Womze - Cross Cultural Parenting

I have never built a snowman as I grew up in warm, tropical climes.  I saw pictures of snow and it looked so beautiful.  I read about snowmen and dreamt of one day building one.  The reality of winter quelched that dream.  All desire to trample in the snow, mold snow into any form, snowman or otherwise melted away as I dreamt of sunny skies and tropical palms swaying in a gentle breeze.

My daughter has never built a snowman either.  And I’ve been thinking that I should not let my desires (or lack of) deprive her of activities that healthy young children engage in during winter. 

Today we were stuck at home with a foot of snow outside.  “Could be a good day for making a snowman”, I thought to myself.  Perhaps hubby wouldn’t mind taking Darling Angel out to play in and with the snow.  Hubby gave me “what have you been drinking?” look when I made this suggestion. 

Despite the look, I took Darling Angel to the window.  “Look at all this snow.  Do you want to build a snowman?”, I asked.  I expected a jump for joy.  Delight.  Exhiliration.  She’s been waiting for this day.  I thought.  Instead, she hesitated.  “Is it warm outside?”, she asked doubtfully.  “No”, I replied.  “I’ll build a snowman when it’s warm outside”, she declared.  She repeated herself with a smile.  She wanted to reassure me that she wants to build a snowman.  She didn’t want me to be disappointed.  “When it’s warm outside.  Okay?  I’ll build a snowman when it’s warm outside”.

“That’s my girl”, Hubby said looking triumphant.

“How do I find time to write?” I wonder to myself as I ponder over the various writing tasks I just can’t seem to get done.  There are thoughts jammed in my head that I wish to pour out on this blog and I only dream that one day, someone invents the thought-to-text converter to make that task easier.  I want to write reviews of African folktale books I’ve read for my folktales site.  And I want to try my hands at writing articles for pay, if only I could find time to write the articles.

Everyday this past week, I would plan that “this” would be the day I sat down to write.  But sometime after getting back from work, getting dinner into Darling Angel and Baby Brother, reading with Darling Angel, getting next day’s stuff ready, all my energy would be drained and I collapse into bed to repeat the process the following day. 

But on Thursday, I was so exhausted and I fell asleep early.  Darling Angel’s cries as she stood over me, trying to shake me awake crept into my subconcious.  It was like a dream - she was crying but I couldn’t wake her to ask what the matter was.  The following morning she told me in a high-pitched whine, “Mommy!  I wanted to read you my book and I need your help because it has big words but you didn’t wake up!!”  Anyway, I had a good sleep and I woke up well rested and early.

I woke up early.  It was 3:30am.  “What to do with this time?”, I wondered.  “Write!”, I silently exclaimed to myself, excited.  Baby Brother is laying next to me, he’s still cosleeping.  I get out of bed and pick up my laptop, then I sit on the floor at foot of the bed.  I make myself comfortable and begin to type.  I pledge to do this everyday - early to bed, early to wake, to write before the day begins.

Fifteen minutes had barely passed when Baby Brother began to grunt.  “Ma”.  “Mo”.  A little cry.  “NO.  Please No!  Please do not wake up”, I screamed in my head as I ducked my head down.  He mustn’t see me.  I prayed, “please God, let him go back to sleep”.

There I was, crouching at the foot of the bed, hiding from my one year son, holding my breath, praying that I would not be discovered.  And then, silence.

I waited some more to be sure, then I let out the breath I was holding and raised my head up.  To meet the gaze of the boy, sitting up patiently, quietly, thinking in baby thoughts, “mommy, I’ve got you”.  He threw his arms up (”carry me” signal) and let out a scream.  I held him and tried to comfort him.  He needed some milk to forgive my transgression.  We took a trip downstairs to get him milk.  I held him, I fed him as he calmed down. 

As he went back to sleep, I looked at the time.  Somehow, time had passed quickly as it often does.  It was a quarter past 5.  I needed to start getting ready in another 15 minutes.  I felt tired.  I layed back in bed, hoping a 15 minute power nap would reenergize me.  15 minutes stretched into 45.  I start out my day already behind time.  I guess nothing changes.

I have natural hair, and so does my daughter.  Hers is soft and silky.  Mine is still trying to find itself.  It’s been an interesting journey, changing my approach to hair care, redefining my assumptions about hair.  No mineral oils and petrolatum.  And so far, I find my hair does not take to any oil, except when I put it in twists.  No oils means I need less shampooing.  Washing with a conditioner works well for me.  Glycerine products (Sta Soft Fro specifically) work like a charm for me in summer.  Winter is still a challenge for me.

As I fix my daughter’s hair (I often french braid or do a few plaits or twists), I wonder why anyone with hair like hers would ever want to ruin it.  While I struggle with dry hair in winter, hers stays soft and moisturized.  So I hurt when she says “mommy, can you make my hair straight?”  She tells me that her friend Tim (not real name) told her that her mommy needs to brush her hair a hundred times for it to be straight.  “Mommy, can you brush my hair one hundred times?”  Apparently, Tim has a sister and that’s how Tim’s mom makes his sister’s hair straight.

“Some people have straight hair and some people have very very curly hair like you and me”, I explain.  “And your hair is very pretty.  Do you know that?”

“Yes I do.  But my friend B has straight hair and her hair is pretty too”.  “I think her hair is called blond”, she added.

She continued, “mommy, I think white people have straight hair that is blond.  And brown people don’t have straight hair”.

“That’s right”, I agreed.

She immediately jumped on that.  “But mommy, some brown people have straight hair”.  She went on to list two friends who are brown with straight hair.

“I think they made their hair straight and people can do that if they want to.  But you see, your hair is so beautiful that you don’t have to make it straight.  And you can do so many things with your hair.”

“Ok. Can you make my hair straight?”

“Where are your gloves?”, I snapped at Darling Angel.  “If you put them where they belong, we won’t have to waste time for them now”, I say as I find her another pair.

We’re trying not be late for swimming class and I’m mad at her because she’s going to make us late.

I hurriedly throw a diaper, a toy and a sippy cup in the gym bag since I don’t want to lug along a diaper bag as well.  Hubby has errands to run this morning wbich means I have to take Baby Brother’s along with us to Darling Angel’s swim class.

“Where’s your hat?” I snapped.  She had it a minute ago and has managed to misplace it while I foundher gloves.  I’m getting really impatient with her.

We finally get into the car.  Swim class starts in 3 minutes.  We have a 10 minute drive.  I’m upset. 

“It’s her fault we’ll be late”, I think.  “No, it’s not her fault”, I realize.  I’m really mad at myself.  It’s not her.  It’s me.  I stayed up late into the night, woke up late Saturday morning, and didn’t get everyone ready until crunch time.  I was the one who signed her up for a Saturday morning class.  What was I thinking?  In winter time!

The poor girl is only 5 years old.  Almost 5 years old.  I reflect back on myself at that age.  Had there been a winter in Nigeria, someone would have always put my stuff in their place and layed them out when I needed them.  Less responsibility was required of me at her age.  More responsibility is not a bad thing though.  It would help immensely if she learned to put away her stuff in their appropriate places rather than flinging her gloves under the couch.  But I need to hold more realistic expectations.  ”Why doesn’t she take more after her dad?”, I lamented to myself.  He’s pretty good about such things.  “Why did she take after me?”  “Ouch!  This really is my fault!”  And here I am getting upset with my her, holding her to a different standard than I hold myself.

By the time we get to swim class, I’m practically laughing at myself.  “We’re late.  So what?”  We get out of the car into the nipping cold.  Baby Brother goes in his stroller and we hurry to swim class.  I strip Darling Angel down to her swim suit and try to lead her to her class.  She hurries along, she knows where to go.  She doesn’t need me holding her hands.  She’s so excited to be there.

I know that as moms, we tend to shoulder a lot of guilt, more guilt than we deserve.  But sometimes when we’re mad our kids (or our spouse), perhaps we’re really mad at ourselves.  Or perhaps we’re upset for a completely different reason - something at work, the driver who grabbed the parking spot you were gunning for, the deer that collided with your car (had a close call yesterday). 

When you find your temper running short, take a deep breath and ask yourself, “why am I really mad?”.  You may just find out that there’s nothing to be mad about.