Let me tell you, raising a human being in this economy is ghetto. Absolute ghetto. Some mornings I wake up feeling like I have it all figured out, I mean, how hard can it be? I’ve watched enough YouTube, read enough X threads, and even skimmed through a parenting book once (okay, twice). But by 9 a.m., I’m sweating, my patience is hanging by a thread, and I’m negotiating with a toddler over why we can’t eat yogurt straight from the cup with a fork.
And don’t get me started on those “perfect parents” online the ones with color-coded toy bins, kids in matching outfits, and packed lunches with faces made of carrots and cucumbers. Me? I’m just out here wondering if it’s bad parenting to serve ugali and sukuma twice in one day. Honestly, is there a chapter somewhere that tells you when you officially qualify as a bad mum or are we all just vibing?
You see, they sell us this dream of gentle parenting. “Speak softly.” “Use positive affirmations.” Meanwhile, I’m over here saying “Kama hutaki kuoga, sawa. Lakini usiniambie umechekelewa unanuka.” Gentle where? On who?
And my child? Eh, she’s thriving. Thriving in chaos. Every day she wakes up with one mission—test mummy’s patience to the limit. “Mum, today I want tea in a pink cup.” You give her the pink cup. “No! I meant the other pink!” Wueh. At this point, I’m convinced toddlers have meetings in their dreams plotting how to humble us.
The other day I promised myself, today, I’ll be that mum. The mum who makes memories. We’ll cook together, laugh, bond. So I rolled up my sleeves and decided we’re making mandazis. You know, start small, connect with my roots. Ten minutes in, there’s flour everywhere. The dough looks like a crime scene, and my child? She’s eating raw dough. RAW. Dough. At this point, I’m wondering how our mothers made it look so easy. I remember my mum whipping up chapos with one hand while threatening to beat us with the other. Balance.
Then there’s Ms Rachel. Ah, savior of modern parenting. They don’t tell you this, but Ms Rachel is the co-parent now. You put her on, and for 30 blessed minutes, your child is learning colors while you sit down and drink your tea hot, like God intended. But the internet streets? Hah! They’ll tell you screen time is killing your kid’s brain cells. Meanwhile, without that screen, my brain cells would be the first to die.
Sometimes I pause and wonder, is this how my mum felt raising us? But then I remember, our parents weren’t raising emotionally intelligent humans. They were raising survivors. You cried? “Nyamaza kabla nikupige.” You dared answer back? “Nitaambia baba yako.” Us? We’re here reading articles about “parenting without trauma” while our toddlers serve us daily doses of it.
And then there’s the guilt. Oh, the guilt. You scream once and spend the whole night wondering if you’re the villain in your child’s story. You try to be the fun mum, the soft mum, the “let me explain why we don’t throw things”mum. But sometimes, you’re just the “eat now or stay hungry”mum, and that’s okay.
Because I’ve realized, parenting isn’t some perfectly baked mandazi. It’s the burnt edges, the uneven shapes, the struggle to get the oil temperature right. But inside? It’s still soft. Still warm. Still made with love.
At the end of the day, I don’t care about raising a genius. I just want to raise a kind human. One who knows that even when mummy was tired, even when she shouted, even when she served ugali twice… she loved. Fiercely.
So here we are, surviving, thriving, vibing. And sometimes, bribing with sweets. Because si ni life?
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