She took her very first tentative steps this week. I got to see it with my own eyes, after work on Thursday. It was surreal. Nana was so excited. She used a set if keys as a carrot to encourage her to walk. 😁
She just lacks confidence. But her head will soon follow in her footsteps. I am really enjoying her. She does something new everyday!
I was so excited, I let her open her birthday prezzie early!
A year ago, this time, I had no clue if baby was a girl or a boy. I was already on maternity leave, wondering when tiny little sesame seed would arrived. We had named baby “sesame seed” because that’s how tiny she was when we found out.
So much has happened in this first year. A baby was birthed. A mother was born (that took far longer than the actual labour). And my life took on a whole new direction. I have a deeper spiritual connection with the God of my understanding. I have a deeper understanding of my purpose and a sharper bent on my career.
I marvel at the little person we are raising. She is so clever! She loves to tear apart her foam alphabet mat. So the letter S was lying around one day. “Ssssss”, I said, “Sssss is for snail, snake, snow! Sssssss” And she started mimicking me. Now, whenever she grabs the S, she goes “ssssss” 😃
One morning, I was changing her nappy, while daddy snored away in bed. Out of the blue, she goes “Cghhhhhhh”. I said “How does daddy make?” “Cggggghhhhh”, came the reply! Even caught it on camera as irrefutable evidence of daddy’s snoring!
I could never have imagined all of this a year ago. What a blessing. I feel as though I have run a marathon, that I couldn’t train for, and now, at the finish line, I am looking back on how far I’ve come. Resting for only a moment, for the race is not yet won.
Cheers
The court’s gone done it! Corporal punishment outlawed in the home. Or, at least, one is no longer able to hide behind religion as a defence.
Interesting. I will be keeping an eye on this case. I have long been opposed to corporal punishment. My parents are proponents of this form of discipline. And I got my fair share of “hidings” – as we called them.
It only made me fearful. So afraid, that when I was hopelessly failing maths in grade 11, I hid my report card. I also experienced a number of hidings that I still feel were unwarranted.
One example. I was 9. My elder sister had a bird – a budgie – in a cage, as a pet. She would let said pet fly around the room for exercise, after carefully closing the doors and windows.
One afternoon, after school, my sister was running late. I thought the bird might need exercise after being cooped up all day. But I forgot to close the balcony door.
I spent fearful minutes searching the sky, praying, willing the bird to return. I’m still waiting. Needless to say, sister gets home and after hearing me plead my case she pronounces “Just wait till daddy gets home”.
I think I might have wet myself. Those were agonizing moments. I really didn’t mean for the bird to fly away. It was an accident. But nobody believed me.
Dad came home. My sister got to him first – laying a case for how jealous I was that she had a pet and how I deliberately left the door open. I cried. I pleaded: “No, it was an accident!”.
But the verdict was set and the punishment swift. 😔 It still makes me sad. This is one of the reasons why I made a conscious choice not to use this form of discipline in our home.
I follow the UK based “Love and Logic” approach, introduced to me by this very same sister. We were products of the same approach. She may have her own reasons.
To do this, I need to do alot of work on myself. Examining my reset buttons. Triggers. Continuing my journey of mindfulness. Guarding my thoughts and my words. Especially my words. An angry word cuts deep.
“You’re a mistake!”, my dad seethed with anger after I gave the same old defence when I’d broken a plate. “Butterfingers”. “You’re so clumsy!” Hurtful words.
I do not blame my dad. He was just doing the best he knew how. He spoke out of anger. I don’t think he even remembers saying it. But I intend taking those experiences and turning them into lessons – for myself as a parent.
The rest of baby’s village is not on par with our approach to discipline. We can only hope they learn the empathetic way, and move away from the idea that children should be seen and not heard. I trust they will as they speak/act out of a place of love. We all have much to learn.
Cheers.
My sister is a flat-earther. I go with the rest of the sheep, in believing the earth is round. Nobody really knows, either way. I certainly don’t, as I’ve never seen the world from any vantage point.
But this raises many questions for me. What will I tell her? Will I try to shape her reality (like the media does), by telling her, not what to think, but rather what to think about? What to think about God. What to think about the shape of the world?
I think I will tell her, show her, help her to explore and process evolution theory. We made a commitment to raise her as a Christian. And we intend honouring that commitment. But how we do it may sound novel. We want her to develop a personal relationship with her maker, a God of her understanding.
When she is old enough, and having been taught to question everything, she can decide for herself. Just like I did. That’s the best we can do as parents: teach our children values and principles to live by and then let the fledgling fly.
I feel like a hippy mommy! 🤣 It’s scary, when you think about it, that parenting is really nothing more than a social experiment. We adopt certain expectations – a control test, if you will. And then life carries us along, and we make snap decisions in the moment, informed by deeply held beliefs. “Take your feet off that table!” “Cross your legs when you sit!”, and the like. And then, I guess, you realise you’re not as open minded a parent as you thought.
Or like my dad likes to say, “Keep an open mind. But not too open, your brains might fall out!” I suppose its a good thing, adopting an African worldview, that it takes a village to raise a child. Our daughter’s village is full of varied and unique individuals, who will pull her in all kinds of exciting directions, and help mould her into the being she was created to be!
The only thing I can say for certain is that we will try our utmost to raise a human and not a gender. She will be exposed to lego blocks, puzzles, trucks, sports and action figures. The elders in the village lean happily towards baby dolls, kitchen sets and teddy bears. She will decide.
The same applies to her clothing. When I was pregnant, I refused to find out the gender. If God wanted me to know, He would’ve put a little window on my oven door. 😋 So many of her clothes, at birth, were gender neutral with a large spattering of boys wear (some folks were convinced she was a he).
I expect to continue this trend. Dress her practically, in shorts and crawlers, so she can toddle about. Not too many frills and lace and stockings – nobody can play in those things!
We cannot, will not, give her the world on a silver platter. We hope to guide her as she explores it and figures our her own worldview.
Cheers.
I refuse to accept it. THAT diagnosis. Bipolar II (mood swings: lite). Perhaps I’m in the first stage of grief – denial – mourning the loss of my sanity? Or, perhaps, I’m just overthinking things – as I’m wont to do?
I refuse to live on medication in order to feel “normal”. I refuse to be “normal”. I refuse. Maybe she’s born with it?
My psychologist, who speaks from a strong spiritual perspective, says insanity is not a part of our perfect design. That the maker created us to be of sound mind. The diagnosis may well be the scientific communities attempt to understand a complex phenomenon of behaviours. It does not have to define me. I am more than a word. Much more than any diagnosis.
Its all a matter of perspective. I can’t seem to identify with the stories of sufferers of Bipolar mood disorder. Once I began on a path of recovery from my addiction to alcohol, I no longer had a drinking problem – I had a living problem. Without the hazy effects of alcohol, I was forced to re-engage with life on life’s terms.
If I hadn’t stopped drinking, I would never have married my rock of a husband. I would never have had this beautiful baby girl. I would never have experienced personal growth. As I’ve said before, my post-natal depression humbled me. I could no longer keep living like that – anxious, afraid, victimised, angry.
It’s almost as if God completely broke me down in order to birth a mother. I would not have had that experience, had I continued hiding behind alcohol.
I am going through a season in my life. One in which I have to take medication to address the chemical imbalances in my body. It is only for a season. If I am diligent and faithfully committed to my Maker’s promises, then I shall be healed. And live.
You see, I’m not striving for “normal”. I want to strive to be the best version of myself. I want to learn to love myself – warts and all. I want to grow from my experiences, instead of being defined by them.
The bipolar label ties one down to a reality of otherness. You become stigmatised and relegated to the fringes of a utopian normality. This is my perspective. I am not trying to take away from the legitimate struggles of those battling mental illness. I am merely trying to come to terms with a diagnosis, which I feel was pinned to me like the tail of a donkey at a kiddies party.
Perhaps, I am overthinking? Maybe it just may be? Angazi, but I’m sure!
Cheers.
Do babies have a sixth sense? Like a receptor in the mouth, that let’s them know the biological/whatever profile of a thing? Or are they like the poor misunderstood shark, who needs to take a bite before it realises its meal is not a seal? 🤔
Literally everything goes into her mouth! Sometimes, after a good crawl-about, I’d catch her chewing. Then she clears her throat, as though she’s trying to dislodge a hairball. Not surprising, if you consider she once tried to eat a little goose down feather.
But the thing that really bothers me is the chewing. Especially when I can’t tell what it is/was. It’s so frustrating! What if it’s salmonella infested chicken slime from the kitchen floor (she licks the floor too!)?! 😐
This one time she drank her bath water. Simply lapped it up, like a little puppy dog. Sigh. Generally, I support her impulses. I once gave her a flower from the garden, knowing full well she’d put it in her mouth.
Once, on a shopping trip, I gave her this chocolate father christmas in shiny foil wrapping. Well, that was a mistake. Within seconds she had bitten off a piece of the wrapping and started chewing. It took me and hubby 10 minutes to fish the offending object out of her mouth. 😲
This one time, I gave her my african beaded necklace to “play” with. It kept her entertained. Until she bit right through it. With only two bottom teeth, mind you! That was the end of that.
So I reckon its best to choose my battles. I cannot police her 24/7. And I scheme the good Lord gave babies a strong constitution to handle all the chicken slime, goose down feathers, bugs and foil that the earth might offer up.
Cheers.
So nana reported that the little one has been showing certain tendencies of late. Leaning, dangerously, toward the red zone on the naughty scale.
It happened thus: Baby wanted the door key. She was inconsolable. Incessant in her tears. Nana calmly explained that she’d have to sterilise them first. Baby either didn’t understand or didn’t want to.
Upon reflection, I’m not sure I’d categorise it as naughtiness. I reckon she was frustrated – unable to meaningfully engage nana on her desire for the key. The only tool she has, to voice her dissatisfaction, is turning on the water works.
It doesn’t matter, inevitably. This is so because the approach (nana’s and mine) to deal with the situation is the same. I would have done the same thing. One cannot give in to the tears. While still being sympathetic to her frustration, the keys will be sterilised before she is allowed to play with them. Like my dad used to say, tears are good for cleaning out one’s eyes! 😉
That said, she is a cheeky little miss. The little personality is blossoming!
Cheers.
When her first two teeth popped, she had one or two bad nights, easily soothed with teething powder and paed painkiller syrup. Nana noticed them the one morning and the penny dropped for me. Then I made her pancakes (because that’s what one does) and we patted ourselves on the back. ‘That wasn’t too bad!”, we thought. All thanks to that expensive amber teething necklace! 👍
But then.
Her top two teeth, cutting through her gums, showed us 💥flames💥 this morning. She awoke from her morning nap with a shriek of pain. She seemed to settle, so I tried to put her down on the playmat. But she was super clingy.
That’s when the waves of tears hit. She would calm down for a few seconds and then her entire body would tense up and she’d be crying in pain. Her mouth appeared swollen. She was drooling and her face was wet with tears.
We gave her teething gel on top of the powder. A dose of the pain syrup. Nothing seemed to help. She didn’t want to bite on her cold teething ring. She was in so much pain.
And she only wanted me. All I could do was hold her and talk soothingly and sing her some songs she likes. We had never seen her like that! It lasted over an hour!
But it felt good to be needed. That she sought comfort from my arms. Even though there wasn’t anything I could do to stop the pain. It was a grateful moment. Grateful that I could be there during one of the worst teething episodes. But also affirming, that even though I can no longer breastfeed her, she still looked to me for comfort.
The pain soon passed and she was back to her old self again without too much bother. I’m patting myself on the back today. I can do this. I am enough.
Cheers.
We will have to tackle it sooner or later. The question of how we, her village, intend raising, disciplining, moulding this child. My parents have their own fixed view on discipline. As do nana and the aunts and uncles.
One thing me and Mo agree on, is a ban on corporal punishment as a form of discipline. Our approach is to use empathy and understanding. So if she has a meltdown in the mall, get down to her level and say “Awwwwww. I can see you’re really frustrated. You really want that toy, huh?! That’s okay. Would you like a cuddle?” Or something along those lines.
Perhaps, prevention is better than cure, in that case. Maybe she’s overstimulated from the long shopping expedition. Or tired. Or even hungry. I figure that if we utilise empathy, we will be able to pick up on her cues, and in that way, avoid disaster.
I have never been in such a situation before. And I cannot say for sure, how I’d react. But I hope that I will be intuitive to her situation, not bothered by bystanders opinions on my parenting style and able to resolve the issue amicably.
This post is by no means a judgment on any one individual’s parenting style. We all have to be flexible and do the best we can within a given situation. I am in no position to judge the next mom!
I cannot control when and where she might decide to throw a tantrum. I can only control how I will respond. So I have to make sure that, at all times, I am balanced, not hungry, angry or tired myself, and thus able to handle the situation from the best possible vantage point. And maybe, perhaps, avoid dragging her along on marathon shopping expeditions. 🤔🤣
To each his, or her, own.
Cheers
In two weeks time we will be celebrating her first birthday. One year. A whole trip around the sun. Wow!
My mom just reminded me about how panicked I was in those early days with our newborn. She often had to stop by before work because “I have never heard her cry like this, mom, something is wrong!” And it was just wind.
We landed up at the ER because of my “gut feel”. It was just wind. The doctor, a good natured fellow, told me not to feel bad: “Better safe than sorry”. That’s the night I called nana. I finally realised we needed a village to raise this child and that we need not go it alone.
It was a time fraught with anxiety. I think that’s when my fear of and for her started taking root. I’d be nursing her, waiting for the almighty lightning bolt of love. Dololo. Breastfeeding in those early days was very painful. I am still waiting to experience that “magical” feeling all the crunchy moms were going on about.
Looking back, I’m so glad its over. I do not miss those frightening first few months – not one bit! The birth of this mother was – is – a painful process. It’s like I have been broken down completely and am slowly being rebuilt. I do not recognise the old Candice – that pre-natal, whimsical idealist.
My depression humbled me. I don’t take myself as seriously. I’m softer. Calmer. Less anxious. It was all a part of my rebirthing as a mother. And I don’t think God is done with me yet.
Little anecdote about baby, that inspired the headline. When you play her music off her toy piano, she sits on the mat and kicks her feet. Her version of dancing. So cute. So wonderful to be able to witness her blossom from this tiny, vulnerable newborn into a strong-willed little madam, so eager to discover the world.
Actually, if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing!
Cheers.
momsterinlove 