Daddy's Home: A Memoir of Fatherhood and Laughter

By Solomon Jones

Fresh off his appearance in Essence, award-winning parenting columnist Solomon Jones releases his hilarious memoir, Daddy’s Home. While taking readers on a comical ten-year journey from wedded bliss to panhandling kids, Jones reveals the links between fatherhood and poverty. Funny, endearing and true, Daddy’s Home is a loving tribute to fatherhood—a must-read for dads and kids alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Solomon Jones
• Release date: Jun 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9780615490533

Book preview

Daddy’s Home:

A Memoir of Fatherhood and Laughter

by

Solomon Jones

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Solomon Jones on Smashwords

Daddy’s Home:

A memoir of fatherhood and laughter

Copyright © 2011 by Solomon Jones

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Dedication

For LaVeta, Eve, Solomon and Adrianne. I love you all more than you’ll ever know. Thank you for being my family.

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Acknowledgments

First I must thank my Lord and savior Jesus Christ, who snatched me from the streets and gave me the woman of my dreams. LaVeta, you are my best friend, my confidante, my lover and my wife. Thank you for supporting my dreams, for loving and nurturing my children, and for always being there for me. You are a phenomenal woman. Thanks to Bill Cosby for his advice and guidance as I worked on this book. Mr. Cosby, you didn’t have to take the time to speak with me, but you did, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thanks to Jannie Blackwell for her help, not only now, but in the days when I was one of thousands of nameless, faceless men on the street. Thanks to Wendy Wilson for her help and guidance. Thanks to Congressman Chaka Fattah for his guidance and support. Thanks to the Philadelphia Weekly and the Philadelphia Daily News for publishing the stories contained in this book. I am especially indebted to Anthony Clifton and Tim Whitaker at the Philadelphia Weekly, and to Michael Days and Sandra Shea, who helped me to become an award-winning columnist at the Philadelphia Daily News. To my children, Adrianne, Eve and Solomon, thank you for being mine. You have shaped me in more ways than you know. Finally, thanks to you, my readers. You are the mirror that reflects the essence of each story I tell. Get ready to laugh. It’s going to be a wild ride.

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Chapter 1

Baby, baby, baby

January 26, 2001 It’s six months after the wedding, and while LaVeta and I are in love, we’re also poor. The bedroom in our studio apartment doubles as the family room, the hallway leading to the kitchen is my office, and the bathroom serves as a den ... with a toilet.

Granted, our cramped apartment is not the Waldorf Astoria, but it’s home. We even have a name for our little place. We call it Love Jones.

For six months, we’ve partied here, but good times come with a price. I learn just how expensive it is one night as the two of us are standing at the sink doing the dishes.

Did you enjoy yourself the other night? LaVeta asks nonchalantly.

Yeah, I say with a naïve grin.

You willing to pay for it for the next 18 years?

Party over.

August 20, 2001 I can now see the baby poking at LaVeta’s stomach. It looks like a scene out of Alien. I half-expect something to pop out and start biting us. Fortunately, that never happens.

We’ve also started Lamaze classes—otherwise known as busywork-for-dad. By the time we do the fiftieth breathing exercise and review my job of feeding ice chips to LaVeta during labor, I’m clear that this will be my wife’s show. I’ll just be there to listen to the yelling.

Mid-October 2001 When the big day arrives, I’m in the delivery room with my mother-in-law, watching the gory, er, happy event. Through sixteen and a half hours of labor, there is indeed yelling. Christian woman that she is, LaVeta loudly calls on Jesus. He apparently listens, because at the end of the whole thing, a baby comes out.

As the doctor cleans up the mess, LaVeta holds our daughter, Eve, in her arms. Then LaVeta turns to my mother-in-law and asks if she wants to go to the hospital cafeteria to get something to eat.

You didn’t see what I just saw, Mom says, no doubt trying to wipe the blood-and-guts images from her memory.

Amen to that, I think to myself. Amen to that.

October 25, 2001 Multiple nights of newborn screaming are driving me insane, and though we’re still struggling financially, I’m grateful that LaVeta will be staying home with the baby while I work to support the family.

You’d think living on a writer’s salary would be the hard part. It’s not. The hard part is grasping the new fangled notions of marriage and fatherhood that men have to deal with in the new millennium.

Things were a lot simpler in my father’s day. Back then you changed a diaper or two and handed the kid back to the wife. Nowadays, couples share more of the load, which means dads often end up in drug stores.

Sometimes it’s for Children’s Tylenol, other times it’s to fill a prescription, and then there are those special times; the times I’m writing to warn single guys about.

Why am I warning you, Single Guys? I’m warning you because if you decide to take this plunge, there will be times when your wife will be in need of, um, essentials. You know, the once-a-month essentials. The kind of essentials men don't need.

It's times like these that separate the men from the boys. If you really love her, feminine hygiene shouldn't even be an issue.

When your wife is trapped inside with the kid and the monthly visitor, you’re going to get that cell phone call. When you do, you've got to step up.

Sure, Single Guy, you're reading this, and you're saying, Come on! It can't be that hard! You walk in, get the goods and leave.

Well, son, there's more to it than that. That's why married dads call it … the Mission.

I don't care if you've fought wars, wrestled crocodiles or run triathlons. If you ain't navigated the feminine hygiene aisle at your local drug store, you ain't done jack.

Me? I've completed the Mission, and this is my story.

It was a rainy day. My wife, who was incapacitated at the time, sent me to the drug store to get the goods.

I couldn't protest. She couldn't do it for herself, so I steeled myself for the journey, and then—dressed as a hoodlum in black skull cap, leather jacket, Timberland boots and black jeans—I walked inside.

Quickly, I zigzagged through the store, searching those little overhead signs for the words feminine hygiene. When I couldn't find the correct aisle, I became angry.

Scowling, I approached a drug store employee and posed the question with all the bravado required of a man trapped in my situation.

Where’s the feminine products aisle? I asked, deepening my voice.

The worker's jaw dropped. She looked me up and down. She was obviously new and hadn't yet borne witness to a husband on the Mission. Unable to speak, she just pointed.

Thanks, I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

As I turned, I felt her eyes. They were following me.

When I entered the feminine hygiene aisle, I was confronted with shelf upon shelf of womanly stuff. There were tampons, sprays, powders, pads and wipes—and all in countless brands, sizes, shapes and colors.

By the time I spotted the Always brand my wife had requested, there were matronly looking, blue-haired women walking by, trying not to stare.

Must find the goods, I thought, staring at the shelves with single-minded determination.

As I searched the shelves, I learned that some marketing genius at Procter and Gamble (the company that makes Always) had decided they would make fifty different products. Among them: Slender with Flexi-Wings. Regular. Regular with Flexi-Wings. Super Long. Super Long with Flexi-Wings. Overnight with Flexi-Wings. And that was just the Ultras. Let's not get into the Maxis.

To make matters worse, they were color-coded. Some had yellow stripes. Some had orange stripes. Some had green stripes.

My head was reeling. More matronly women walked by. I whipped out the phone and called my wife.

Is it Ultra Thin, Maxis, Overnight, Flexi-Wings or what? I asked in a panicky stage whisper.

When we settled on the type, I grabbed the color-coded package and half ran, trying in vain to escape the prying eyes of the women who were either amused or alarmed—it's a fine line—by the sight of a man in the feminine hygiene aisle.

Now there was only one remaining hurdle. The counter.

As I approached the two teenage girls working the registers, I flashed my wedding ring in an effort to prove that I wasn't some weirdo who was just into feminine products.

Thankfully, they were caught up in compulsive teenage girl conversation.

She stupid, one said derisively. She lettin' him use her.

Ummmm hmmm.

I slid the package onto the counter, once again flashing the wedding ring.

Cash or charge? the girl asked, disinterested.

Debit card.

Punch in your code.

I did as I was asked, grabbed the bag and flew out the door.

Mission complete.

So why do I tell you this? I tell you, Single Guy, because someone has to warn you now about the truth.

If you wanna get married in the new millennium, you've got to be man enough to go to your neighborhood drug store and walk the feminine hygiene aisle. Because I don't care how much you say you love her. If you don't know the difference between a Super Thin Ultra Long with Flexi-Wings and an Overnight Maxi with Wings, you're just not ready to be a husband.

Period.

November 20, 2002 A lot has happened over the last year. Eve has met her sister, Adrianne—my 10-year-old daughter from a previous relationship—and the meeting went pretty much as I expected. Adrianne tried to hold her little sister. Eve cried bloody murder. Adrianne handed the kid back to LaVeta.

That brings me to the second thing that’s happened since 2001. Eve has learned to use LaVeta’s last nerve as a trampoline. Having seen my wife seriously consider locking Eve in the bathroom to escape the constant crying, I know we can’t survive another minute in our tiny apartment.

Just in the nick of time, a relative who is going away decides to give us his house.

When we bring a contractor in for a peek at our new digs, he surveys the damaged baseboards, looks at the peeling paint, checks out the grimy carpets, and turns to us with a troubling question.

Was this house abandoned?

Uhhh … no.

We begin our home restoration project by tossing old furniture, ripping up carpets, and cleaning the place. Contractors hammer, drill and paint. We have track lighting installed and redo the hardwood floors. The whole thing costs about five grand.

LaVeta does what she can to lighten the financial load. In fact, she’s so intent on doing her part that she violates a few rules along the way.

What do I mean? Well, to be quite honest, where we come from, there are a few things you just don't do. You don't disrespect your mother. You don't try to hustle a hustler, and never, under any circumstances, do you wear bobos.

What are bobos, you ask?

Simply put, bobos are extremely cheap sneakers. Dollar ninety-nine cheap. Back in the day, they were the kind of sneakers you could buy from a wire mesh container next to the checkout counter at Pantry Pride. You know, white canvas, hard yellow rubber, dried brown glue oozing from the sides.

Bobos.

When I was growing up, if your mom bought you bobos instead of Jack Purcells or Pro-Keds, you prayed they weren't the kind with the conspicuous red or blue stripe running around the side. If they were (and God was especially merciful), your mom scraped up another $1.99 before the rubber began to crack.

When you got your new bobos, you threw the old ones up on the wire at the end of the block. Then you tried your best to wear out the new ones quickly, hoping your mom would get the message and buy you something better next time.

Long and short of it, bobos are bad news, and everyone from my generation knows it.

So when I came home last week and my wife, LaVeta, said, Honey, I got some new sneakers, I was expecting something along the lines of Nike Airs.

But when she removed them from the box, they were something else altogether. White leather with red stripes, rubber that was white instead of yellow, an intricate logo on the top. There was no denying it. Neither the quality of the material nor the fancy logo could hide the horrible truth.

Bobos.

They're not bobos! LaVeta said defensively.

Oh, but they were. They were manufactured by some company called the Beverly Hills Polo Club. I don't know what that means in Beverly Hills, but in Philadelphia, it means they're bobos.

I looked down at the sneakers and smiled. Then I reached over and picked up our 1-year-old daughter, Eve. Mommy's got bobos, I said sadly.

Eve said, Da da.

Then she looked down at the sneakers, glanced at me and smiled at her mother. She didn't get it. At least not yet.

I was trying to save us some money, my wife said earnestly.

That's when I knew my wife loved me. You would have to love someone to wear bobos for the greater good. Granted, I'm the sole breadwinner—we decided that my wife would stay at home and take care of our daughter—but I would never have asked her to do anything that drastic for the sake of our financial life.

And to tell you the truth, I couldn't understand why a summa cum laude college graduate, a woman who likes the finer things in life, a woman who I thought understood the cultural nuances of being black and in your mid-30s, would buy a pair of bobos.

As she started to explain that they were not, in fact, bobos, I began to imagine the various whispered insults we'd have to endure.

Sol, her cousin Dana would say. What's with LaVeta's sneakers? You need a couple dollars?

The people at our church would take up a collection. My mother would pretend not to notice. The neighbors would sit on their steps speaking in hushed tones.

But the worst thing of all would be the song. Yes, the history of bobos is so storied that there's a song about them. It goes something like this:

Bobos, they make your feet feel fiiiiiine.

Bobos, they cost a dollar ninety-niiiiiine.

Bobos

Come get your bobos

Come get your bobos, your bobos, todaaay.

I couldn't let LaVeta keep them, so with the bobos refrain still reverberating in my head, I began to plot the bobos' disappearance. I would throw them in the trash. I would burn them in a bonfire.

But then, just as my evil scheme was beginning to take shape, she dropped the bombshell. As a matter of fact, LaVeta said triumphantly, I bought two pairs.

I looked down at the cloth sneakers she pulled from another box, and as my face crumpled in disbelief, the truth, in all its ugliness, burst from my lips.

You bought two pairs of bobos? I asked incredulously.

She laughed.

Then our daughter, with all the wisdom she'd gained over the first year of her life, looked at me, pointed down at the sneakers and, in the sheepish voice of a child pronouncing a new phrase for the first time, she said it.

Buh buh?

That's right, I said with resignation. Bobos.

Eve hasn't stopped looking down at those sneakers and saying bobos since.

Frankly, neither have I.

December 4, 2002 A week ago, some friends took pity on us after hearing about the bobos, and invited LaVeta and I to escape our crying kid and spend a few hours with none other than Brandy, the chart-topping singer who starred in the long-running sitcom, Moesha.

For one enchanted evening, I took a hiatus from my own pitiful show, Broke Dad, and got to hang with a real TV star.

When our friends initially asked us to be their guests at a gala to benefit a charity founded by Brandy, I didn’t believe it. But when the event date arrived and we had the tickets in our hot little hands, I knew it was real, and I started thinking crazy.

I rationalized that even the star of Broke Dad should be able to get a new shirt and tie when he’s meeting someone like Brandy. I figured I owed it to myself to wear something besides the same tired suit I’d been running for the past couple of months.

On the day of the gala, LaVeta told me she wanted to go to Macy's to buy a new outfit for the event. I owed LaVeta. She’d stooped to buying bobos just two weeks earlier. If she wanted a new outfit, I was all for her getting it.

We loaded our daughter Eve into the car for the drive to the mall. Along the way I began fixating on how I would—insert ominous musical progression here—buy something for myself.

That's insane! said my daddy self.

No, it's not, said my before children (B.C.) self.

But you'll be broke, the daddy voice admonished.

You're already broke! said the B.C. guy.

LaVeta, sitting next to me, must have sensed my inner turmoil.

What are you thinking about, honey? she asked.

Nothing, I said, and patted her leg reassuringly.

But it was hardly nothing. I was about to free myself from my Broke Dad persona. Anything could happen, and it did.

We packed up the kid and went to the mall, and after LaVeta tried on three sequined tops and a pair of velour pants, I blurted it out.

I want to go up to the men's department and get a shirt and tie, I said.

Thunder did not roll. Lightning did not strike. LaVeta did not blink. When she helped me pick out a wheat-colored silk shirt and a matching tie for just over $50, I started to think I’d been silly to hesitate to buy myself something. Sure, we were running a little late for the gala due to my unscheduled stop in the men’s department, but what could happen?

After we hustled home and changed into our respective outfits, I found out the answer to that question.

Look, LaVeta! I exclaimed as I looked at my new shirt in horror. The sleeves were 5 inches too short.

What are you going to do? she asked with a chuckle.

I put on my suit jacket and grabbed my car keys. What do you think I'm gonna do? I said. "I'm gonna wear it and pray I