Potty training my three year old son has not been easy. He’s been resistant to the idea for quite some time. I chalk this up to two things. First, he has a willful spirit and often rejects my proposals on principle. Even when dealing with treats or play, if it isn’t his idea, he’ll pass. Second, my son verbalizes to me regularly that he is still a baby. (more…)
I’ve made many mistakes as a parent.
I’ve yelled, spanked out of anger, accused and spoken hurtful words out of frustration.
Only to realise that there’s no way to undo the deed…well, except to say “I’m sorry” to my children.
We had a recent episode where I came home from work to find out that Vera had in a moment of fury, grabbed a cane and hit her god-grandmother. I, in a moment of outrage, swiftly used the same method of punishment on her.
I was shocked to hear of her actions, as we’ve never heard of her using force or violence on anyone in our home.
That evening, I cried. Because I felt like I had failed as a mother.
I wondered if it was because of my own disciplinary actions on her, that had taught her the example of using the cane to lash out when she was angry.
After we were calm, I sat her down and taught her some ways of expressing anger, ways that are more socially acceptable such as shouting into a pillow or hugging her favourite soft toy.
I also apologised for having been so angry, and for spanking her when I was at the peak of that anger.
After discussing with my husband in private, I realised that I’d made the mistake of not allowing her to give her side of the story, not seeking to understand what was in her heart and mind when she made that grave mistake, before disciplining her, not giving her any benefit of doubt. In my fit, it did not dawn on me that I wasn’t there to witness the incident, and therefore cannot be fully aware of the circumstances that had provoked her to such behaviour. (more…)
This post is a reflection by our editor, MamaMzungu, in Kenya on the September 21, 2013 shooting in Nairobi, when 10-15 unidentified gunmen opened fire in an upscale, downtown shopping mall, killing 62 and wounding more than 175 people.
I’ve spent the last few days fighting back (often unsuccessfully) tears. When I communicate about this tragedy to friends and family, I find myself most often saying, “there are no words.”
Sixty dead souls, children among them, nearly 200 injured and the senseless death toll keeps mounting. Ravi Ramrattan, among them, is a friend who was kind-hearted, whip-smart and had a manner that immediately put everyone at ease. They identified him by his shoes.
Unthinkably, when I describe him, I have to use the verb “was” not “is;” his bright future snatched from him, leaving a crater-sized hole in the hearts of people who loved him. Those are words. And as I type them, here I go again fighting that tightening in my throat and welling in my eyes.
Still, I need to find words. I need to find some sense or meaning out of this tragedy.
When we first heard about the shooting, we were camping in a forest with some friends. We were walking amid astounding beauty with our children, 3 four-year-olds and 3 babies. We received information in fits and starts when cell phone reception worked.
First it was 15-20 dead. Shit. That’s gotta be a terrorist attack.
Then it was 29. Holy crap. Pit in the belly. Do we know anyone?
Then it was 39. But these numbers could keep going up. Where will it stop?.
Then, 59 dead. Silence.
But it was one small detail, not the numbers, that finally made that scene at the luxury mall real: It was a children’s day at the mall. Something I might have taken my own babies to. Some of these children were now dead.
I was going to write something about numbers, how we interpret tragedy and risk through a narrow and almost tribal lens. How I’ve seen a lot of equally senseless and avoidable death from terror of poverty. And those numbers are higher than 60.
How disappointing the truth is that it pains me to my core, when the victims look like me – when I can picture myself and my children in that circumstance.
How, as much as I think of myself as part of a truly global community, the world spins off its axis more for me when my bubble of safety and comfort is exploded.
But forget all that. I’m not in the mood to be philosophical yet. I just want to be sad. I want to mourn.
All life is precious. And fleeting. And nothing is sure. I just want to hug my family extra tight. And I want to pray to a god which I have to cling to, even though such senselessness make me doubt his existence, to bring comfort to the people who are unexpectedly burying loved ones too soon.
Mama Mzungu is a World Moms Blog editor and contributor living in Kenya with her husband and two young children. You can read more about their life and recent events on her blog: Mama Mzungu This article was reposted on World Moms Blog with permission.
The image used in this post is credited to US Army Africa and holds a Flickr Creative Commons attribution license.
Originally from Chicago, Kim has dabbled in world travel through her 20s and is finally realizing her dream of living and working in Western Kenya with her husband and two small boys, Caleb and Emmet. She writes about tension of looking at what the family left in the US and feeling like they live a relatively simple life, and then looking at their neighbors and feeling embarrassed by their riches. She writes about clumsily navigating the inevitable cultural differences and learning every day that we share more than we don’t. Come visit her at Mama Mzungu.
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Ever since we moved out of Manhattan to Abu Dhabi, in the summer of 2011, our family has been lucky enough to do a lot of traveling. Seeing the world had been, in fact, one of the primary reasons we’d decided to make our move–well, that and the fact that we’d been offered interesting jobs in a fascinating (and sometimes frustrating) city. Our move coincided with a kind of “sweet spot” for our kids: they were old enough to be able to experience our travels and remember them…but not so old (read: teen-agers) that separating them from life in New York, in the shape of things like sports teams and romances, had become impossible.
So off we went, carting twelve suitcases to the other side of the world, not entirely sure what we’d find when we arrived, but ready to explore. We’ve had some great trips and amazing experiences, seen stunning beauty and gut-wrenching poverty. Our journeys are not terribly rugged or adventurous (our kids aren’t that old yet, and let’s face it: I’m a big believer in things like indoor toilets and mattresses, which is to say: I’m a wimp), but I like to think that we are all being opened to thought-provoking encounters of all sorts. (more…)
After twenty-plus years in Manhattan, Deborah Quinn and her family moved to Abu Dhabi (in the United Arab Emirates), where she spends a great deal of time driving her sons back and forth to soccer practice. She writes about travel, politics, feminism, education, and the absurdities of living in a place where temperatures regularly go above 110F.
Deborah can also be found on her blog, Mannahattamamma.
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School will be starting for my children this week, and for many children this new routine and the new teachers can lead to much anxiety. Not only are the children feeling some of this anxiety but many parents are as well.
This past week, the teachers for my son and daughter called over the phone to introduce themselves before “meet the teacher” night. That same afternoon, a neighbor of mine called me to ask if I had received a phone call from my daughter’s teacher yet. I hadn’t at that time, and I could tell there was panic in my neighbor’s voice. She told me that she was very worried and upset that her son’s teacher this year was a “first year” teacher. She had been a teacher (and so had I), and we both know that the first year teachers do struggle a bit. But, in my opinion, the first year teachers bring with them the fresh ideas and new approaches to the classroom. I do understand her concern and could totally relate to her anxiety. (more…)
One of the most exciting day in any parent’s life is the day we get to bring our baby home. I was ecstatic to bring our two twin babies home, and very scared too about being left on my own to care for them. But it was indeed one of the most exciting days of my life.
On a recent work trip down to Salavan Province in southern Laos, I got to see two beautiful healthy babies on their way home from a district hospital with their parents. I don’t know who was more excited, them or me! To witness that special moment really touched me because of the volunteer work that I’ve been doing with Cleanbirth.org to help expectant mothers and newborn babies get a safe start in life by providing “clean birth kits” to women in rural Laos who would otherwise give birth unattended at home or in the forest using often unsanitary tools that can cause infection leading to death of the mother or child.
For me to know the long and difficult road that these two mothers have taken to give birth safely made the miracle of birth all the more awesome to me. To know that unless they traveled all way to a provincial hospital, they most likely did not get any prenatal check ups, or vitamin supplements, or ultrasounds. Although the standard of care that we consider basic are indeed accessible and cost relatively little because they are subsidized by the government, they are only available in large urban centers. This means that the 70% of the Lao population who live in rural areas either require a lot of resources to receive this care, or get none at all. Many factors contribute to the inaccessibility of the care expectant mothers need including, geographic remoteness, lack of infrastructure and seasonal limitations for travel on rough roads, lack of transport or money to pay, little knowledge of the health requirements of prenatal care or services available, as well as family priorities of working for subsistence living and other household responsibilities, and many others. (more…)
