Well, it looks like I need to change my plans.

Apparently the December 21, 2012 prediction—supposedly originating with the Mayan calendar is off by about 100 years, according to recent news reports.

I’m angry and painfully tired of people slamming Jesus.

How angry am I?

I remember being laughed at when I would talk to boys about what girls could do. 

That was back in the 1970s. You remember the 70s, don’t you? TV shows where beauty often was the most important feature appreciated in a woman—constant jokes about a woman’s intellect (or lack thereof) were common. 

For some people, saying “I was wrong” is tantamount to removing a limb—without sedation or painkillers.

I have witnessed this natural tendency to shift blame from my children at a very early age. Christi History notes the fact that I dated enough men who had mastered the art of “blame shifting.”

For some people, saying “I was wrong” is tantamount to removing a limb—without sedation or painkillers.

I have witnessed this natural tendency to shift blame from my children at a very early age. Christi History notes the fact that I dated enough men who had mastered the art of “blame shifting.”

For some people, saying “I was wrong” is tantamount to removing a limb—without sedation or painkillers.

I have witnessed this natural tendency to shift blame from my children at a very early age. Christi History notes the fact that I dated enough men who had mastered the art of “blame shifting.”

For some people, saying “I was wrong” is tantamount to removing a limb—without sedation or painkillers.

I have witnessed this natural tendency to shift blame from my children at a very early age. Christi History notes the fact that I dated enough men who had mastered the art of “blame shifting.”

Tonight I am filled with a touch of guilt and determination. For tonight, I will complete thank you cards that I’ve needed to send to friends for the last few weeks.

Thank you card etiquette says that you should send the cards within 30 days unless you’re on a honeymoon. I always struggle with making the time to send a thank you card. Apparently not sending or giving the card tells the gift giver that you didn’t appreciate their gift. My feelings are quite the contrary. I am very grateful for any kindness I receive.

I love watching athleticism at its best. I had the privilege to watch our own Kansas City Chiefs surprise a few folks in the technically Tuesday Morning Football game (the 9:15 p.m. game on Monday Night Football).

The game finished after midnight and was well worth rain ruining my hair and drenching my clothes. The much beleaguered Chiefs pulled off an upset by many standards (not mine) and beat the San Diego Chargers 21-14.

Ever have a day where your hair was the only highlight?

My day today started off like any other. I glared at the alarm clock in disbelief. I stumbled into the bathroom swearing to go to bed earlier the next night.

A few Saturdays ago, I was asking Jesus to take me home or stop the pain.

While I used to think this described my experience with Calculus in college, this actually was me on my knees writhing in pain in a gall bladder attack (I found out what it was later).

Today, Darin and I celebrate our 10^th wedding anniversary. In light of the state of marriage in 2010, I am glad and amazed.

When I say that Darin is brave, I do not say that in jest. I admire his commitment. I get on my own nerves most days and here he is putting up with my “Christi-ness.” I love him for that as much as anything.

I stood in the mirror, turned to the side and said, “Not bad.” After all, as long as I never provided the mirror with the full frontal view, I was good.

Wearing my two-piece tankini, standing in the bathroom at Schlitterbahn in Kansas City, Kansas, I decided I wasn’t setting the largest 41-year-old woman in America record.

“Huh, Mommy, what did you say?” 

I used to think that question came because my four-year-old was focused on something else or simply distracted.

My daughters experienced discrimination last week.

No, I’m not going to stage a protest or gather civil rights organizations against the Cincinnati Zoo or Cedar Point.

 I have periodic anxiety about a number of things. Don’t we all?  

Did I remember that one thing I wasn’t supposed to forget?

Did I turn off the curling iron?

Not many parents have probably heard that…I’m guessing.

My adorable four-year-old daughter tells me that on occasion. The occasions tend to be when Mommy works late and gets to daycare later than usual.

I was so excited to talk about some good news. I nearly ran to my computer ready to share the emotional rollercoaster with fellow parents after an Amber Alert.

When I saw the news Wednesday morning about 4-year-old Alisa Maier being found alive and apparently unharmed, I was pleased and relieved to hear the update.

I don’t get sick easily. In fact, I am known as the woman who historically had a stomach of steel.

I’ve made friends mad because I never suffered morning sickness with my pregnancies.

You know it’s been hot when I’m looking forward to 86 degrees.

The weather means different things to different people. For someone like myself who spends my day going in and out of my car to businesses, I pay attention to the weather forecast.

I was going to save this announcement for a press conference but I seemed to lack a podium and the press.

But I wanted to let my friends know it’s done. My short-lived garage sales career will go the way of Barry Sanders or Jim Brown. (Football reference—two outstanding running backs who retired early from the NFL).

I am prepared—wearing heels and a dress while holding a feather-duster? Oh no! I’m holding a trash bag standing in front of my freezer at 10:30 at night.

Wednesday morning is trash day and I’m determined to rid the world or my freezer of food dated in 2008 and 2009. So rather than come home from a dinner function with my company and go to bed like a normal person, I enter one of my “cleaning frenzies.”

After Christmas Day, there are sales. After Thanksgiving, people pull all-nighters to shop.

What exactly is the day after your birthday? Do I get a "Now You're an Adult" sticker?

I need to close my mouth.

This is because it usually falls open when I hear news reports of scandals—especially ones involving years of surreptitious activity. 

I’ve often wondered how some women do it.

How can they let themselves be treated like furniture—being used and discarded when they’re no longer useful? And I’m not talking about 17^th century antique furniture worth more than my car.

Isn’t that how the song goes?

Actually, did anyone reading this ever win the grand prize promised at school, scouting or any other fund raiser thrown at us as children?

Discipline has become a bad word in some modern parenting circles. I’ll say those circles aren’t floating in my direction.

But it is painfully clear that many adults never learned the whole, “consequences for your actions concept.”

You need a timeout.

How do I know this? I recently took a timeout on a trip to Mexico—outside of Cancun. A trip that felt that much better because I won it through my job. The operative word here is FREE!

You might consider yourself a brave soul.

And perhaps you are.

This is the story of two 11-year-olds.

Major searches made the news in recent days for two children. One was local, a fifth-grade boy from the Piper area of Kansas City, KS and another was a Floridian girl who went on a bike ride and disappeared.

I wish the U.S. Census commercials would just stop.

Didn’t everybody send in their census form two days after they received the form? Maybe that was just me.

I’m sitting in the ER yet again.

I’ve spent so much of my life in hospitals that I’ve begun to think I should have pursued a medical career.

Does everyone have a vivid picture of the spoiled brat in their school?

You remember the girl. She never needed a band-aid because she was never allowed to actually get a minor cut. She never had to work in polyester at a fast food restaurant to pay for her car and insurance. She whined her way through most of her early years.

Crime sucks.

Men who rape women really don’t serve any meaningful purpose on this planet. That statement goes for all rapists, period.

First, let me say that I am happy for the movie, “Precious.” The movie, which featured acting rookie, Gabourey Sidibe, is the story of an abused girl, pregnant with her second child (after being raped repeatedly by her own father).

During the Oscars this past Sunday, Precious won two awards. I will, however, never see this movie. Oh, please note important disclaimer below:

Thank you Texas atheists for your example of free speech that has absolutely no value—except to people with a faith. A college atheist group is offering students pornography in exchange for Bibles and other religious books.

In a campaign called, “Smut for Smut,” the Atheist Agenda at the University of Texas San Antonio, these students are comparing pornography to the Bible.

Today is my father’s birthday.

I cannot, however, tell him of his granddaughter’s latest score in her first-grade basketball game.

I have a temper.

That statement might surprise some who know me. Some might say that I never get angry. That is untrue. I get angry. I just choose to respond in a non-violent, logical way.

 I don’t want to celebrate February as Black History Month anymore. 

As a 40-year-old who grew up learning about people like Dr. Charles Drew, the doctor who was a pioneer in the field of blood preservation and Garrett Morgan, the man who invented automatic traffic signals and gas masks, and other accomplishments by African Americans—often in the face of slavery and tremendous bigotry. This is a heritage that I, a descendant of slaves and an Englishman, and proud to represent.

I’ve always had questions about February as Black History Month. Many comedians have noted that February is the shortest month of the year.

Have you found yourself cleaning the floor after one child has been sick only to get summoned to your daughters’ bedroom because another child had an accident in her bed?

Well, if this scene sounds familiar, I don’t have to say welcome to my world—you’re a resident as well.

Moms are tough. They always have more than one job to do. Moments after giving birth, they are asked to sustain two lives: their child and their own.

As the child grows, their duties expand—referee, launderer, doctor, hair stylist, child fashion expert, life coach—you name it.

My mommy has a new name—the hat lady. This moniker is not meant to be one with a stigma, i.e. the bag lady.

With her new hobby, the hardworking woman who taught school in the state of Kansas since 1966, has continued a tradition her mother started many years ago. You see, in Margaret Henderson’s home you just didn’t sit around twiddling your thumbs.

 OK, it’s 6 a.m. on a Saturday. The phone rings. “Darin are you OK?” 

I thought my husband was because he was sleeping next to me. The call came from a concerned friend who received an e-mail saying that Darin had been attacked at gunpoint in London. He and his family were supposed to be out of money, working for some ministry there and in dire need of immediate help.

I don’t hate guns. I think they serve an important purpose in law enforcement, hunting and the ability to protect your own home.

I do, however, hate gun abuse. What’s gun abuse you ask?

Don’t you just love the fashion “did well” and “shouldn’t have” lists at the end of the year? I’m always relieved when I’m not shown. (Perhaps the paparazzi don’t know I’m famous—in my own mind).

Every year around this time I start thinking beyond fashion. Sometimes it feels like the first time I’ve stopped to think that year.

No, I can tell you where it’s not…at three Kansas City area Targets, Wal-Mart or a Toys R Us. Oh, it’s also not at my house either.

My husband and I have entered another dimension. In the land of getting gifts for my girls, we have now entered the “My Children Are Old Enough to Want Specific, Trendy Toys” Zone.

Dec. 17, 2009

 Are you a help freak?

Dear Elin, as a mother of two children myself, I have to say I’m sorry. I don’t know how much of what we’re hearing is true or not. Historically, the role of the wife of ultra-rich and ultra-successful athlete comes with its own hazards. A man with money, fame and talent is a magnet for many women. If he’s married, so what? For many women that is merely a technicality.

In recent years, the name Tiger Woods conveyed intimidation on the golf course and consistency in a game that can be ruled by a blade of grass or the strength of a gust of wind.

I needed an oil change in between appointments one day. Little did I know that I would be treated to borderline soft-porn while I waited.

I mean, I guess, some might consider that better than a free oil filter.

Being thankful helps you avoid forgetfulness, foolishness and pride. 

At any time I’m guessing the average Mom can think of at least 82 things they want instill in their child before they leave “the nest.”

I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest something radical. Are you sitting down?

I’m exhausted. Not in the “worked all day, had church events tonight and it’s 10:38 p.m. way.”

It’s the “worked all day, had church events…” after not really sleeping last night.

In recent years I have come to one conclusion. Actually more than that but we don’t have that much space.

How many of us know people who are constantly complaining about something that needs to change or giving you an overly hopeful preview of what their life will become?

I will be the first to tell you that a brilliant and lovable three-year-old was born in December 2005.

I read the news and was astounded for a moment by my youngest girl’s genius by comparison.

I was getting in my car last week when my six-year-old daughter announced, “I know all about life.”

After I finished laughing, I realized that I wasn’t surprised at this statement. Often at the age of 40, I find myself wondering at life’s many mysteries. But at six I could see everything so clearly.

I’m distraught about my situation.

I could lose my mind and move to Mauritania (on the Western side of Africa) where there is a large Muslim population that requires women to be obese to attract and keep a husband. There are even force-feeding coaches who train girls to eat excessively and sleep to get as big as they can.

We went to a beautiful wedding this past weekend in Scottsdale, Arizona.

What was it that made this wedding stand out?

I have 16 days to remind my body that I used to be an athlete.

Why? You ask?

When I read that the 25^th anniversary of The Cosby Show was this coming weekend, I had to pause.

Was it really 1984 when that era began?

I forgave the boy who hurt my feelings in eighth grade (that was 1983). It took me a while. I didn’t forgive this boy until he was a man in 1998.

It took me 15 years to let go of hurt that really was minimal as far as life is concerned. I mean, after all, I had moved on right?

My girls are going to get all dressed up in beautiful dresses, dress up shoes and updos. Don’t worry; they’re not appearing on TLC’s “Toddlers and Tiaras.”

They are actually making their wedding day debut for some friends of ours as flower girls. I’m actually really excited about it and so are they. Because our girls love to wear pretty dresses we usually bring them to weddings in their nicer finery (only finery).

I can’t see.

Not, “Look there’s Christi on the road get out of the way!” But I officially can’t see, I think. By the way, I am neither an ophthalmologist nor optometrist but something’s going on.

This past Saturday morning I awoke with more eager anticipation than my almost 6-year-old.

I jumped out of bed eager to hear my eldest’s response to Mommy’s attempt at a decorated birthday cake.

Nothing has really changed. It was stupid in high school. I mean, why does the word “drunken” so naturally go with the word, “fool?”

By stupid, I mean drinking to get drunk or in excess of what you can handle.

You can be at a party, at lunch or just having a good laugh. Bring up death and everything changes. 

Why is death such a bad word?

This might come as a surprise to some but death has a 100 % closing ratio. If you are born, you will die—someday. “Twilight” and other cool immortal fiction is make-believe after all. If it’s not, immortal folks out there feel free NOT to stop by my house.

I’m sleepy. In fact, I’m just more tired than usual.

This is a good sleepy this time, however.

Lately, I’ve been looking in the mirror and have discovered way too much extra Christi.

I’ve been avoiding writing about this topic because of my previously stated quest to get under two bucks by fortieth birthday. Uhm, that didn’t happen.

This is the question I’ve been asking myself.

I haven’t lost a lot of sleep over this issue. But I am, in fact, tired of wondering. I’ve only been around as a black woman for 40 years and I just get tired of dealing with the “race” questions after a while.

Is it possible to teach your children to roller skate if you were always the chick hanging out on the wall?

This was the question I began to ask myself one recent night when my church had a roller skating party.

I was going write about something really deep. But then I started thinking about Phineas and Ferb.

OK, let me explain why an Emmy-award winning cartoon on Disney has become my daughters’ (and their parents) new favorite show.

I like a good ending.

I get mad when a book, movie and television show doesn’t end right. There’s something satisfying when the pieces fit together just so.

  I’ll admit it. I’m fading. 

As I think about my day, my last week and my last three years, I take a deep breath.

When Darby was about 17 months old, she threw a plate—breaking it at On the Border. This wasn’t an innocent toss. This was a full-of-attitude, would-have-dented-someone’s-head, forceful throw.

Darin and I were stunned. We were new parents but Darby had never done that before. She seemed frustrated at the time but we didn’t know why.

Inspiration comes in many forms.

Right now my Mom is focused on getting away from a woman who throws lemons in other people’s cups.

There are some people who are born with brain cells and constantly lose them as they age.

Case in point: The two boys who introduced themselves to my mother last Wednesday. My mother came home from church around 8:30 p.m. to see two boys leaving a model apartment near hers. She recently moved there and is less than five minutes from me.

It’s fascinating when you talk about age in different circles.

Personally, I’m excited. Next Tuesday is the day I enter the “40-Zone!” (Twilight Zone Theme hummed here). June 2, 1969 was a good day for me—I would like to say for my folks too—so I’m going with it.

I asked my daughter a question the other day that turned into a somewhat philosophical statement—from a five-year-old.

I wasn’t clear if the main cartoon character, Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!, was an adult or not—mainly because his character doesn’t appear to be too bright.

In a world filled with Pop Tarts and Macaroni and Cheese…where a mother doesn’t feel safe opening the pantry and fridge for her children--now what are we going to do? 

Word on the street is that the Food and Drug Administration is working over Cheerios for making false claims about the cereal’s health benefits. 

I love my mother.

We’ve spent a lot of time together—starting in October of 1968—when I was begat. Basically, since June 2, 1969—when I was born—I’ve needed my own space.

Disclaimer: This applies to single moms, dads, and any guardian situation (i.e. grandmothers, grandfathers). Also, this is for parents who primarily take care of children individually because of a spouse’s job.

Last weekend, in between thunderstorms and tornadoes, I had the pleasure of being the solo parent all day. My husband took a group of teens to Worlds of Fun for church to attend Shinefest.

Here’s the thing. I love my girls. I love looking at their antics. I haven’t missed first performances in singing, basketball and theater. I write down cool things they say. I watch Pinky Dinky Doo with them.

In the grand arena of "parents of the century," I’m thinking my husband and I should rank pretty high.

Here’s the thing. I love my girls. I love looking at their antics. I haven’t missed first performances in singing, basketball and theater. I write down cool things they say. I watch Pinky Dinky Doo with them.

In the grand arena of "parents of the century," I’m thinking my husband and I should rank pretty high.

Let’s just say that I’m not qualified for combat because of any extensive training—unless you count playing basketball for 30 years (mostly in the lane).

But the recent news of Somali pirates attacking freighters brought out a weird combination of my personality.

OK, when we finally get warm weather—on my birthday, June 2^nd—I’m striving to achieve two things.

One is easy, at 12:26 a.m. on that day, I will be 40! (When I was 16, my mother wasn’t sure that would happen). So barring a change in the game plan in the next 53 days, that’s a done deal.

When you meet the Queen of England do you curtsy or not?

I didn’t know the answer to this question until I read an account of the Obamas visit to England this week.

Think of things that get you excited or extremely happy:

1)      A large tax return,

This might be somewhat ironic in nature.

Late week, I espoused the merits of just drinking water. For the update, I’m still a fan. I’m excited to send money to help someone get clean water.

Our youth group at church has decided to drink only water for two weeks. Not because we’re trying to be super healthy folks.

We are actually participating in a fund raiser with The H20 Project. The funds raised go to help drill clean water wells in countries around the world. In our country where we can easily buy a bottle of water or get relatively clean water from a tap, some of the worldwide water facts are astounding.

Feeling down these days? That’s totally acceptable.

According to the news reports, the sky is practically laying on our foreheads. I don’t mean to sound like Chicken Little.

When I think about men abusing women, I get sick, sad and extremely mad.

I’ve observed the Rihanna situation with a sad heart that she’s had to go through this. And yes, I have no pity or anything pleasant to think about Chris Brown.

Here’s a life irony for you. Christi Diggs, the woman who loves being in a gym more than shopping, has two daughters fascinated with makeup, dresses, the color pink—and anything super “girly.”

This was the thought racing through my head on a recent afternoon when my girls were playing with some children’s makeup. My five-year-old, Darby, purchased the makeup kit at the “store” at church. On top of the fact that all of the colors were much lighter than anything an African-American woman would wear, I cringed when I tried to decipher the chemical makeup of the stuff.

I can tell you a sure way to begin a heated discussion. Is it a discussion of religion, politics, paper or plastic?

Tell people you are not going to color your hair. You’d be amazed at the response.

I’ve asked myself that question in the days that have followed the birth of eight new Californians to mother, Nadya Suleman.  

I’ll admit I was amazed when the report of their birth appeared last week. I was stupefied to discover that she already had six children. I was concerned when it was also reported that she was unemployed, single and reliant on the help from the grandparents. 

So maybe I should be a magician.

“When I grow up…”

That was a phrase that an 80-year-old woman who had danced as a part of the Ziegfeld Follies in New York City in the ‘30s used. At the time I was interviewing her for a story as a Kansas City Star intern.