My daughter is raising me

sunset-silhouette-mother-childMy daughter belongs so beautifully in my life that sometimes I think I imagined her. That I imagined her innocent stare, or her silky skin, or her bubbly baby talk. Or her soft hair.

I had never imagined though, that my daughter would raise me.

My daughter is raising me to be a morning person. In my hey-days, I was the ultimate 10 hours a night minimum kind of girl. Now, I am the ultimate early riser. Her wails at 4am every morning leave me with no choice but to save my eardrums and pick the poor girl up.

My daughter is raising me to be practical. Decisions on what to wear are often based on how quickly I can remove my breasts to breastfeed her. It is no longer a question of “will I look good in this?” but rather;

“Will I be able to remove my boob in the fastest time possible with least amount of nudity if in public and she demands for food?”

My daughter is raising me to a multitasker. Images of myself breastfeeding whilst talking on phone whilst watching the news whilst eating ugali whilst talking to baby were hitherto very foreign to me, but you should see me in action.

My daughter is raising me to be an entertainer…my days with her are spent leaning to make the next funny face, funny sound, funny noise….anything to make baby laugh, because that is what always melts my heart. Churchill Live comedians have got nothing on me these days.

My daughter is raising me to be patient. When she poops immediately after a diaper change. Or throws up all over the top I planned to go work in. Or wakes up just as I thought I was finally going to call it a night.

My daughter is raising me to be loving, more loving than I thought my heart was capable of handling. More loving of my parents. Each time she traces the contours of my face with her chubby, saliva-slippery fingers, each time she raises her hands at me to be held, each time she screams ( with that I hope, is joy) when she sees me, my heart expands.

My daughter is raising me to be grateful. Grateful for her health, her milestones, each new day that she lives, each new sound that she makes, each new expression that she learns, each gulp of milk that she takes, for every little thing that she is made of, and for every little opportunity I have of being her mommy.

My daughter is raising me to be courageous. From withstanding labour pains ( More like screaming, cursing, scratching , biting and sweating, really) to listening to my heart break on her first jab ( why do those needles need to be so big?), my daughter has raised me to be courageous. My daughter has made me learn to fear things I did not fear before (Like the possibility of falling while holding you, or dying without a will) but made me courageous in facing those fears.

My daughter is raising me to be creative. With her, I have whole hour conversations based on phrases like “papapa, kikiki, bububu’. With her, anything goes as a toy…from the kitchen towel, to my phone, my hair (She swings on my dreadlocks!)-So I get creative. There is really no other option, really, given that her attention span is like 2 seconds maximum.

My daughter, it seems, will finally make a grown-up out of me.

Photo credit: subhadipin

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When I was ten years old, I wanted to be an air hostess after reading Cynthia Hunter’s ‘Anna the Air Hostess’. A few months later, I read her book ‘Pamela the Probation Officer’ and experienced a burning desire to become a probation officer. Years later, I realized that what I had fallen in love with was reading and writing, not the professions. Writing, then, is not what I do. It is who I am. Check out my blog literarychronicles.wordpress.com.

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