Carry-on Baggage: Our Nonstop Flight

by Bailey Thomas, Cynthia,Thomas, Peter,Short, Rochelle,Saunders, Keith

  When I originally met her in California, she’d walked into a room filled with gorgeous people. Even in that crowd, she stood out like a Muslim serving BLTs at the Waffle House. She had a military buzz cut like she was fresh out of the Marines, 5’8”, green eyes and olive skin. She was straight butter! I asked her if she was a model and she gave me some sarcastic, feisty answer. I invited her to do a few shots and the next thing I knew, we were at 7-Eleven buying condoms.

  I was a player, but a finicky one. My style was to spend time with a woman and get to know her smell before anything happened on a sexual tip. The scent of a woman is critical for me. Even to this day, I’ll smell my wife whenever I’m close to her. I love Cynthia’s aroma! Sometimes I’ll wear her perfume just so I can smell like her all day. When another woman tells me I smell good and asks what I’m wearing I’ll tell her, “My wife’s perfume, now get the hell on!” It just wasn’t my usual thing to sleep with a woman the first time we met. Yet, this one was so milky, I had to drink her. I woke up naked in her bed the next day.

  Playing everything back from that morning, I remembered seeing the condom wrapper on the floor, but no condom. My first thought was to look for it. I’d heard some horrible stories about the places missing condoms ended up. Before I could really search for it, I was distracted by her sitting up in bed and lighting a cigarette. I asked her to put it out, and she told me it was her house and I could get the fuck out if I didn’t like it. If that was her way of telling me good morning, I figured either she wasn’t a morning girl or my sex sucked.

  The kind of shit she was kicking me was the very reason that no matter where my night started, it always ended with me sleeping in my own bed. I wasn’t a guy who was cool with spending the night at any woman’s house. That was some chick shit! There was just something about this girl that had me breaking my own rules left and right. I didn’t like nobody putting me out of anywhere, so I honored her request and got to stepping.

  Three weeks later, she popped up at my crib. I had no memory of even telling her where I lived. She said she was attending a gay pride parade in the area and asked if she could park her car at my place. We ended up sleeping together again. No tequila shots that time, but I had a tracer on that damn condom we used. I never did figure out what happened to the first one. Fast forward eight months; I’m sitting my black ass in the back of a cab, thinking how all this shit could even be possible.

  I had no idea how far along she was and sent her $3,000 for an abortion. The next week, I met her at a restaurant in L.A. and intentionally got there before she did so I could watch her arrive. When I saw her, she was pregnant as shit! I took a paternity test, along with two other guys. My unlucky ass, who had never won anything in my whole damn life, won that time by 99.99999999 percent. I was angry at myself. All of my other kids had been planned. Not only did this birth blindside me, but Isaiah Joseph was my first and only child not to bear my last name.

  Cynthia’s Concourse

  When Peter told me he had five beautiful children, it was still early in the game for us. I didn’t feel the need to say anything other than, “that’s great” … (for him). I loved that he seemed proud to be a father. Having only one child, I was admittedly curious about how the dynamics worked for Peter, being a dad to so many. I could not imagine his process of coordinating visitation with each of the four moms. Did he visit each child on a rotation system, or did they all just randomly get together, Brady Bunch style?

  Two kids would have been more than enough for me, but the second never happened. Having met Peter right before my fortieth birthday, having more children was certainly biologically possible, but not practical. Peter is the kind of guy who wants to procreate with any woman he truly cares about, while I’m fine just imagining what the end product would be. Coming to Atlanta, my focus was on solidifying the second half of my career and being the best parent possible to Noelle. A new baby with Peter would have been working backward for me.

  I never envisioned myself with a house full of children. I was completely satisfied giving my love and attention to one child. If Peter had no children, I would have certainly been more receptive to giving him one. I don’t think I could have denied him the opportunity of becoming a dad. Luckily, he had fatherhood on lock, and we both agreed our soccer team of six was all good.

  I made a point of introducing Peter to Noelle and Leon early on because I didn’t want to get too far down the line and find out they didn’t like him. My daughter lived with me. If there were any underlying issues between her and the man I cared about, I needed to know right away. The paradigm was a two-way street between me and Leon. He always made it a priority to introduce me to any woman he was considering bringing around Noelle. I don’t think it’s good to have your children hanging around people you don’t know. I didn’t expose Noelle to every man I dated, but once Peter and I started talking marriage, meeting her was the next step in my process.

  Once we became an official item, I wanted to meet his kids. I don’t remember my introduction to Peter’s kids being as vital to him as it was to me. It very much seemed like he was down with me, regardless of how they felt. I, on the other hand, am a big believer that for blended-family marriages to have longevity, a certain harmony has to exist between the kids and stepparents. Lack of harmony does not cancel out the relationship, but it can make things pretty problematic.

  He didn’t have the Cosby’s relationship with his exes that I had with Leon. He couldn’t just call them up and say, “Hey, I’m in town. Swing by and meet my supermodel girlfriend!” I stayed completely out of the when, where and how of meeting his exes and kids. If there were any looming disputes that needed to be addressed, it would be Peter’s place to resolve them, not mine. I had no issue with Peter’s number of children, I was merely anxious to get past the formalities

  None of the children lived with Peter and were scattered around the country, so I met each indiscriminately. I stayed open and excited, but knew it wasn’t my place to interfere with his way of doing things. As long as I felt Peter was making my introduction to each child a priority, I went with the flow and allowed him to control the particulars.

  His firstborn, Porsche, was coincidentally the first of his children that I met. It was during the early phase of our dating, while I was still living in New York. Peter had put on an event there and she came to the party. She was charismatic, cute, smart, funny and a quintessential daddy’s girl! Her bond with Peter was obviously magnetic. She worked at VH1, had aspirations to become a model and seemed excited to meet me. We were both New Yorkers with a lot in common, which allowed us to develop a closeness outside of Peter. She would come by my place for visits, and I would invite her to attend social outings with me. We grew very friendly and fond of each other.

  We would talk about everything, from fashion to man drama. Until the day it hit me that my man was her daddy! Porsche felt she could remain objective, but the reality was we were still venting to each other about the same man. A couple of times, Peter asked me about things that I had only shared with her. Another time or two, I found myself hot with Peter over things Porsche had told me about him. She was getting caught in the middle, and I realized I was putting her in an unfair position. It had never occurred to me that befriending Peter’s daughter would become a conflict of interest in being his wife. Things got weird and I knew I had to cut it off.

  Porsche was Peter’s child and confidante, not mine. Peter deserved the right to talk to her confidentially about anything, even me. I made the decision not to maintain a girlfriend or BFF exchange with her. We ceased all the personal conversation about her dad and established more of a stepmom-stepdaughter connection. My epiphany aided in our relationship eventually growing stronger.

  I met Porsche’s brother, Peter Jr., next. He was such a handsome, super sweet and talented young man. Peter Jr. struck me as artistically inclined – a little bit of a rapper and musician rolled into one – the caliber
of talent that could have a huge music career if he remained focused. His benevolent spirit was a clear indication that he had been raised primarily by a woman. He had so many gentle sensibilities of a momma’s boy. My contact with him made me especially curious about the type of woman his mother was. When I finally met her, it was a very pleasant experience. Having only known Peter’s perspective of their history, I didn’t know what to expect. She made me feel totally welcome and turned out to be approachable and mad cool.

  Peter’s Airspace

  Isaiah had just turned a year old when the paternity test proved he was my son. Blaze’s mom and I had already been through so much, I knew if I tried to keep his birth a secret any longer, it would come back to bite me in the ass. She had moved to California to give us another shot, and we’d established a beautiful life and home in Beverly Hills. If nothing else, I owed her the truth. I don’t remember her exact response when I came clean, but it wasn’t nice! What I do remember is packing my shit and hearing Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” playing in the background of my head. She was done with me for good.

  It wasn’t easy leaving, knowing she had really never done anything foul to me. I wanted to get my act together to be the best man I could for her; we just never got on the same page. I left California around the end of ’99 to go back to Miami. Within a two-year period, I opened Barcode Restaurant and Lounge and Static nightclub. I would consistently send funds to support Blaze, and I was also sending money to take care of Isaiah. I did everything in my power to avoid dealing with his mother. Even with the confirmation that he was mine, I spent seven years in denial. It was another not-so-proud period in my life that I wouldn’t mind erasing.

  My friend Alex Moyer (former NFL, Miami Dolphin player) thought setting me up on a hot date would pull me out of my funk. He wanted to hook me up with a girl I had briefly dated back in ’96. In my travels back and forth from Cali to Miami, we had run into each other a few times, so she wasn’t completely off my radar. I agreed to go out with her again, and we decided to meet in the lobby of the Tides Hotel. Seeing her again that night, she looked cuter and more settled than when I had last seen her. She was the perfect escape to break the blues after my split with Blaze’s mom.

  A couple of months later, my homeboy Michael Kyser (current president of Atlantic Records for Black Music) and I held a party for Jay-Z in a suite at the Tides. I had upgraded my pseudo blind date to girlfriend status, and she was there with me. She had a striking beauty that would catch any man’s eye, even Jay-Z’s. On an elevator ride the three of us shared, we reached our floor and she exited first. As she was walking away, Jay-Z told me, “Man, you gotta hit that.” I let him know it was already in the cards. Months later we were living together, and she delivered my youngest child, Bryce Hernandez in 2004.

  When we broke up, the experience was the first time I had worn someone’s “Get the Fuck Outta My Life” T-shirt and it didn’t feel too hot. Her rejection had me experiencing all the pain I had put many of my exes through. I was bitter about it and felt reckless, like I was going to lose it! My mind was playing tricks on me, telling me some foul shit. If you have ever watched an episode of The First 48, it doesn’t take a brain scan to know the mind can snap quickly. Pain will make you do some shit you’ll wind up regretting the rest of your life.

  She used Bryce as leverage in our split, and I had to take her to court to get visitation rights to see him. All this went down while I was still trying to stay out the ring with Isaiah’s mom. Under the pressure of dealing with both women at once, I was convinced I would never find another woman that I truly loved. The thought of starting a new relationship put a pain in my gut equal to that of a root canal with no Novocain. My negativity hit the brakes the day Melrose reminded of Cynthia Bailey. Even in our first conversation about buying her truck, I sensed everything about her had the potential to change my life.

  In the early months of our dating, I took her to meet my two oldest children (before any of the others). She and Porsche were in the same industry and shared a love for anything connected to fashion. Porsche had just turned twenty-four and was launching a modeling career in New York. She was beyond excited to meet Cynthia and knew her to be an icon in the modeling world. They hit it off immediately. Watching them relate and listening to Cynthia give Porsche advice made my heart race double time.

  Peter Jr. met Cynthia later that same month. He thought she was fine, and she thought he was a good looking, smart kid – basically, a chip off the old block. Shortly after meeting Porsche and Peter Jr., Cynthia met Bryce during a trip we took to Miami. It was puppy love at first sight between the two of them.

  Where Blaze was concerned, she had never spent time with me and a woman, other than her mom. They still lived out in California, and Blaze wasn’t able to meet Cynthia until a year after we started dating. When the day came, Blaze was a little standoffish. I always thought she viewed meeting Cynthia as being disloyal or hurtful to her mom. Cynthia never left home without her big girl panties and perfectly understood Blaze’s reserved nature. As with all of my kids, she took absolutely nothing personal when it came to meeting or getting to know her.

  It was a relief to get through most of the introductions and give Cynthia a glimpse of how I was as a father. I wanted her to see how much I loved my kids and how much they adored me. My goal was to make her comfortable with my parenting skills, because her daughter would be living with us. Even though Noelle wasn’t mine biologically, I still wanted to prove to Cynthia that Noelle would be given the same protection and love that I gave my own children.

  By the time Cynthia met my last child, Isaiah, we had been married for a year. Ironically, he has been my only child to ever live with us. One day, his mom called me out of nowhere to say that he was being disrespectful and acting out. She said his twelve-year-old frame had grown taller than hers and spankings were no longer an effective punishment. She had run out of options and asked if she could send Isaiah to stay with me for a while. When I told Cynthia I needed to take control of the situation, she didn’t question my choice for a second. In fact, I think she responded with, “Okay, let’s get the guest room fixed up.” It only confirmed that I had made the right choice in a wife.

  The first time I laid eyes on Isaiah, he was seven years old. I went to California to meet him and his mom on neutral ground at a local park. I remember him saying to me, “You’re black!” I told him, “So are you.” Well, he wasn’t quite as black as me. He couldn’t stop touching my face. I could tell he was happy and already comfortable being around me. I stayed for a week and took him shopping. We spent most of our time talking, with me answering a lot of questions and getting to know him.

  His mother was raising him in Big Bear, California, where most of the kids were white. He was a skateboard kid. It tripped me out because in a sense, he was like white boy with jet black, curly hair – stuffed into black skin. His surroundings led him to question his mom about why he looked so different from his siblings. It made him fretful, and he wanted to see what the other side of his family looked like.

  Five years after that initial meeting, Cynthia and I were putting things in place for him to come live with us. When it was time for the move, I sent money to his grandmother to purchase his plane ticket. I didn’t send the money to his mom, ’cause I wasn’t trying to set it up for her to keep the money and call me talking ’bout she changed her damn mind. When I picked him up from the airport, we went straight to the barbershop and I hooked him up with a fresh haircut. Knowing he already spoke differently from the typical Georgian, I wanted to boost his ego. His surfer-dude look wasn’t the hype in the south, so I put him on point with a lil’ swag. He saw more black people on his first day in Atlanta, than he had probably seen at a Martin Luther King's Day parade in Big Bear, California.

  Cynthia’s Airspace

  Peter met Isaiah for the first time while we were still dating. His explanation of how Isaiah came into existence
is definitely one that can be filed under the classic “The Condom Broke” category. He told me that Isaiah’s conception stemmed from a combustible mixture of too much alcohol, raging hormones and sex with a woman he had just met. Not long after the encounter, he relocated to a different city, having no knowledge of her pregnancy. All of the detached elements resulted in him never having a relationship with or getting to know Isaiah’s mom. I certainly wasn’t going to hire a private investigator to check out his story. Unless I found out otherwise, his rendition was one I could live with. It was part of Peter’s past and not something that happened during the span of our relationship. He just got caught out there, and one night became forever.

  There was an uncertainty of whether Isaiah would ever come around. I knew from Peter that he had been asking questions about who his father was, so I suggested that Peter make arrangements to meet him. I have always encouraged my husband to accept responsibility for where his choices in life have landed him. I don’t have the power to figure out his destiny for him, no more than he can figure out mine for me. I’m just along for the ride as his wife. He handles his part, I handle mine and hopefully somewhere along the journey our purpose will become clearer.

  Years after Peter met Isaiah, his mom called to report that Isaiah had started to rebel. I looked at the scenario as if I were in her shoes, and couldn’t help but to wonder if it were me, what kind reaction would I want from father of my child? I would have desperately wanted my son to be embraced by his dad. It made me proud to know that was exactly how Peter handled the situation. We all agreed it was a good idea for Isaiah to come and spend some time with Peter in Atlanta.