According to Your Wisdom

A few months ago, my family and I took a weekend trip to Bodega bay, California. While there, we encountered a restaurant name Russia House #1. I imagined a group of Russians sitting at a table, sampling foods from different parts of their vast homeland, vodka glasses in hand, saying nyet to many of the samples presented before them. Towards the end of this exhausting exercise, their flavor-weary tongues perked up at the delicious flavors of a particular sample, and a chorus of Da was heard all around the table, vodka glasses raised in the air as they universally announced the winner as Russia House #1. No telling how Russia House #2 and #3 took the news.  I don’t know what the real story behind the restaurant’s name is, but I like my version better. Za Zdarovje!

Upon entering Russia House #1, I immediately noticed the very new-agey signage posted on the walls. A ‘help wanted’ sign was phrased as ‘looking for students’- who would be offered work, and a loving community. I wondered what the pay structure was, but upon reading the fine print, that really was it. Fulfillment through the work of your hands in a close-knit community. So, if you or someone you know is willing to work for a sense of community and has a hankering for the simple life, drive on up to Russia House #1. If the work does not fulfill you, the stunning view of the Russian river surely will. Tucked in one corner of the restaurant are a grand piano and a harp. A gentleman played the piano beautifully, but left soon after because he lived in the mountains and as we all know, mountain roads are treacherous in the dark.

Food is served buffet style, no menu is available. The food was amazing. As a neophyte to Slavic cuisine, I liberally sampled the Shchi, a delicious soup, and kasha, a millet cardamom-flavored meal. Now, I believe that beets are an abomination. A blight upon this earth. But the borscht, a.k.a beet soup, was divine. So, the only good beet is in borscht. Even the dishes with raisins in them were delicious. This, in my book, makes this place #1. You see, I abhor raisins. Raisins are failed grapes. In the grape world, the elite grapes are used to make the best wines, and the semi-pro grapes are served at meals. But what happens to the grapes that could never bring themselves to rise to the level of their wine and table grape caliber peers? They become raisins. The insidious fruit then sneaks into cookies, fooling innocent pastry lovers into thinking they are chocolate chips, and the cookie craving clients don’t realize their mistake until it is too late and they already purchased what appeared to be a delicious chocolate chip  cookie. (I see you oatmeal raisin cookies).

What stood out the most was that there was no bill at this restaurant. A sign by the door read “Pay according to your wisdom”. Huh? Now that’s just brilliant. You see, if a customer pays a small amount of money, does it mean that they are unwise? Am I wise? How wise am I? How is said wisdom measured?  Will the restaurateur look at my payment and agree that I am wise? So many questions!

Having thoroughly examined ourselves and unanimously agreed that we are indeed wise, we left some money on the table and departed. I have often thought of that phrase “according to your wisdom”, it applies to every aspect of our lives.

Here’s to a great life, lived according to your wisdom!

The Potter (Fiction Series)

Mueni was a potter among potters. She was a soft-spoken, diminutive woman who smiled a lot and was well loved in her village. Her distinctive handiwork was sought after by the shop owners of Nairobi, who then sold the pottery to tourists at exorbitant prices.

Each morning, Mueni woke up at the crack of dawn and went to collect clay from her shamba. She watched the village women, sleeping infants strapped to their backs, toil on the unyielding land, their puny arms lifting their jembe up and bringing the jembe down,the thunk thunk noise revealing the hardness of the ground. Mueni saw the disappointment written on their faces when the mean skies refused to open and give them the rain they so desperately needed.

Mueni’s own grandmother had been a master potter as well. It was under her patient guidance that a young Mueni had learned that one must treat the clay kindly, greeting it each morning, asking that it allow her hands to take it from its home, mold it, put it in the kiln. Mueni believed that her kinship with the clay was part of the reason for her success.

One day, when Mueni was finishing up her work for the day, her younger brother Musyoka stopped by to tell her that he had found a way for Mueni to sell her pottery directly in Nairobi. It was simple really, all she had to do was open a roadside stall in one of Nairobi’s suburbs where well-to-do Kenyans and expatriates lived. They would pay a lot of money for her pottery, much more than she was receiving from the buyers who came to buy from her home. Musyoka was a shrewd businessman who had done very well for himself, and wanted to help his sister earn the most she could from her talents. Musyoka’s only concern was finding an honest employee who would remit the full amount of money to Mueni, and night time storage for the pots.

“Mueni, Nairobi is a big city, and as you know, every port has its thieves. I need to find an absolutely trustworthy person, because you won’t be there manning the stall”

“Musyoka, don’t worry about thieves. I have been making pots for a very long time, I leave them outside my house, and not one has been stolen. Just find me a stall and a reasonably honest worker, that’s all you need to do. Musyoka shook his head at his sister’s naivete.

“Mueni, Nairobi is not a small village. You cannot leave your pots by the roadside and expect to find them there in the morning”

“They will not be stolen Musyoka, trust me.” So Musyoka went back to Nairobi, found a reasonably trustworthy employee, Moses, a roadside stall in Kitisuru and just like that, Mueni was in business. As Musyoka predicted, business was booming. Wealthy Kenyans and expatriates bought the pottery in such large numbers that Mueni was having difficulty keeping up with demand. Some of her customers requested custom pieces, and were willing to pay more than double the normal price for their one-of a kind pottery.

One particular customer, a British gentleman sporting the very sun-burned red face of the newly arrived expatriate seemed very keen on a few of the pieces. He introduced himself as Sinclair, and asked Moses very detailed questions about the workmanship, duration of molding, firing and other minutiae of pottery. He said that he would be back later that day to purchase a few pieces, and wanted to know what time the stall closed. “We close at 7pm” said Moses. “Oh, does that mean that you cart the pots away at that time?” asked Sinclair. “No, we don’t, the pottery stays right here until I come back the next morning” “How strange, aren’t you afraid that someone will steal such fine pottery?” asked Sinclair, amazed at Moses’ naivete. “This is a safe area, and we have been very fortunate not to have had any pieces stolen from us” Moses replied. “Well, that’s a comfort, I just arrived from Reading, and I was nervous about safety here.” Moses nodded, not telling Sinclair that he already knew this because Sinclair’s very red face had “recently arrived mzungu” written all over it. The African sun was a shock on skin used to the gloomy climes of England.

Hours later, when Moses had closed shop for the day and headed home, a dark car pulled up to the stall. A shadowy figure stepped out of the stall and quickly grabbed one of the bigger pots. He clutched it to his chest and tip toed toward the dark car.

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Early the next morning Moses off-boarded the matatu he used to commute to work, to find a large crowd at his stall. “Mwizi amepatikana, ameshikwa” murmured some in the crowd, cell phones recording something near the stall. A dark car was parked by the road. Moses craned his neck to see what the crowd was filming, but he couldn’t elbow his way in. He asked one of the men in the crowd what was going on.

“Huyu alikuja kuiba amekwama”, Moses nodded, not understanding what the man meant. A thief came to steal from his stall and was stuck? Stuck to what? Moses called Musyoka who arrived within minutes. Musyoka managed to shout above the crowd. “Excuse me, this is my stall, please let me pass, let me pass!” Moses followed right behind him and what he saw next would stay with him for the rest of his life. Sinclair, the red faced British man, stood holding one of the big pots, his stride frozen mid-step. His red face was covered in sweat, his hands gripping the pot. Veins stuck out in his neck, the strain of holding the pot evident in his bulging eyes. His face seemed frozen mid-scream. Musyoka walked up to him and touched his neck. “Yu hai.” Musyoka said, declaring that Sinclair was still alive. He whipped out his cell phone and called Mueni.

“Someone tried to steal one of your pots and he appears to be stuck here, pot in hand” It was then that it dawned on Musyoka. Mueni was not worried for the safety of her pots because they could not be stolen. The crowd was in awe. Over the years, they had all heard tales of spells cast on things so they could not be stolen. Thieves were stilled, loot in hand, but those were the fortunate ones. The unfortunate ones were turned into animals, or hoisted onto the tops of coconut trees by imaginary hands, and would not be released until they confessed to their crimes. Until then, most people in the crowd believed these to be moral tales aimed at scaring them, but now, they could all see, in broad daylight that these tales were true.

Mueni told Musyoka that she would be there in five hours. She needed to finish making some pots, have breakfast, and then she would come and free the thief. By the time Mueni arrived, the crowds had swollen to the opposite side of the road, blocking all traffic. News crews had huge cameras and microphones pointed at the crowd. Some international reporters were present as well, unable to pass up such a sensational story. The seemingly accomplished expatriate by day who was a pottery thief by night receiving instant justice.

Musyoka asked the crowd to make way for Mueni. She walked up to Sinclair and gently touched the pot. He released his grip on the pot, which Mueni put on the ground. Next, she touched his face, her lips moving as she recited something unintelligible. Sinclair seemed to come out of the trance and was stunned to see the crowd and media gathered around him. His driver materialized out of thin air and grabbed Sinclair’s hand. They took off running to a waiting car which sped off. Mueni asked Musyoka to take her back to her home. There were pots to be made. Her grandmother had taught her well.

Christina Amolo

My earliest memories of Dana (grandmother) Christina are of us playing in the grass outside our home. Despite being my paternal grandmother Asin’s youngest sister, and therefore my grandmother as well, she possessed joie de vivre so infectious that as a child of about five, I found it completely normal for her to be rolling around the grass with me.  When she laughed, the deep, throaty sound brought a smile to those of us fortunate enough to call her grandmother. I was named for her older sister, and she always referred to me as Nyamin, sister.

She was also quite stubborn and strong-willed. There were several times when we would have a conversation, and, due to generational differences, we would have varying opinions. She was never one to shush me simply because I was her grandchild. She heard me out, but eventually would remind me that she had lived with her older sister (my namesake) and her husband, and had helped raise my father, and therefore had seen more things than I had. I, being a child of the 80s had not seen enough things, therefore the conversation was over. She chided with a gleam in her eye, a smile never too far from her wrinkled face.

The gleam in her eye belied the blows that life had dealt her. She truly lived with a “glass full perspective. Asin, Christina’s older sister and my namesake, died suddenly, leaving Christina without her best friend. Because Dana Asin passed away before I was born, I was named after her, and Christina’s vivid narration brought her to life. “You look exactly like my sister!” Christina would exclaim when she saw me.

As old age crept in, Dana Christina suffered the aches and pains that come with time. She complained about her leg, it hurt. She couldn’t walk as fast as she could in her youth, but she found humor in the aging process. You see, the reason you couldn’t walk as fast in your old age was because you had grandchildren to send. When I was getting married, her main concern was, who would come and get me if something happened to me all the way in America?

She was very close with my mother. She always said that she found a daughter in her. “Kama si yeye, sijui” (if not for her, I wouldn’t manage).

In 2014, she suffered a debilitating stroke that left her unable to walk or speak. Nothing could be done, other than for her to receive care at home. She wanted to be in her home, not anyone else’s. Family and friends rallied and chipped in. Mama Diana, a family friend, devoted herself to sending me constant updates.

On the morning of February 20, I awoke to several missed calls and messages. I knew in my heart that something was wrong. Then I heard the news. Dana had gone to her rest. Fare thee well Nyamin. Your laugh, your joie de vivre and the gleam in your eye live on in those of us who were fortunate enough to call you our own. And when these tears dry, we will be at peace, assured that our world is a better place because you were in it.

Opak Ruoth

We laid Dana Christina to rest on Thursday, March 8, 2018. Fare Thee Well Dana.

The Watchman’s Son Part II (Fiction Series)

All the major TV stations were present, cameras flashing, as Mheshimiwa cut the ribbon to mark the opening of his latest venture. His wife and children stood beside him as he smiled for the cameras, and walked into Nani Bank of Kenya. The past decade had been kind to Mheshimiwa. He had been re-elected twice, unchallenged. During the recent campaign season, there had been some noise about a long-dead watchman who had worked for him, and allegations that Mheshimiwa had not provided any compensation to care for the man’s family. He had denied knowledge of the matter, convinced that money had been poured to finish him.

Mheshimiwa had secured the business of several local companies, and with the marketing campaign he had run to promote his bank, hundreds of thousands of new customers had already opened accounts at Nani Bank. Business would be great, and with his political career soaring, Mheshimiwa saw nothing but bright horizons ahead. There were even whispers that he would one day run for president, and he had the assurances of those deep pocketed supporters who mattered that, come that day, he could count on their financial and networking support.

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Three months later

Mheshimiwa’s least favorite part of his job as a politician was the wananchi visits. These constituents, having believed that he would fulfill all of his campaign promises, constantly hounded him for free food, free education, free healthcare, free, free, free. How could they actually have believed that he alone would be able to fulfil those promises? He had made them in the heat of the moment, warding off opponents who used the dilapidated hospital as Exhibit A of his failed leadership. However, once he promised that he would give everyone free things, the opposition noise had been drowned in the wave of “Mheshimiwa daima!”, which was also fueled by the wads of money he had paid to strategic community members, who then spread the wealth and voted for him en masse.

Today, an elderly woman was at his office, complaining about the lack of medical care at the local hospital. Mheshimiwa had promised to make it a priority if re-elected, but one year later, the hospital staff remained on strike for lack of pay, leaving patients with nowhere to turn. Mheshimiwa promised to look into the matter. When the old woman left, he called his assistant and asked her to tell the remaining constituents that an urgent matter had come up, and he could not meet with them. He had heard enough for one day.

When the office was silent, he put his feet up on his desk and took a deep breath. If everything went as planned with the bank, he would retire from politics and focus on his businesses. Then he wouldn’t have to sit through the litany of constituent problems that were part of being a politician. These people thought he was a magician who would magically wave a wand and solve their myriad of problems.

His cell phone rang, and he noticed that he had over twenty missed calls, all from his bank’s head of cyber-fraud. He answered the phone,

“Hello, Mike, kuna nini?”

“Mheshimiwa, we noticed that you requested that funds be transferred to several offshore accounts, we made the first three, but received additional requests. I was calling to confirm that these emails are coming from you.”

“Mike, it’s my money, transfer it!”

“Yes Sir!”

Mheshimiwa sighed and disconnected the call. Mike was extremely good at his job, if somewhat overzealous in his quest to ensure no fraudulent transfers occurred at Nani Bank. Mheshimiwa did not appreciate Mike’s lectures on the need to make phone calls to accompany requests for international wire transfers to authenticate his identity. It was his money, and he would transfer it as he wished.

Later that evening, Mheshimiwa was heading home after having a few drinks with his friends. Important people who would contribute to his wealth; poor people were a complete waste of his time. Even though he had grown up poor, he had left that life behind and he did not want to be near poverty.

As his driver headed towards Mheshimiwa’s imposing gate, Mike called again. An irritated Mheshimiwa answered the phone, the alcohol emboldening him.

“You idiot! Did I not tell you to stop questioning my decisions?”

“Mheshimi…”

“Shut up! If this is about a wire transfer, it’s my money, and if you don’t stop calling me, you won’t have a job tomorrow. Mark my words Mike.”

He hung up and switched his phone off.

Early the next morning, Mheshimiwa woke up and turned on the TV. He watched the news in disbelief. The police were having great difficulty keeping angry crowds in control outside Nani Bank. From what he could gather, customers had found their money missing from their accounts, and they were livid. A handcuffed Mike was being escorted to an unmarked car by what he presumed were Criminal Investigations Department (CID) officers.

Mheshimiwa quickly turned on his cell phone and saw over 20 voicemails from Mike. Each one detailed the series of wire transfers that were taking place to different offshore accounts, with the last one stating that the bank had almost run out of funds. As he listened to the last voicemail, Mheshimiwa heard a loud bang outside his bedroom door. He knew without being told that the five burly men in suits who barged into his bedroom were CID officers. He was not alarmed, because he was “somebody”, and they would soon realize the folly of their ways and release him.

He was hustled into a helicopter and flown to Nairobi’s CID headquarters. There, he found Mike detailing his conversations with Mheshimiwa the previous day, and Mheshimiwa’s admonishments for Mike to leave his wire transfers alone. It became clear that Mheshimiwa had intentionally ordered the transfer of his customers’ money to his personal off-shore accounts. Mike was released, and despite Mheshimiwa’s combination of threats, pleas and offers of bribery, the CID officers did not cave. Mheshimiwa was held in jail without bail, while awaiting arraignment for wire fraud. The local news channels had a field day reporting on the story.

Over the years, there had been whispers as to the source of Mheshimiwa’s vast wealth, and the news story was spiced with salacious rumors, leaving the viewer to believe that Mheshimiwa, contrary to his name, was not an honorable man. His lawyers informed him that Nani Bank’s insurance would reimburse part of the lost money, but because Mheshimiwa had waived full insurance, his personal assets would be sold to cover the difference. Attempts to recover the wired funds had hit a wall, as they had immediately been converted to various cryptocurrencies, which were intentionally murky, and would be next to impossible to recover, especially with the limited knowledge of how to trace funds that had gone down that wormhole. Mheshimiwa had joined the miserable ranks of people who had gone from rags to riches and back to rags.

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The man sat at his computer and watched the transfer into Bitcoin complete. He then distributed the Bitcoin to various currency exchanges, and waited a month before selling the cryptocurrency and withdrawing the US Dollar equivalents. He then anonymously donated funds to a certain local hospital, careful to use different accounts. In aggregate, the funds would be enough to rebuild the hospital, pay the staff for years to come while they negotiated their salary with the Government, and provide free basic healthcare for the locals. He stood up and walked to his car, his slight limp not slowing him down.

*                 *                 *                 *                 *                 *                 *

Eleven Years after Johnstone Kinyanjui’s death, his widow Waithera and her two children Wanjiku and Wacira stood alongside the other villagers to witness the re-opening of the brand new local hospital. Waithera, a beautiful twenty year old, studied Medicine at Nairobi University and was especially excited to see accessible healthcare available at her village. It was bittersweet, because it was not available when her father had needed it most, but no one else would have to lose a loved one because they lacked access to healthcare. Waithera kept saying what a miracle it was that funding had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to rebuild this hospital. Her son Wacira, who at twenty three already had a master’s degree in computer science, and was a highly sought after cybercrime consultant, simply smiled.

Had it not been for the kindness of strangers, Waithera thought, her children would have dropped out of school for non payment of tuition fees. She held her children’s hands as they all walked away hand in hand, Wacira slightly limping.

 

The Watchman’s son- Part 1 (fiction series)

Johnstone Kinyanjui  was startled awake by the loud clap of thunder outside his corrugated iron-roofed watchman’s post. The skies had opened and dumped sheets of rain on the red earth of the path leading up to the steel gates of the Honorable Minister’s, or Mheshimiwa’s, mansion. The red earth, unprepared for such a deluge on what was supposed to be a dry month, passed the water onto the grass that grew by the path. Johnstone had worked for Mheshimiwa for ten years. The salary was not good, but it was consistent, and Mheshimiwa promised him a salary increase in the coming year.

Johnstone typically had an early supper with his wife Waithera and their two children Wanjiku and Wacira. Johnstone considered his marriage to be one of the great joys of his life. Waithera ran the household flawlessly, even though their only source of income was Johnstone’s meagre salary. His house was always clean, the children well cared for, and, when he arrived home early in the morning after a long night at work, Waithera always welcomed him with a smile and a warm meal.

Wanjiku, named after his own mother, was, like his mother, a very strong-willed person. Even though she was only ten years old, she spoke with the conviction of one much older and wiser. He jokingly called her “mama”. His son Wacira, named after Johnstone’s father, had been born with a slightly weak left leg, and at thirteen, walked with a slight limp. What he lacked in physical strength he made up for in intellectual prowess. Wacira had consistently been the top student in the entire county, and all the teachers agreed that great things lay ahead for the brilliant child. He was due to sit his KCPE in one year, and everyone looked forward to his admission to one of Kenya’s top secondary schools.

That evening, Wanjiku had cried when her father left for work. She did that sometimes, wanting him to stay home instead of going to work so he could tell them folk stories his own grandmother had narrated to him as a child. He bid his family goodnight, promising Wanjiku that he would tell her many stories when he returned the next morning.

Now at his watchman’s post, Johnstone thought he heard a car driving nearby. He wondered if Mheshimiwa was expecting relatives at this late hour. Mheshimiwa had all sorts of visitors, most of them constituents coming to ask for financial assistance. It was rare for them to come by this late, unless it was a for medical emergency requiring more money than they could afford. To say that Mheshimiwa was not a very generous person would be a gross understatement. The man was so tightfisted, even his own family was denied fairly reasonable requests. Most of the time, Johnstone was under strict instructions not to allow anyone in the compound after sunset. The daytime watchman told Johnstone that it was not the lateness of the hour that stopped Mheshimiwa from seeing his constituents, rather, it was the tightness of his fist that would not allow him to help those in need. Both watchmen hoped that they would not be in a position where they would need urgent assistance from Mheshimiwa.

Johnstone looked around to see if anyone would approach the gate, but when no one showed up, he tuned his small radio to kameme fm, settling into a long night of watching and waiting. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement. He immediately grabbed his rungu, the club he carried to protect the big man inside the mansion and turned on his flashlight. He had just walked out of the watchman’s post, wading into the red earth-stained water, when seemingly out of nowhere, three men surrounded him. Johnstone blew his whistle to alert Mheshimiwa’s family about the intruders, but the loud storm muffled the sound of the whistle. He swung his rungu at the first man and hit him on the head. The man fell, groaning in pain. The remaining two men pounced on Johnstone, hitting him with rungus and demanding that he let them in the compound. The beating continued for a while, but Johnstone would not give up the keys.

As fate would have it, one of Mheshimiwa’s friends was coming to visit, and three card swung into view, driving up to the gate. The first car was a private security company car, with flashing lights, protecting Mheshimiwa’s friend, and the thugs, thinking someone had called the police to arrest them, grabbed their wounded colleague and fled, leaving an unconscious Johnstone on the ground. The driver of the security car jumped out of the car and, seeing Johnstone lying on the ground, carried him and put him in the car. He then ran to Mheshimiwa’s friend’s car, and asked him to call Mheshimiwa so they could administer First Aid to Johnstone in Mheshimiwa’s house. Mheshimiwa refused, saying he did not want his house muddied by a mere watchman. Mheshimiwa’s friend instructed his security to drive Johnstone to the nearest hospital.

Unfortunately, that was an hour away, on very muddy and slippery roads. When they finally arrived at the hospital, the doctor had left for the night, and the receptionist asked how they would pay for Johnstone’s treatment. The security guard informed the receptionist that Mheshimiwa would pay for the treatment, as Johnstone was his watchman. Johnstone was admitted into the General ward, and the nurses got to work cleaning his very swollen head and body. The next morning, a series of xrays showed that Johnstone has suffered multiple fractures from the beating he had received and that he would need emergency surgery to remove some bone fragments from his lungs. This surgery would be performed in Nairobi, and he needed to be airlifted to Nairobi Hospital.

Waithera was becoming concerned because Johnstone had not returned from work, which was highly unusual. Her children Wacira and Wanjiku kept asking when their father would return. It was at that moment that their neighbor, a nurse at the hospital, broke the news to them. They were devastated. Waithera asked the neighbor to watch the children while she went to ask Mheshimiwa for financial help. When she arrived at Mheshimiwa’s home, she was met with hostility, and was told that Mheshimiwa had already found a new watchman, and would not be needing Johnstone’s services anymore. Her pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears.

Waithera went home, collected her children and together they made the one hour trek to the hospital to see Johnstone. He was unconscious, and the doctor explained to them that if he was not airlifted to Nairobi immediately, he would not survive the night. Waithera explained that she did not have the funds to pay for the helicopter ride, and pleaded with the doctor to find an alternative way to help Johnstone, but the doctor did not have the equipment or expertise needed to treat Johnstone. That night, Johnstone breathed his last.

Tunga Sentensi

Happy New Year! I hope you and yours had a great ending to the “interesting” year that was 2017. I use the word “interesting” in the American sense, which means not good/ weird. More on this and other translations to follow in a future article.

As a child of the 8-4-4 system, I had to write compositions in English and Kiswahili (Insha). In Kiswahili class, one was often called upon to “tunga sentensi”, or compose a sentence. Now, as you can imagine, some of the sentences were “interesting”. For example, one would be asked to compose a sentence using the phrase “as fast as my thin legs could carry me”. Those of us who have Luhya genes definitely did not inherit thin legs. Not even in a heavy fog would our legs be confused for skinny. But since we were participating in creative writing, I wrote many a sentence detailing how my thin legs ferried me from an “interesting” situation, at superhuman speed, icy sweat trickling down my back (that was another favorite).

It was while reminiscing about my composition writing days that I decided to write more short fiction stories this year . These will be under the Tunga Sentensi Category, and will be written alongside my regular blog. Here’s to a great year full of good health and creativity!

 

Unfriendly Skies

It’s that time of year when families get together for Thanksgiving, stuff themselves full of turkey and other Thanksgiving yummies, and then wistfully look at those jeans they fit in two years prior and promise themselves that next year they will do better. Next year, they tell themselves, they will not reach for that piece of pie calling out to them.

Last year, my family and I were traveling home and were seated at an airport lounge waiting for our flight when I noticed a woman trying, but failing, to whisper into her cell phone. She was failing because, well, I could hear her quite clearly, and I wasn’t sitting close by. From what I could gather, her grandmother had waited until the family was gathered at the dinner table, where she revealed her political leanings, and this did not sit well with a good number of the family members, who walked out in protest, turkey and stuffing orphaned at the dinner table. To add insult to injury, said grandmother texted them (technologically savvy, grandma), asking them to come for left overs, as she, being a child of the Great Depression, was not one to waste food, political dichotomy aside. I never found out if the loud whisperer went to collect left overs or not, as our flight was called and we had to get going.

Speaking of loud whisperers, I love the Godfather. The book, that is. The movies, well, 1 was good, 2 was ok. 3. Where do I begin? WHY DID THEY DO IT? Why? There is not a logical reason why that movie was made. It was horrible. It was pointless. It was the kale chips of movies. Completely unnecessary. If I want to eat Sukuma wiki (kale), I will pluck it and I will cut it and I will eat it. Ok? Don’t sell me bitter chips wrapped in trendiness. But I digress. Many years ago, while on an overnight “red-eye” flight, I was reading the Godfather under low light, as most of the other passengers were asleep. Across the aisle from me was a gentleman. Please note that I use the word “gentleman” very loosely here. This “gentleman” was sitting with his two daughters, who were maybe 8 and 10. Out of the corner of my eye, I see this “gentleman” lean over to look in my direction, and then what must be the world’s loudest whisper followed. Think a whisper via megaphone.

“GET OUT OF HERE! Is that the Godfather? Don Corleone himself?”

At this point, the man’s two daughters were imploring him to stay calm, and, in the words of the older one, “Daddy please sit down, please don’t embarrass us!”

At first, I found it odd that such a young child would speak to her parent that way, but it would become apparent that the child in this relationship was not the 8 or 10 year old. My perception would soon prove prophetic.

At this point, the man had stood up from his seat and was very loudly whispering across the aisle to me, asking about different characters in the book. Had so and so been murdered yet? What about this other character? Had Fredo betrayed Michael yet? It was the Corleone Inquisition, albeit whispered. Yes, the whispered inquisition. His daughters tried, unsuccessfully, to get their father to go back to his seat, with the  ‘gentleman” yelling about Sicily and Don Corleone. Meanwhile, the sleeping passengers around us were being unceremoniously woken by the commotion. The man, who was well over 6 ft tall, and now past whispering, was loudly asking about Don Corleone’s father. I don’t think Don Corleone’s own children were as dedicated to him as this man was.

At this point, I could smell the vodka-scented liquid courage that had propelled him to Corleone Inquisitor-In-Chief. A woman who had been sleeping in the seat ahead of me and had been  awoken by Corleone-gate, was now an enraged red-eyed tigress, and her diminutive under 5ft frame was not going to stop her from confronting the over 6 ft tall Corleone Inquisitor. She asked him to sit down immediately, and the Corleone Inquisitor took it as well as we all expected him to. He lunged at her, his daughters attempting to stop him, and failing. The newly awakened tigress did not passively look on. She screamed at him, daring him to “fight if he was a man!” It took multiple air stewards to stop him and contain him to his seat. At this point, I closed my book and hid it away. Don Corleone needed a break.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *               *             *

Traveling with a baby takes a village. And not just the baby’s parents and immediate family, you see. It’s the other passengers I am talking about. If you want extra seats, travel with a baby. If your airline doesn’t offer family pre-boarding (which, is amazing), then you’re stuck heading towards your seat alongside everyone else. It is interesting to see the unblinking stares of passengers as you approach their seats, as if blinking magically assigns you to the seat next to theirs; and then the sighs of relief as you walk past them. One would be forgiven for thinking that the baby would firmly attach himself to the passenger’s back, who will be forced to carry this baby for the rest of his natural life, no vacations or retirement allowed, ever. However, you have to sit somewhere, and the look of dread, and finally resignation, which registers on the face of your seatmate when they realize that they are doomed to share close quarters with your offspring is actually quite amusing.

Many years ago, before I became a mother, I was traveling back to Kenya for Christmas, and I had the fortune (I will let you decide what kind), of being on a plane with a cranky baby. I don’t know if it was the air pressure, gas, the way the stars were aligned, the moon or simply the side of the bed on which the baby woke up, that caused her to cry as much as she did. She literally started to cry as we took off from San Francisco, continued as we stopped over in Seattle, and reached a crescendo as we flew over the icy isles of Iceland. This child, whose name I do not know, has a future as a singer. No, that doesn’t quite describe her vocal range. Mariah Carey has nothing on this child.

At some point, I could hear her mother comfort her, “hush baby, hush baby”. It did not work. I sympathized with the woman. What was she to do? They were trapped in this metallic object flying hundreds of miles an hour, several thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. She was doing her best to calm her child down, unsuccessfully so, but trying nonetheless. When we got to Amsterdam, I immediately went to my connecting gate, heading to Nairobi.

I like Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport. Do you know who does not have passengers showing up late to flights? Schipol Airport. Why, you ask? Well, a very very stern Dutch-accented voice announces “Passenger X, you are delaying your flight! Your luggage will be off-boarded!” That voice sounds like it belongs to someone with a very large, strong hand, which can slap you hard, leaving your face forever imprinted with a Dutch palm-print. Years later, when travellers at Schipol see you, they will slowly shake their heads, point at you and tell their children, “he delayed his flight at Schipol.” The children will pitifully sneak glances at your Dutch-palm-print-tattoed face and hurry along with their parents lest they suffer the same fate.

If you are ever late for your flight at Schipol, you will be wise to do one of two things:

1. Sprint to the your gate at speeds that would put Usain Bolt to shame. Or,

2. Hide deep, deep in the recesses of the terminal, so the stern voice (and face-scarring strong hand) do not locate you and your offloaded luggage.

There are also moments of excitement at Schipol, such as the time I was sitting at my gate, listening to music and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman leap onto her chair, at which point I instinctively put my feet on my chair. I removed my headphones and saw her point at something on the floor and scream in what I imagine sounded like Russian. Now, you don’t need to speak Russian to understand a terrified voice screaming in a foreign language. Sure enough, the squeaking culprits sprinted across the floor, leaving a Kenyan, a Russian, and a few Americans standing on chairs. See, mice can unite people.

At Schipol, connection time is brief, customer service is direct (see above), and, most importantly, they don’t separate you from your lotion like they do over at Charles De Gaulle in Paris, claiming it exceeds carry-on limits. If you ask what the liquid weight limits are, they respond in French, and as you can imagine, that is the end of that conversation. Oui Oui. But, I still remember my lotion. My dry hands remembered that lotion all the way to Nairobi.

When I arrived at the Kenya Airways gate, I saw my fellow Kenyan summer bunnies. I saw the school kids, massive headphones around their necks, wearing heavily logoed clothing, effectively walking billboards for what I assume were the latest fashion trends.

I turned around and I didn’t want to believe my eyes, but there she was. Baby I-can-out-scream Mariah Carey, with her exasperated mother. She was playing happily now, and it seemed her father had joined them at Amsterdam. I hoped that the nine hour flight to Nairobi would be more comfortable for that poor child (and by extension, me). As soon as we boarded the flight to Nairobi, the baby resumed her screaming. Her mother, having reached the end of her rope, yelled in DhoLuo “Ling’! Ibaro wiya! Choke!” (shut up! You are giving me a headache! Eh!). Gone was the soothing “hush baby” whisperer of San Francisco. She was left behind with the off-boarded luggage at the airport. In her place, a lioness known as NyarGem had emerged. And NyarGem didn’t play. Baby Mariah Carey was immediately quiet. I had to ask myself why NyarGem did not simply employ this tactic in San Francisco, and then I remembered that here on the plane to Nairobi, no one would call Child Protective Services if you scolded your child.

We arrived in Nairobi safe and sound, happy to be home. Happy Holidays!

ANGRY DOGS

Dogs are man’s best friend. In this age of equality, they are woman’s best friend too. That’s how egalitarian our canine friends are. The English phrase “A dog’s life” depicts misery and undue hardship. Whoever coined this phrase has clearly never met the Fur Babies (it is offensive to call them dogs) of California and New York. I do not believe in re-incarnation, but if it is a thing, I would not mind, in fact, I would love to come back as one of these Fur Babies. To call them pampered is an understatement. They have manicures, pedicures, dental visits (to make sure their pearly whites are sparkling), massages (’tis a stressful life) and dog whisperers to guide them through Fur Baby problems. The struggle is real y’all.

The petite Fur Babies of San Francisco, for example, wear jackets and shoes to match their parents’ purses (owner sounds too much like a forced relationship). I have stood in line next to a woman carrying a rather nice purse only to be startled when a furry head popped out of said fancy purse, pink bow in hair and frilly jacket covering it’s torso, big round eyes judging me. No self-respecting petite fur baby walks au naturel in San Francisco.

My friend, who will remain anonymous for this story, and who I will refer to as DS (Dog Searcher), has wanted a dog for a while. She is not looking for a petite fur baby who comes with a list of demands that would put divas to shame. No, she wants a dog. A barking, bone-hiding, tail chasing dog with some street credibility. Where, you ask would she find this street-wise dog? The pound of course.

Now, her search for a dog did not start at the pound. She knew that she did not want to spend the rest of her dog’s natural life sneezing due to fur shedding (some dogs shed enough to make a decent rug and a winter coat). She did her research and found a mid-sized labradoodle breeder, and seeing as labradoodles have hair and not fur, their shedding is negligible. Also, this breeder promised mid-sized labradoodles, and not the horse-sized version that is quite adorable as well- it was a match made in doggy heaven. She went home, excited at the upcoming puppy birth, and patiently waited for a few months. The breeder would call her once the puppies were born and she would pick one, and thus her dog search would come to a happy conclusion.

The promised due date came and went, with no word from the breeder. DS waited…and waited…and waited…for a few days. She figured it might take the breeder a few more days to get the paperwork and other minutiae out of the way. When she couldn’t wait any longer, she called the breeder. The breeder non-chalantly informed DS, after months of waiting for the puppy arrival, that the bitch (female dog), was not even pregnant in the first place. Where I’m from, we would say come srowry??? Meaning, WHAT???!!! Long story short, DS’ theory is that the breeder found a better deal and sold her puppy to someone else. And that is how DS came to find herself online, searching, not for the right man to spend her life with, but for a dog with street credibility. There’s an opportunity out there for a dog tinder. Swipe. Woof. Swipe.

Applying to adopt a dog in California is no joke. Your name, address, occupation. Why do you want a dog? What happens if you can’t care for the dog. Who is the next of kin. Do they know they are the next of kin? And if something happens to the next of kin, who comes next? (It is at this point that she should have started to question if this dog had madimoni. (Demons) that would cause so many owner deaths hence necessitating the string of next of kin). The chosen next of kin would have to fill a form longer than a mortgage application. But DS was determined to get a dog, and so she filled the form and submitted it. The waiting process to find out if she had been accepted by the pound was as nerve-wracking as waiting for a college acceptance letter.

The pound finally deemed her worthy to visit their dogs, and she went in, eager to meet this labradoodle she had seen online. Luckily for her, this puppy did not post a fake photo taken ten years and fifty pounds prior. He looked exactly like he did on his online profile and lived where he said he did. As DS approached the pen holding her puppy (she was that optimistic), she noticed that he was one of several puppies. She walked into the pen to hold him and was almost tackled by two women who apparently had their eyes set on some of the puppies. These women would put some linebackers to shame. They grabbed their desired puppies and clutched them close to their chest lest DS snatch them out of their grasp. DS picked her puppy and instantly felt a connection. The puppy hadn’t been fazed by the linebackers grabbing the other puppies- if that’s not street cred, I don’t know what is.

DS was very excited. This was finally happening! The dog search had come to a beautiful end. Next up, paperwork and then home with the puppy. Squiggly puppy in her arms, she headed towards the office, where she found the linebackers signing their paperwork and being waved out of the office, their new puppies in strong arms. DS approached the desk and found a very formidable woman (FW) staring at her. The following is the conversation that occurred. Names have been concealed to protect identities.

FW: What is your occupation?

DS: Answers.

FW: How many hours a day will this puppy be in the house by himself?

DS: Seven hours.

FW: (frowns and twirls pen) hmmmm…

DS: I will hire a dog-sitter to come and walk him at lunch time and take him out.

FW: Hmmmm…

DS: Is there a recommended occupation for dog owners?

FW: Most of our clients work from home, work part-time, are unemployed or retired.

DS: I work full-time but the puppy will have his meals and everything he needs.

FW: Here’s the thing. You will go to work and leave this dog in the house by himself. He will pee on your carpet. He will poop on your carpet. He will chew your furniture and you shoes. He will bark loudly all day and your neighbors will hate him and they will hate you. You and your dog will both be hated by your neighbors (she repeated for good measure, in case DS missed it the first time). And then you will come home after a long day at work and you will find a mess, your carpet will smell like pee (she didn’t specify whose), your walls will be smeared with poop (again, with the ambiguity about the origin of the poop, plus this puppy must be a poop picasso) and you too will be angry at this dog. Do you know what happens when a dog is left alone all day, he becomes an Angry Dog!

FW asked DS to hand the puppy back, as she was too gainfully employed for their taste. If she was willing to resign from her job, or change occupations, or find a way to stay home with this puppy, then they would reconsider her application. Anything to prevent the existence of another Angry Dog.

PS: DS’ search for a puppy with street credibility continues…

A sandwich named Kevin

My friend, let’s call her Fatima, loves Laotian food. Perhaps ‘loves’ is not the right word. It doesn’t quite capture the extent of her affinity to the culinary contributions of Laos to this world. As someone who has had the pleasure of enjoying this extraordinary cuisine, I completely understand Fatima’s appreciation, yes that’s what we’ll call it, ‘appreciation’, for Laotian food.

One Monday, Fatima worked from home, and therefore missed her then employer’s free catered Monday lunch, which she was ok with. She was ok with her choice to miss the lunch until she arrived at work the next morning to be told that she had missed Laotian food. Now, as you can imagine, Fatima was not pleased with this news. And this might be the understatement of the month. But, luckily for her, one of her colleagues informed her that there were leftovers in the communal refrigerator, and she was welcome to them. As you can imagine, this sudden turn of events brightened up Fatima’s dismayed spirits, and may I say, added a pep to her step.

Come lunchtime, peppy step in place, Fatima walked over to the kitchen, opened the communal refrigerator as instructed, and reached for the container she had been told contained the Laotian food. Perhaps the first indicator that something was not quite kosher should have been that it was in a plastic container, and not the usual styrofoam/ hard paper food packages that restaurants tend to pack their takeout in. However, seeing as she worked in a very ‘green’ and environmentally conscious company, it would not have been unheard of for one of her colleagues to find a clean plastic container to package the left overs. This would not only ensure that the food stayed fresh, it also kept the plastic container out of the landfill, therefore saving the environment one leftover container at a time.

Fatima took the food to her desk and found that it appeared to be a sushi-like roll. Who was she to question the Laoatian people as to their decision to start making rolls? She was but a religious appreciator of their cuisine. Whatever they chose to cook, she would appreciate immensely. Halfway through her meal, she heard a loud exclamation come from the kitchen. “Oh my goodness! someone ate my lunch!”

Maybe it was the tone of the exclamation, or the fact that deep deep inside, Fatima had her doubts about the existence of Laoatian rolls, but in that moment, she knew she was the “someone” who had eaten someone else’s lunch.

Now, we’ve all been the victim, or known someone who has been the victim of the heinous crime known as lunch theft. You slave over the stove and make what you consider edible, maybe great food. You can’t eat it all, so you pack some for lunch the next day. You leave it in the communal fridge and assume it will be there at lunch. At lunch time, your rumbling stomach leads you to the fridge, and you do a double take. Your lunch container is MIA. Gone. No goodbye, nothing. Hunger and anger marry in a quickie ceremony that would put Vegas chapels to shame, and hanger is born. You curse the thief in a string of four letter words. You even throw in insults in other languages. You hope they get explosive diarrhea and worms all at once. Everyone is a suspect. Come to think of it, Mandy’s lunch did smell suspiciously familiar. Brandon looked unusually full today, or was it the chronically dieting Liz who, at the sight of your delicious meal, broke her 2 day juicing stretch to indulge in your amazing cooking? Like I said, trust no one. Such are the workings of a hungry mind.

A mortified Fatima shot a quick email to her close circle of friends. “Omg. Oh! M! G! I have eaten Tess’ lunch”. Yes, the surprised voice coming out of the kitchen belonged to Tess, a colleague from a different department. “What should I do? Should I tell her?”

Note that at this time, it was too late to return the food as she had already started eating it, and she hoped that Tess didn’t conduct an impromptu check around people’s desks to see if she would catch the culprit In flagrant delicate. Fatima nervously checked her email, and on seeing no response from her friends, relied on what she calls ‘too many morals’ to make her decision. She stood up and walked to the kitchen, with significantly less pep in her step, to perform her mea culpa.

When she arrived at the scene of the crime, she approached Tess and below is the dialogue that followed:

F: I’m sorry I ate your lunch, I thought it was….

T: Grrrrrrrrr (looks at ground,deep breath)

After three more tries, Tess finally stopped interrupting Fatima long enough to let her finish her sentence.

F: I’m sorry, I really am, I thought they were left overs. I am happy to buy you lunch at any restaurant of your choice.

T: Leftovers? LEFTOVERS??? Those were hand-crushed sunflower seeds soaked in olive oil and hand-rolled in ORGANIC sea-weed.

F: I’m sorry. I really am, I will buy you lunch…

T: Grrrr (deep breath, avoids looking at Fatima). I am gluten free.

Tess stomped off and left Fatima standing there. When Fatima returned to her desk, her email was blowing up. The unanimous advice, which would have been super-helpful ten minutes prior, was “Do not say anything. Do not do it. Hide the container in the trash. Cover it with paper. Do not, under any circumstances admit to being the lunch thief. Eat the evidence and bury the container”

Well, it was too late. Fatima’s email pinged and Tess had sent a curt one liner also known as a nastygram.

“And you had better return my container.”

Right, return the container, in case Fatima was planning to eat it for dessert, like you do.

A few minutes later, Fatima saw Tess carrying takeout from a nearby restaurant, this after declining Fatima’s offer to buy her lunch in place of the pilfered hand crushed sunflower seed rolls. This restaurant was definitely not gluten free. But hanger is a strange thing. It can cause your body to forget that it is gluten free and happily digest wheat based food.

When Fatima’s friends finally met up with her that afternoon, she told them about her mea culpa. They were incredulous. What was she thinking, they asked. Had she lost her mind? Stealing lunch was no biggie, confessed one of her friends, let’s call her Alice. Alice habitually shopped the communal fridge for lunch. She informed her appalled friends that she had found food ranging from curries to dessert right there in the communal fridge. It was like a daily food fair, with different culinary experiences awaiting the daring palette. The highlight of her fridge browsing? A sandwich named Kevin.

Dear First Time Parents

Congratulations! Your bundle of joy is on his/her/their way. Whether this is the culmination of many years of peeing on pregnancy sticks, doctors visits, fertility treatments etc, and getting that sinking feeling because the tests were negative, or whether it was the culmination of peeing on multiple pregnancy sticks because you just cannot believe you are in fact pregnant (oops baby), and your first reaction was a string of four letter words, your bundle of joy is definitely still on their way. So buckle up!

Depending on your age, you might have had family and friends ask, sometimes subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, when you plan to have children. This same set of well-meaning family and friends will be over-joyed when they hear the news, so over-joyed in fact that you should prepare yourself for a deluge of unsolicited advice. It is all well-meaning, I have caught myself doing this to friends, so we are all guilty.

You will hear everything from don’t eat too many eggs, your baby will be too big to give birth to unless you opt for a C-Section. Or, do eat many eggs, they will make your baby smarter. No pineapples or cinnamon in your third trimester- those are a recipe for an early labor.

Lay on your left side, it will increase blood flow to the baby (see? I just plugged in unsolicited advice)

Speaking of labor, you will be amazed at how strongly people feel about whether you should get an epidural or not. Will said people take the labor pain on your behalf? No. Will they still tell you not to take the epidural? Yes. Understand that they are well-meaning and want you to experience labor like they did, and not take the ‘coward’s way out’. Also, all the anti-epidural literature out there says that if you do not take an epidural, you ‘fully’ experience labor. I am yet to meet anyone who has experienced labor say, “I wish I could have prolonged the labor experience. It really was enjoyable”. That said, you will also meet the pro-epidural camp who will look at you like you have two heads when you indicate that you will not be taking an epidural. Again, they are well meaning, and do not want you to experience what will be the most excruciating pain of your life. I actually don’t think excruciating fully describes labor. But I won’t ruin the surprise:)

Just remember, do what you feel comfortable doing- with the advice of you doctor/ nurse/midwife. That goes for who you allow to be present for the birth. Labor is not pretty. Nor is it the SuperBowl where all your dear ones should have a front row seat. Pregnancy forums online have horror stories of uninvited friends and family appearing in the delivery room. It is your child and you can limit guests until you feel comfortable seeing visitors. Whatever you decide, remember that women have been giving birth for a long long time, there are not gold/silver/bronze medals for bravest mother who labored the longest.

By now, you must have consulted the interwebs to figure out what to buy your tot. The interwebs is a dangerous place, and the baby industry is a billion-plus dollar one for a reason. The sellers know just how to pull at your heart-strings. You must play classical music to your baby in-utero. It makes them smarter. To help you bring the next Einstein into the world are several gadgets ranging in price and complexity. I know many hightly intelligent people whose mothers were toiling under the hot sun farming while pregnant. Maybe I should record that sound, package it in a fancy recorder and sell it as the genius producer.

Your tot must have the safest car seat out there. This seat must be able to withstand everything short of a meteor shower. A few hundred dollars later, you sleep well in the comfort that you will bring your new addition home in a destruction-proof car seat. I won’t go into all the other swings, baskets, organic bedsheets, clothing , creams and baby accessories that will set you back a few thousand dollars. Some items however, deserve a special shout-out. Do you want your tot’s eyes protected while bathing them? A flimsy foam hat which sets you back about $5 does the job, according to the adverts. In reality, you baby removes it, in the process ripping a hole into it while soap pours into his eyes, thanks foam hat maker. Another shout-out to the pee cover, supposed to protect you from the fountain of pee. In reality, the fountain of pee lifts the cover so you are still covered in pee, and $10 broker for it.

When you finally bring your baby home, be prepared for sleep deprivation like you’ve never felt before. You will want to find the person who coined the phrase “sleep like a baby”, look them in the eye, and ask them why they coined such a cruel phrase. Babies do not sleep. To give you an idea, set an alarm clock to wake you every hour on the hour, every day for 3 months. That’s right. A newborn wakes up to eat so often, you will forget what sleep was like before. I now understand why sleep deprivation is a form of torture. Try surviving on 40 minutes of sleep at a time, waking up at 2am to change an infant who manages to pee on your sleep-deprived face (thanks pee cover), and while you get your bearing and get new pajamas, said infant poops on the changing table. You finally get them in new pajamas and clean up the changing table in time for the baby to spit up on you and his new pajamas.

As a first time parent, there will be times when you will rush your baby to the hospital because you are just sure something is wrong. Your baby is grunting in his sleep, when all the newborns in the commercials sleep quietly. Newborns don’t open their eyes wide open, so of course you rush him to the optometrist to make sure his eyes are ok. Did she not react to a loud sound? Hearing specialist, here we come!

Speaking of doctors, feel free to change doctors if you do not feel comfortable with the one you have. Some have a gentle manner which is great and calming. Some are rushed and talk so fast they would put rappers and auctioneers to shame. Find one who is a good fit for you and your baby. Babies fall sick quite often, and it can be an alarming experience when your baby has a fever, but, they bounce back faster than we do. They are resilient little beings.

In your journey as a parent, especially as a mother, you will encounter a group of people known as sanctimommies. They are perfect mothers. You gave your child formula? The horror! You don’t use cloth diapers? You are poisoning your baby. You don’t co-sleep? Your child will have emotional attachment issues. You didn’t play classical music to your baby in-utero? My goodness this child will be intellectually delayed! You are not staying home with your child? You’re a bad and lazy mother.

What should you do when you encounter a sanctimommy? Wish her well and gently but firmly let her know that you will raise your child as you see best.

Say goodbye to TV and socializing for a while. Sleep is more important. Where there are people willing to help, accept all the help you can get. Also, if you are a stickler for planning, throw that out the window. Plans are constantly changing, and you will just have to take things as they come.

Another parenting “perk” ? When your bundle of joy starts daycare/ school, he/she will bring home all manner of bugs. An immune system bootcamp, if you will. Babies are more resilient than they seem. And modern medicine is great. Some of the bootcamp germs will make their way to you, so be prepared for pink eye, ear infections and my least favorite, stomach bugs.

If you were a squeamish person before baby came along, that will go out the window. Babies are messy. They poop, they pee, they puke, they spit up. Accept it, embrace it. You will leave the house and notice spit-up on your shirt. Wear it like a badge of honor. Your home will not be as tidy as it was before. It’s fine. Enjoy your baby, they grow so fast, other things can wait.

Why do people still have babies? Because they are the greatest thing that will ever happen to you. Nothing, no pain, or mess or discomfort will ever make you change your mind about being a parent. It is in our DNA to love our children more than we love ourselves. Elizabeth Stone said of parenthood “It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body” Truer words have never been spoken.