness to my friend, she used Lil Wayne and Iron Mike as examples of excessive tattooing, but I took issue nonetheless. Anyone who covers themselves with tattoos has issues? I think not!

Sure, SOME people who cover themselves in tattoos may suffer mental deficit, of which tattoos are the outward manifestation of their inner demons. But that does not mean that all people who sport lots of tats are similarly compromised.

I, for one (well…I may not be the best example of sanity, but let’s assume I am sane) don’t believe that my tattoos are evidence of mental imbalance. I LIKE tattoos. A LOT. So I have a lot of tats. It’s really that simple.

Members of the Ink Nation are part of a subculture, that prim and proper people cannot and will never have the capacity to understand.

I think that tats, like any other form of body modification, is simply a reflection of the person. To make the leap that anyone who enjoys anything (that is not inherently harmful to themselves or other people) is crazy, is a bit…crazy!

If you’re a strict constructionist, and take every word of the Bible literally, then people who get tattoos are irredeemable sinners, destined for hell.

But for everyone else, folks with lots of tats are just that, folks with lots of tats. They are no different from you and I, they just don’t mind displaying their uniqueness for the world to see.

So the next time you see someone covered in tattoos, don’t shrink away or stare dumbfound. Walk over to them and give them a hug!

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Who do I remind you of?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve reminded people of other people. I looked like ‘Gerry,’ or ‘David’ or any of a number of anonymous doppelgangers.

Since I didn’t know the folks to whom I was being compared, it never really bothered me. Maybe I DID look like ‘Gerry,’ or ‘David.’ But without a face to connect to the name, the comparisons quickly fell away.

In the past few years, however, I’ve been likened to less random folks and more contemporary figures, and it’s become increasingly difficult to shake the comparisons.

I’ve heard everything from Eddie Murphy, to Malcolm Jamal Warner, and everyone in between.

Here are a few of the more annoying:

Ashford (of Ashford and Simpson). The wife and I were shopping recently, and a women remarked (quite loudly) “Oh my god! Y’all look just like Ashford and Simpson!”

Ashford's got contacts for chrissakes!

What is it about me that reminds you of Ashford? My Jheri curl or the colored contacts I’m wearing? Perhaps it’s the copious amount of make-up!

My wife immediately knew my inner rage, and tried to deflect tactfully, “Oh I think Ashford is soooo handsome.” To which the she responded, ‘Ain’t he though?”

“Thank you.” I replied obliquely. Heifer!

The absolute BEST (best=worst) is Wyclef Jean. The first time I heard it, I was like “C’mon! I really do not look like dude.”

Is is the lips? The forehead? The goatee?

I was in a parking garage in NYC, rocking a Triple 5 Sould military style shirt with a Haiti patch. The Caribbean attendant who was getting my car asked (quite genuinely), “Are you Wyclef?” No. “Why you wearing Haiti then?” What? I’m Wyclef because I’m rocking a Haiti patch? C’mon!

But I’ve heard it sooooooo many times, that I’m starting to wonder…Nah! Cats are just blind.

Now this is not to say that there haven’t been flattering comparisons that leave the Kid blushing.

Take Leon, for example. I’ve been mistaken for Leon so often that when I actually met him, I felt like an imposter! I was seriously sizing dude up, trying to figure out what it was about me that had people thinking I was him.

Stephen or Leon? You decide.

Another celebrity I’ve been compared to is AJ Calloway (I guess from back in the day when he was still rocking the dreadlocks). I was at Eden Gourmet in South Orange recently, and ran into AJ, shopping with his mom and a friend. We shot the breeze and bid each other adieu.

AJ is very flattered that people compare me to him.

As my son and I continued to shop, a few clerks were chirping behind us, “You know A.J. from 106 & Park?” “Yeah, over there!” Mistakenly thinking they were seeking to confirm that I had been speaking to AJ, I turned only to realize that they were talking about me!

I quickly disabused them of the notion that I was the former BET VJ, and that the REAL AJ had walked out a few minutes earlier. I reminded them that AJ no longer rocks the dreds, but understood their confusion.

I don’t know why it gets under my skin being compared to other people.

At the end of the day, I guess I’ve just got one of those faces.

Who do I remind YOU of?

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I’ve Been Tagged – Honest Scrap Awards

So I’m perusing my Twitter account, and I come across my girl Aliya S. King’s tweet, which said “this post will self destruct in one hour” and provided the following link, http://bit.ly/HonestScraps.

Since I LOVE Aliya’s writing, and she’s one of my collegiate homeskillets, I followed the link to her blog, to a post in which she divulged 10 honest things about herself.

Always one to read about the bats in other people’s belfries, I went in and was genuinely touched by her profoundly personal piece. I was even more touched, when she tagged ME as one of the people for this chain-letter style social media experiment.

So (pursuant to the instructions for the Honest Scrap Awards), first, let me thank Aliya for presenting me with this Award.

Now without further ado, 10 honest things about Stephen:

1. I like big butts and I can not lie! Like Sir Mix-a-lot, I’m a bootie man. I love butts. Some men are boob men. Some like legs. Me, I’m all about the derriere. Bubble butts. Apple bottoms. Heart-shaped. Tight muscular. You name it, I like it. I’m not checking for a sloppy butt or a flat one either, but if a nice set of female gleuts pass my line of vision…well, let’s just say, I’ll pay attention.

2. My johnson curves slightly to the left. I used to be very self-conscious about my slanted schlong. I thought women would take one look at it and bust out laughing. I learned that despite the curvature, I was ‘endowed’ and quickly got over it.

3. I have a favorite child. Parents all say that they love their children equally and have no favorites. And I’m sure that many of them believe it. But it’s not true. We all have our favorites. For all parents, there is one child that stands out (for whatever reason) from the rest, and that you take to.

4. I think I’m going to win the lottery. I know that it sounds ridiculous. Who doesn’t think they’re going to win the lottery? If you didn’t think you’d win the lottery, why would you play? Right? But I REALLY think I’m going to win the lottery. Something deep in my bones tells me it’s true. Now even though I almost never play (I spend a grand total of $20 a year on the lottery), I know that one time I do, I’ll strike it rich.

5. I haven’t had a drink since 1997 (didn’t mean to one-up you Aliya). No. I never had a drinking problem. As part of my religious observation, I gave it up. And although I no longer actively practice, I didn’t miss not drinking. So I still don’t.

6. I think rappers are the most clever wordsmiths. Their faculty with language always impresses me. Now I think a lot of rap is garbage, and I’m constantly appalled when my wife turns up a REALLY ghetto song on the radio, and sings along. The first time I heard her sing, “she opened up her mouth and then I blew her brains out” with Lil Wayne, I thought, I married a gangsta bitch. But all the while marveling at how Wayne was able to so poetically describe a blow job.

7. I want to write a book. I started blogging because my friend Denene Millner said that you’ve got to write to write, and that blogging was a simple way of practicing the art of writing on a regular basis. I have no idea if I will ever actually write a book, but I’m enjoying blogging for my audience of 8, so I’ll keep doing it.

8. I want to meet Oprah. Yes. I said I want to meet Oprah. People may not acknowledge it, but Black women are treated like fourth class citizens. In terms of societal hierarchy, it goes: White men, White women, Black men, Black women. Some would argue, that it’s White men, Black men, White women, Black women. But either way you cut it, Black women are always last. I want to meet the woman, who, despite the odds, is the richest Black person in the world. Oprah, I will be your baby daddy. For real. Forget Dave Chappelle.

9. I support reparations. If the American government, actually paid reparations to the bona fide ancestors of slavery (as they did the Japanese for their internment), then they would have the moral authority to tell people of color to put slavery in the past. But so long as slavery remains the unacknowledged open wound that Blacks simply need to ‘get over’ we’ll always have problems in America. I’m not an ancestor of slaves, so I have nothing to gain. It’s simply the right thing to do.

10. I’m afraid of going bald. Sure I’ve got a head full of dreadlocks, but that don’t mean a damn thing where baldness is concerned. Lots of my contemporaries are rocking baldies to hide the male pattern baldness lurking below their shiny shaved surfaces. They say it’s genetic, and you can tell by looking at the males on your mother’s side. One of my uncles is bald and the other isn’t. How does this help me? A balding dread is not a pleasant thing to behold.

Anyway, I’ve got to present this award to seven bloggers that I admire. They are:

1. Denene Millner http://www.mybrownbaby.blogspot.com

2. James Andrews http://www.thekeyinfluencer.com/channel/

3. Cara Reynoso http://commutefromhell.wordpress.com/

4. Ben Tannenbaum http://bentannenbaum.com/

5. Anike Robinson http://anikerobinson.blogspot.com/

6. Keith Williams http://bobcatsaddict.com

7. Oneika Mays http://waytolivenow.blogspot.com/

Fellow bloggers unite!

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Stephen Chukumba says: “Go with the flow.”

See the bubble. Be the bubble. You are the bubble.

Are you one of those people, that, no matter what happens, you just go with the flow? I mean, good or bad, you remain even, despite the calamity around you?

It’s a rather pleasant state of being, this going-with-the-flow thing. You can see things with abundant clarity, and stand firm even in the eye of the storm (knowing that it will pass bringing mayhem and madness, when it does).

I’m a go-with-the-flow-er. Lord knows your boy has been tested by trials and travails (another story for a different time). Suffice to say, if you’ve just met me or have known me for years, you’ll always encounter the same ‘ole Stephen.

My wife marvels at my unflappable nature. I think it’s a reaction to growing up in a house full of crazy Nigerians. Eventually, you become anesthetized to all forms of drama, achieving a Zen-like quality.

Growing up Nigerian is no joke. When your dad speaks with a thick Nigerian accent and points with his middle finger (all my friends found this trait to be quite hysterical), you learn to cope.

When your mom conducts herself as if she were THE original bush-diva (Omfoofoo got nuthin’ on mom dukes), you learn to be amused.

When your older sister is a domineering bully (she regularly beat all three of us up at one time), you grow a thick skin.

And when two of your younger brothers are a mal-adjusted overachieving genius (think Harvard MBA in Triathelons) and an aspiring meglomaniac (4 degrees, including a PhD, and not a lick of common sense), it’s either drugs in heavy doses or learn to cultivate some form of inner mental clarity.

It all started when I was little. Once, my dad brought home a billy goat. My brothers and sister thought we’d received the wonderful gift of a family pet. What? We were Nigerian. What did we know of pets?

For a full week, we fed Billy (yes, we named him Billy. I told you we were Nigerian, didn’t I?) and showered him with love. Until Saturday came.

You see, on Saturday a bunch of my relatives came over for a party (my parents were always throwing parties). That evening, my dad, a few uncles and I went into the back yard and untied Billy from the pole to which he had been tied.

My father produced a machete, and after saying a few unintelligible words or prayer in Igbo (presumably to the gods of savage acts performed in front of small children), proceeded to SLIT BILLY’S THROAT! Brave Billy bleated his last breath, and was promptly turned into a feast.

I was shocked. Who knew my peaceful, smiling, heavily accented-English speaking, middle-finger-pointing, five foot six, buck fifty, 50 year old daddy, was a straight killer?!

And why was I out there with he and these other brutish savages celebrating the death of poor Billy? What did Billy ever do to any of you?!!!

Growing up in America, with savages for parents (and relatives) provided me with numerous opportunities to hone the ability to remain detached while observing even the most heinous of events unfold before me (I’m not even going to go into the time he took me to the farm to get a cow – let’s just say he met the same fate as Billy).

The Stephen who blogs before you is the product of these trials and travails.

So if you ever find yourself in a tight spot, with nowhere to turn, think of Billy, and go with the flow (but don’t let anyone with a machete anywhere near you).

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Stephen Chukumba says: “Be grateful for the little things.”

Without question, one of the worst institutions in the world is the DMV (Division of Motor Vehicles). Long lines, rude agents, excessive paperwork are just a few of the indignities one must suffer to get anything done.

Today, I had the misfortune of having to visit my friendly neighborhood DMV for what I thought would be a routine matter, but which I feared would end up being exquisite torture.

I left bright and early thinking I would beat the crowds. Unfortunately, about 50 other people had the same bright idea.

The DMV at 9:04 a.m.

A sign in the entrance advised that all visitors had to see the receptionist first. So I joined the cattle call and made my way slowly to the receptionist’s desk.

Receptionist: “May I help you?” Wow, politeness with a scowl, what a way to start a day.

Me: “Yes. I’m here to renew my registration.”

Receptionist: “Line number 7 and 8.” She says with a dismissive flick of the wrist, pointing me to my destination. Hmmm, that was too easy. Let me just confirm with this grouchy old lady passing by.

Me: “Excuse me, am I in the right place for a registration renewal?”

Grouchy Old Lady: “Is your paperwork complete?”

Me: “Yes.”

Grouchy Old Lady: “Go stand in the line for Counter 2 behind the lady in the pink jumpsuit.”

Me: “Thank you.” How long would I have been standing in that line if I hadn’t asked? Geeeeeezzzzzzuuuusssss! But at least I’m in the right place.

Waiting for our numbers to be called.

After 30 minutes (during which exactly two people were assisted):

Lady at Counter 2: “Driver’s license. What are you here for?” More polite rudeness. Gotta love it.

Me: “Registration renewal.”

Lady at Counter 2: “Take this number (#27) and have a seat. Someone will call your number.”

Mind you, when I got here, at around 9:00 am, they were on number 18. It’s now 10:04 am, and they just called number 22. At this rate, I’ll be called upon around 11:30. Damn!

After what seemed like an eternity (but was, in fact, only another 5 minutes), they called my number.

The lady who helped me was both courteous and efficient, and after two or three minutes, my ordeal was over.

In hindsight, my trip to the DMV was not so terrible. In and out in less than an hour and a half? I guess I should be thanking the god of motor vehicle administration, for blessing me with such a short stay in vehicle registration purgatory.

It could have been far worse. I could have had my kids with me, which would have made that hour and a half, literally feel like an eternity.

So the takeaway for today, is to be grateful for the little things.

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You’ve Got to Be Kidding Me! Pregnant, R Kelly? Really?!!

r-kelly-pregnant

Keep this man away from your daughters.

Today, a small part of me died. I heard this song on the radio, that at first, I thought was a joke, but ended up being real.

I was casually listening to the radio and I heard someone sing the lyrics,

Girl you make me wanna get you pregnant,
Girl you make me wanna get you pregnant,
Lay your body down and get you pregnant,
Knock you up, pregnant, Knock you up

My first reaction was unadulterated laughter. I just KNEW it was one of those ridiculous parody songs from Cipha Sounds and Rosenberg, but as I listened further, I wasn’t so certain.

Is that R Kelly? I thought to myself.

This sounds like R Kelly. But I know this fool wouldn’t make such an inane song.

And I would have left it at that…

That is until I heard a brotha that sound strangely like Tyrese singing on the record too!

Tyrese, what are you doing?

Much to my chagrin, I was compelled to keep listening (you know I couldn’t turn the station until I learned if it was a real song),

Can you believe I’m in the club with a girl who has a man,
And take her to the hotel for just a one night stand,
See I’m a playa so I ain’t tryna take her on no dates,
Too much like my patrone man I’m just tryna take it straight.

When the song was finally over (Praise God!), the DJ announced, “That was Pregnant ya’ll. Ya boy R Kells featuring Tyrese. Kells doing it big once again! Call me or text me and tell me what you think about the record!”

And there it was, confirmation of all that I was dreading, but hoping somewhere deep down, where dreams go to die, that the song wasn’t real.

We all know that R Kelly is a sex crazed pervert. Even before the sex tape, we knew he had strange fetishes. But Tyrese? Why would you do a song with Kells, with his irreparably battered and bruised pedophile-ish reputation? A song about getting girls pregnant no less!

Call me crazy, but Pregnant is unquestionably the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard on the radio (and there is some pure unadulterated b*llsh*t on the radio parading as music, so that’s no small statement).

What’s next? A song with Chris Brown called Smack a Ho?

Pregnant, R Kelly? Really?!!

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Stephen Chukumba says: “It’s all about con-text.”

Disclaimer: This post contains some politically incorrect content. I am both embarrassed and ashamed to even relate the information contained herein. However, in my defense, I was so amused by some of these gems, that I would have been remiss not to share.

If you text, Twitter, IM, Skype or engage in almost any form of micro-chatter, you’re familiar with “text-speak.” “Text-speak” are those acronyms which, despite their primary utility as abbreviated words that are easier to type, convey a common meaning, and are now used in regular conversation.

I am not talking about all texting shortcuts, like ROTFL (Rolling On The Floor Laughing) or LMAO (Laughing My Ass Off) or even WTF (What The F*ck), each of which is widely used and well known, because in spite their ubiquity, they haven’t been adopted as part of our everyday speech.

texting

I text, therefore I am.

I’m referring to those texting shortcuts, that have made the transition from the screen to our mouths. BFF, for example, is perhaps the most widely recognized text-speak in common use today. BFF (for those of you still dragging your knuckles across gravel or perhaps without BFFs) stands for ‘Best Friends Forever.’

OMG is another acronym that has become part of our uber-forward text-savvy vernacular, and stands for ‘Oh My God’ (or goodness, if you’re not trying to take the Lord’s name in vain).

TMI is a third. TMI, which stands for ‘Too Much Information,’ is a virtual mainstay in this tell-all society we live in. I would have loved to tell Oprah TMI yesterday, when she had the chimp lady on. I didn’t need to know or SEE all that.

Yeah, I watch Oprah, so what?

There are countless others that have made the leap, like ‘addy’ (address), DIY (Do It Yourself), or IM (Instant Message, as in “IM me”). But recently, a friend of mine hipped me to a few that weren’t so familiar, but are (apparently) in widespread use and clearly have their place.

Take ABC for example. Do you know your ABCs? Most of us would automatically answer ‘yes’ (unless, of course, they were illiterate, and in that case wouldn’t be capable of reading this page to form an answer). And they’d be right, but not for the reason they assumed.

In text-speak, ABC refers to ‘Angry Black Chics.’ Two points for whoever knew that before arriving at this point. Listen closely, and you’ll probably hear the term ABC off the lips of a few brothers discussing women woes (“Man I can’t handle no mo’ ABCs, I needs me a white girl!”)

I know you know what AA is. C’mon, stop playing. It’s not Alcoholics Anonymous (although I’d imagine that there are some AA members that text ‘Im going 2 my AA mtg. C u there’, but that’s besides the point).

AA refers to ‘African Americans.’ When texting, or talking, referring to Black people as AAs will help avoid some awkward situations. For example, when discussing your outrage over Tyrone’s promotion to the first junior assistant to the night shift loading dock shift manager position, mask your hostility towards members of the darker nation by saying, “Those AAs get all the jobs,” leaving Tyrone (and the rest of the darkies) none the wiser.

The pièce de résistance of our post today, is definitely 5397. Not familiar with 5397? No, these are not the Lost doomsday numbers (which are 4 8 15 16 23 42 dummy). Nor are they last night’s Pick 4 winners.

5-3-9-7 on the alpha-numeric buttons of a phone, spell J-E-W-S. Yes, take it all in. Hey Skinhead! Sick and tired of Jews? Now you can state publicly that “5397s are taking over the world,” and fear no recrimination of being labeled antisemitic.

I hope you learned a lot today, and ‘Big up!’ to Carmen for her etymological assistances.

If you know of any words that have made the transition from text to speech, please feel free to share them with me. Who knows, you may be sitting on a texting DITR (Diamond In The Rough – I just made that one up).

For more text acronyms, visit Netlingo.

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Ode to Holey Underwear

I don’t know when it happened, but it has. I am a man who wears holey underwear. I mean to say, that I possess and wear underwear with holes in them. Well, actually, I wear boxers…no athletic boxers (with holes in them). Not all the time, mind you. But frequently enough, that I should examine this phenomenon more closely.

Not all of my underwear sport holes. Just some. Why these holey boxers remain in rotation is beyond me. Both the wife and I are on laundry duty, and rather than toss these tattered testes holders, we wash, fold and return them to the drawer with the rest of my undergarments. (Geesh! ‘undergarments,’ I’m such the dandy.)

It’s as if I’d never heard my mother’s admonition to always wear clean underwear, lest you find yourself in a car accident or some other mishap where folks would see your drawers. But she never said anything about not wearing holey underwear.

Maybe it’s the recession. I mean, if they still possess elastic, and can stay up, what’s a few holes? Sure, it looks like I’m wearing a loin cloth, but it’s underwear, who’s going to see ’em? (Tragic accident notwithstanding.)

You know the really sad part of it all? I’ve purchased new underwear, to replace their road weary compadres, but I still haven’t seen fit to toss the old dogs.

Why do I keep them? Nostalgia? Laziness? Poverty? No. I think it’s simpler than that (and perhaps more disturbing): when I wear holey underwear, I think, ‘my manhood did that.’

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Stephen Chukumba says: “Reading is fun-for-mentals.”

By my own admission I do not like to read…books, that is. That is not to say that I am a complete ignoramus, but I’m pretty close.

My wife on the other hand, devours books. She usually reads two or three books at a time. Right now, she’s reading New England White, A Yellow Raft In Blue Water  and Lost Symbol. Compared to her, I am a grunting Neanderthal, scrawling unintelligible symbols in the dirt.

AYellowRaftInBlueWater

Chanel is reading this...

New_England_White

...and this.

LostSymbol

...and this...

She’s always talking about how good this or that author is, imploring me to pick up a book and read. I usually pshaw her, opting instead to click click clack away on my laptop. I’m on my computer all day, what do I need to pick up a book for?

The_Emperor_of_Ocean_Park

I'm reading this.

Anyway, she’s just finished reading her second Stephen L. Carter book, and was gushing over how well he wrote. For a few years she’s been trying to get me to read his first book, The Emperor of Ocean Park, and I simply wasn’t having it.

But after she broke down the fact that he was an African American author, a mystery writer, and had a national bestseller, I gave in. And you know what? The book was damn good!

I couldn’t put the damn thing down! I was reading on the toilet, in bed, making breakfast, doing laundry. If I could drive and read at the same time, I would have. I’ve got about 150 pages to go (the book is 654 pages) and I can’t wait to find out ‘who dunnit.’

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Stephen Chukumba says: “It’s a (input child’s gender here)!”

The wife and I are having our fourth child, due around February 4, 2010.

With the exception of Asha Ming (our first), I’ve found out the sex of each kid and she has remained in the dark, lest her foreknowledge of the child’s gender ruin the surprise she’d experience finding out at birth.

Since the ultrasound, I’ve known the gender, but the wife doesn’t know, nor does she want to know.

Despite her articulated stance, that she doesn’t want to find out, she’s been playing Sherlock Holmeslice, trying to figure out the sex of the child, without actually coming right out and asking.

It started with her trying to interpret her dreams. She used to consistently have dreams of a baby boy. According to her, her dreams always tell her the correct sex of the baby. That is, until she started having girl dreams too!

She’s gotten so crazy that I intentionally drop little statements, just to mess with her. If, for example, I say, “the baby is going to look like me,” she’s automatically assume that the baby is a boy. Or if I say, “the baby’s active like Asha Ming was,” it’s a girl.

I told her I’d put her out of her misery and just let her know the sex of the child, but she’s like “if I didn’t find out the sex of the other kids, so I’m not gonna find of this one either.”

Go figure.

Chanel, if you’re reading this, we’re having a girl/boy (select one).

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