Friday, May 1, 2026
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Why do mothers take so long before they FINALLY leave?

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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5

Continuing from yesterday’s post, where I had attended a birthday party, I had told you that I always used to wonder what on earth women busy themselves with when they say they have to leave a place. While I would understand why we take long to leave the house to go somewhere –because of the make up and changing wardrobes 27 times, I never quite understood what it is we do when it’s time to leave a place when we’re done.

But what used to puzzle me even more about this is mothers, because I used to see mums with kids suddenly beginning to do a thousand things and I used to wonder –what were you doing all that time –couldn’t you have done all these things before?

But now I know *munching on humble pie*.

Experience after attending Shohi’s birthday bash has taught me better. Now, remember I had told you I attended the party with my relatives and we had 5 kids between us, aged between 1 – 4 years.

So when we announced it was time to leave, the host suddenly informed us that there was some wine in the house, as well as some coke (soda). Despite our very ‘weak’ protests, we indeed discovered that we were somewhat thirsty, so those who take wine took and those who drink soda drank soda. Imbibing these drinks took us around 30 minutes.

Then we announced our departure again. But the year old baby girl had to undergo a diaper change first. That took a while, say 15 minutes because in a foreign house you just can’t change the diaper anywhere so by the time you find a good place to change the diaper and finish all the business associated with diaper changing, many minutes have gone by.

So with the diaper business completed, it was time to finally leave. But then, we could not find the shoes for two of the kids. It took us 15 minutes to find two shoes, one of each – a pink little princess shoe and a black boot. Exhausted, we sat down to catch our breath for a few minutes before embarking on the search again. We drank a little bit of wine and a little bit of soda while catching our breath. And when we returned to searching for the missing shoes, we enlisted the help of one of our husbands, who by this time was getting a little impatient. Finally, after 20 minutes, we found the missing shoes.

So far, it is 1 hour 20 minutes since we first announced that we were leaving. But now we were serious, we were SERIOUSLY going to leave. No jokes this time.

But we needed to first dress the kids in their jumpers. Interestingly, kids don’t like wearing cardigans and jackets because we had earlier dressed them but while we were busy looking for their shoes, we found they had long removed them. Beats me why they do that. But before we redressed them in their jumpers, we had to find them first. Kids have this knack for suddenly disappearing when you need them most. I don’t know how long finding them took because when you find one and sit her/him down, you turn around to remove the cardigan from your baby bag and when you turn back –the child is gone -screaming herself back into the bouncing castle.

So when we were finally done dressing them, one of them suddenly felt the urge to take a leak. Yaani she urgently needed to susu. And in this cold weather when they are overdressed, by the time you remove the boots, the leggings, the panty… and actually get them to susu, one child takes like 5 minutes –and when they eventually pee, it’s a measly two drops! Then when the other kids realized that one of them was peeing, even them they suddenly felt the need to pee too. Gosh, would we ever leave? So the susuing process lasted close to 15 minutes. Thank God none of them needed to pupu because waaah! Haya, we were finally done with the loo business.

Finally, for the FINAL time, we were ready to leave. But not before we gathered all our things together. So by the time we got to look for our bags of stuff (for we had bought stuff on impulse from one businesswoman who had lots of nice nice things), it took another 5 minutes. Then we FINALLY were ready to leave. (By the way I am now tired of using the word ‘final’).

But wait – my mwarikhwa (muiru, or sister in law if you like) couldn’t find her car keys. We searched and searched and opened the baby bags and handbags all over again, removed the stuff then returned them back one by one, but we couldn’t find the keys. We turned the seat cushions upside down, knelt on the floor and searched under the seats, under the tables, under the carpet, searched in our pockets, in the kid’s pockets…basically everywhere. We eventually found the keys like 10 minutes later –they were in mwarikhwa’s baby bag afterall.

Then we said our goodbyes to the people we were leaving behind and who were still enjoying the bash. The goodbyes took another I don’t know how long because we had to hug them then catch up a little bit before we finally hugged them goodbye for the final time (am I still using the word final?)

Then we began packing the kids into the 2 cars we had. Settling them down and strapping them into their car seats consumed yet another many minutes. Then the occupants in the two different cars began saying goodbye to each other. Never mind we were still meeting the following day for yet another family function so you wonder why we were taking so long to say goodbye, hugging and re-hugging each other. Geez! So anyway  mwarikwha drove out first, then I walked towards my car, ready to leave with its occupants. Them, they were already seated and anxiously waiting to leave while I had been bidding mwarikhwa the final goodbye.

But oh no!!! I couldn’t locate my car keys. I had them when we were strapping the kids into the car, but now I couldn’t remember where I had placed them. So together with my brother in law, we searched far and wide –around the parking lot, in the boot, on the car’s ceiling, on the bonnet, in my handbag, our pockets – everywhere – before we finally (oops, there goes the word again) located the keys on the co-driver’s seat –my seat.

FINALLY (yes finally) we were on our way. Thank God I was not the one driving because I was very exhausted, not from the bash, but from all the processes of preparing to leave the bash. I was completely kaput!

As for how long the ‘leaving’ process took  –your guess is as good as mine.

But is all good because there is nothing better than spending time with family. Love you all.

All in all, now I towtally understand why it takes forever before mums finally leave a place. I wonder how it will be like when I start taking my ka-mayai Kitty with me.

Kid’s birthday parties -attending my first as a mum

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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6

So, on Saturday I attended a birthday party for a kid – for the first time as a mum. And I will tell you that it was quite different from how I used to attend such parties before.

The birthday party was for the cutest 4 year old boy I have ever seen. I mean the boy is a real hunk. As in he kaodo looks like Boris Kodjoe. And methinks Boris Kodjoe looks not bad at all. The 4 year old boy is called Shohi, and he could easily pass for Kodjoe’s kid bro.

So anyway, I attended the birthday bash alongside four of my relatives, and with us were five children all aged between 1 – 4 years. All other kids in the bash were around the same ages. I didn’t carry Kitty along with me because I think he’s still too young to be leaving the house for bashes. He’s still a ka-mayai *hides from the ‘are you serious???’ comments being thrown my way*.

Happy Birthday Candles On A Cake

So in the bash were four groups of people: There were the little kids who were chasing after each other, enjoying the bouncing castle and basically hollering all over the place. Then there were the mothers of these children. One or two of these mummies had smaller babies, like a few months to one year.  Then there was a group of mums our mother’s age -the aunts and grandmother’s of the little children. And finally, there were the men. Relatives and family friends of Shohi’s parents.

It goes without saying what group I was in. Now, in my group, there was lots of conversation amongst ourselves, mainly revolving around kids and other domestic stuff. I must say that I was proud of myself because for the first time, I was able to actively contribute to such a conversation. Previously, when I found myself stuck in such a group, I would passively listen and passively participate in the conversation for the first two minutes, then spend the other 4 hours looking at my watch and strategizing on how best to leave the bash. I would send numerous texts of ‘uko wapi?, what’s the plan, wapi na saa ngapi?’. My phone would beep every two seconds. Then I would keep walking in and out of the room to receive or make phone calls.

Mainly, these parties were a way for me to pass time before going for a ‘real plot’ in the evening. A kind of warm up I would say. Sometimes,  I would identify other ladies who also didn’t have children and we would find ourselves lamenting about how bland the bash was, especially when we would find ourselves in the company of mums. Why? Because all they would talk about was baby stuff, which we obviously couldn’t relate with. And trust me, mothers can really get passionate and carried away when they start talking about their children. Ask me, I now know. So what we would do is we would ‘songa kando’ and begin beating our own stories.

But not this time. Not at Shohi’s bash. For this time round, I was very active, contributing to story after story, agreeing, disagreeing, offering suggestions, sharing experiences, listening to the advice and experiences of fellow mums etcetera etcetera on the different issues that were being discussed. Boy, did I have a good time or DID I HAVE A GOOD TIME? I was thoroughly in the mix of those stories. Infact, I was the mix itself. I truly enjoyed myself. Amazing, isn’t it?

So life is interesting because I am now an active participant in these conversations. The ‘baby talk’ talk. Life I tell you!

And then, something else –I used to wonder what mothers used to do when it was time for them to leave a place, because they would always end up leaving close to an hour later. But now I understand. Towtally! When it was time for us to leave the bash, we did not leave as immediately as I thought we would. I will tell you all this in part 2 of this story which I will post tomorrow, so stay tuned.

Meanwhile, happy birthday Shohi, may you have many more. I wish you an abundance of God’s blessings in your life.

Back Home with Loads of Luggage

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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9

When I was young, I used to see women, mainly mothers carrying many bags in their hands and I used to wonder –what’s wrong with them? When returning home from work in the evening, you would see many mothers (mathe’s) walking slowly, heavily weighed by all sorts of paraphernalia in their hands and on their heads.

Back then, our parents taught us to help out any adult you see in such a situation. The days when children were disciplined and courteous and respectful. So the disciplined, courteous and respectful kids that we were used to quickly rush to whichever mother it was and help them with their bags and baskets as we escorted them home. And while doing so, they would always ask us how school was and what number we were last term (why did EVERY parent used to ask that?). Then we would proceed to enter into their houses with them as though we were their kids. Sometimes we would even help them unpack stuff, such as putting milk in the fridge, bread in the kabati, and fruits in a small basket hapo juu ya fridge. The good thing is that these mothers would often ‘reward’ us with something small for our good deed. It could be with a banana, an orange, a mango, a ball gum or a goody-goody. Those were the days when any mum was your mum, and your mum was everyone else’s mum. Good days those were. Anyway, I always wondered why mathe’s would always have so many bags with them when heading home, as though they were a mandatory accessory. I always used to think of them as ‘those old women’ with so much luggage. In my child’s mind, I used to see them as people who never had a life because all they did was carry boring luggage day in day out. Like their life was all about paperbags and baskets. Nothing exciting in their lives, I thought.

But over the last couple of weeks since I resumed work, reality is slowly checking in as I begin to realize that I am now ‘that mathe’. Nowadays, I get home with my arms full of stuff. A handbag, a laptop, groceries, newspapers, a flask, lunchbox, breast pump paraphernalia, expressed milk, fruits, house stuff I needed to top up from the supermarket, drycleaned laundry…..it’s always one thing or the other. I always have paperbags and paperpags of stuff. If you see me enter the house in the evening, you would think I have been away on a three week safari. Now, let’s not even talk about the days when I have been out with Kitty. His stuff alone would fill a whole suitcase!

Oh dear, I’m I now ‘that mathe’? Have I now become that woman who doesn’t seem to have a life because all I do is carry boring luggage day in day out? Like my life is all about paperbags and baskets? Thank God we don’t have kids around the apartment I stay because I suspect that’s what they would be thinking of me. Reminds me of that methali that goes something like the firewood atop the ceiling in the kitchen laughing at the firewood that is already in the fire. It doesn’t know that it will soon be lighting the fire too. If only I knew I would be the firewood lighting the fire someday.

Young woman with shopping bags (4)
Photo: Dreamstime.com

Meanwhile, my buddy Miss Babes tells me the same reality sank in four years ago when she started her family. She’s ‘advising’ me to get used to it – that it will become part of my normal life as a mother. She tells me that her – she usually has no less than 7 bags and paperbags everyday when going home. And that the hardest part is when she is in the matatu where balancing them all is always a tricky act. So she usually places two of them on her laps, two under her armpits, two on the floor between her legs, and finally her handbag on her chest. Then she has to live through the side eye darts given to her by the young lady seated next to her carrying a handbag the size of a clutch bag, struggling to unsuccessfully push herself away from Miss Babes and her ‘issues’. I guess when the pretty young thing alights and meets with her friends, she tells them she has just lived through hell in the mathree seating next to ‘this mathee’ with a hundered and one paperbags. Then she says msschhheeeew as they all chorus:

“Aki those mathee’s si they’re so boring! Why can’t they just shop over the weekend or buy their own cars’? Mssschhhheeeww!” You see – these are the firewoods I was talking about.

So as I think of my life with my paperbags now, I have a good laugh because these are the little things that continue making my life today all the more interesting. Life I tell you!

The weight gain? I love it!

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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0

If there is anything I love hearing when I take Kitty for his jabs is that he’s gained weight. I usually do a couple of mental somersaults and hip hip horrays whenever I hear this good news.

Really, I derive such pleasure and satisfaction when I hear he’s added the recommended grams (the nurse told me that a baby Kitty’s age should add between 700g – 1kg each month). It always makes me feel like I’m doing something really great, greater than even being president of the world.

Whenever I am taking him to the clinic, I always hold my breath, hoping the nurse won’t tell me he’s below that graph thing they usually fill his particulars in. It’s called the ‘road to good health’ or something like that. Listening to the nurse tell me that Kitty has added weight and is within the recommended growth curve simply is music to my ears. I could listen to her all day as she says so. It makes me feel that I’m really doing something right, and I often pat myself heavily on my back. Makes me think my milk has superpowerfoam ingredients. And while I celebrate the good news, I always take a brief moment to empathize with my mum. And I’ll tell you why.

Thing is, I have always been on the smaller side of life. My frame is not all that big (okay it previously was, not now), and my mum tells me she really used to have a tough time with me when I was a kid. Each time she took me to the clinic, the news was always the same – I was underweight and below that graph thing. And trust me you didn’t want to be a mother with an underweight child in those days, because the nurses were not very kind. They would reprimand you, accusing you of not feeding your child well amongst many other not-so-nice things that would make a mother feel not-so-nice.

“Kwani hunyonyeishi mtoto? Wewe ni mama aina gani?” They would snarl at such a mum with a sneer on their face. Like this mum were engaging in the worst crime against humanity.

And my mum was one of the recipients of such, because if I used to add any weight, it was just a gram or two. But the interesting thing? She was a nurse herself so as far as having all the information about weight gain and babies? She knew it all. But hard as she tried to get me to add weight, it was a fruitless effort. She tells me that she used to be so frustrated as I was as featherweight as they come. I was simply a poor feeder. Even when I grew older, she does not recall me ever finishing my plate of food. That in primary school, I would be given a fried egg for breakfast, chew on it for 45 minutes then tell her that I was full after eating only half of it. I would then put the remaining half in the fridge, where I would return to eat it in the evening after school. Those were my normal eating behaviors. And that was just my weight. My height? That’s a different story altogether.

At birth, Kitty was 52cm and two weeks ago, he was 63.5cm. In three months he has added 11.5 cm. My mother continues to be very impressed by his height gain. She tells me that I used to add an average of 3cm in a year in the days I was supposed to be growing. I don’t disagree because last week I measured my height, and it stands at 150cm. My oh my! My 3 month old son is 63.5 cm and my thirty-something old self is 150cm. At this rate, won’t he be looking down at me when he’s 5 years old? But I’m not surprised because his father is 6 foot tall and me – I’m not even 5 feet! What was that again they say about opposites attracting each other?

Of Fever and Lack of Knowledge

By
admin
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1

When I tell you that motherhood has humbled me, you better believe me. Some of the things that I do, as well as some of the things that I was previously unaware of continue to amaze me. Some things that I thought are rather obvious clearly skip my mind in some instances.

For example, remember the other day I told you Kitty was unwell? This is how it went.

At around 8pm, it suddenly hit me that he’d been withdrawn all day, and had not been feeding well. The previous day, he’d had his cousins around, some very active 3-4 year olds and he’d stayed awake the whole afternoon looking at them in amazement and wondering who those loud noisy little people were, jumping on tables, rolling on the floor, screaming their lungs out, chasing after each other etc.

So the following day, he kept dozing off and I kept thinking it was because he was tired from the previous day’s happenings. Which I didn’t mind because it gave me the opportunity to doze off as I too was equally exhausted. And because of his elongated sleeping episodes, he fed less than usual.

At around 8pm when his father returned home from work, I told him that we’d basically been dozing all day long, and as I was telling him so, I listened to my words and that’s when it suddenly occurred to me that Kitty just might be sick. (That was a rather belated realization – now I know). The thought hit me like a thunderbolt and I started panicking. Then I felt his forehead. And almost fainted when I did so. My heart has never raced so fast and beat so loud. And I have never sweated that much. Whaaaaaat! I swear you could have fried an egg on his forehead. Three weeks later today, I still get goosepimples and shiver as I recall that moment.

I immediately went for the thermometer and when taking his temperature, I kept noting is rapid rise – 37, 37.1, 37.2, 37.3…..and because I was using a digital thermometer, I kept waiting for it to beep when the temperature had stabilized. But it wasn’t beeping. So we kept trying again and again all the time assuming we were not using the thermometer properly. And each time we tried, the figures kept rising. Now, the hubby and I didn’t know what a normal temperature was (don’t ask), though we knew it was either 36 or 37 degrees Celsius. So we decided to monitor him and see how it goes. That if it rose beyond normal (never mind we didn’t know what normal was), and if he continued not feeding well, we would take him to hospital. Meanwhile, I kept trying to feed him but he kept sleeping so I kept saying I would wait for him to wake up then take his temperature properly. Gosh, my ignorance!

But as I sat there monitoring him, my heart kept beating fast and I was so restless I could have peed on myself. So I decided to go online and google ‘infant normal temperature’. The results said that high temperature in infants under 3 months was bad. Very bad. Kitty was 11 weeks at the time. That anything above 37.5 degrees Celsius was not good. I temporarily stopped breathing at that juncture. (Why do civil servants like using that word ‘juncture’ by the way?)

With this new information, the hubby and I quickly put the thermometer under Kitty’s  armpit one more time then observed the recordings. 37.1, 37.2….37.6, 37.7, 37.8, 37.9…at that time I think I must have peed on myself a little because I was in a state I cannot describe. The last reading I saw on the thermometer was 38.2 before I withdrew it from his armpit because I did not want to see where it would reach.

So we immediately began a mad rush to the hospital. The time was midnight. But before we did, it being a cold, chilly July night, I decided to ensure Kitty was warm enough for the trip to the hospital. Don’t judge me please as you read the next sentence. I dressed him up warmly in socks, mittens, a hat, a vest, t-shirt, a romper, cardigan, then wrapped him up in a thick warm blanket. Yes, I’m shivering as I recall this. Warm enough, off we sped to the other side of town –to Muthaiga.

When we got to the hospital, there was lots of paperwork to be filled out. As I did so, Kitty though was safe, secure, warm and sleeping cozily in his father’s arms. When we entered the examining room, the nurse took his temperature then hesitated. Then took it again. It was at 38.9. She instructed me to remove his mittens, socks, sweater, blanket etc as she quickly inserted some tablet up Kitty’s behind. I didn’t know this could be done on an infant. The nurse asked as if we had given him a fever reliever before we left the house, and we replied in the negative. Never mind that we always have a fever reliever in the house. Why we didn’t use it I don’t know. Anyway he was seen by the doctor, who said he had a bad throat infection.

So there you go. Interestingly, everyone I tell that story says that at his age, and with that temperature, Kitty should have already have been convulsing. It’s mothers who tell me this though, that they too have been there before. First borns they tell me, teach their parents a lot. I guess experience is the best teacher.

So there you go. Lessons learnt from that episode, and stuff that many mothers have repeatedly told me since is that:

–          Observe your child keenly and any behavior that is out of his normal self should never be taken lightly.

–          Always have a thermometer nearby.

–          Always know what normal temperature is because the thermometer won’t help you if you don’t know what normal is.

–          If the temperature is high, dress the baby lightly and possibly give him a fever reliever before taking him to the hospital

–          You can also pat him with a damp warm (not cold) cloth or towel on his forehead, neck and back as this can reduce the fever

–           A high fever can lead to convulsions

–          Even infants are inserted medicines up their behind

–          If you know your child is very sick and needs immediate attention, you can skip the queue at the hospital as other mothers will understand (hopefully). (While at the hospital, a mother brought a child who was already convulsing and she was quickly ushered to the front of the queue).

But the most important lesson I learnt that day is that God has mercy on those who genuinely don’t know. Like me and the hubby. Sema ignorance of first-time parents!

17 African Myths and Superstitions on Motherhood

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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4

Everyday, we come across lots of stories, rumors, fears, truths and mistruths about all aspects of motherhood. Some of them are rather ridiculous, some of them funny and some of them –well…I don’t know. Below is a list of some of the myths and superstitions I have heard about. Are they true or not? You tell me!

  1. Babies born at night will always stay awake at night.
  2. Children born on a Sunday will be protected from evil spirits all their life.
  3. A breastfeeding mother should never involve herself in an extramarital affair because if she does, her baby will grow thin then die.
  4. A breastfeeding mother should never be involved in a fight otherwise her child will die.
  5. A breastfeeding mum should never meet a man whose wife or child has just died, or else she or her child will die.
  6. A newborn girl should not be removed from the house before three days, and a baby boy not before four days, otherwise something bad will happen to them.
  7. Twins should never be shown a fresh grave otherwise they will die.
  8. If you cut a baby’s hair before he begins to talk, then he will stutter when he eventually starts talking.
  9. Cutting your baby’s nails before he is a year old will cause him to become a thief.
  10. Don’t cut a child’s nails until they are a year old, and when they are cut, they should be done by a healthy young man if the baby is a boy, or a healthy young woman if the baby is a girl. This way, they will enjoy robust health.
  11. Getting grandparents, village elders and anyone elderly to spit on your baby means the baby will be blessed and will prosper in life.
  12. When a child passes, take note of what subject his eyes will be drawn too and this will be his occupation (profession), when he grows up.
  13. Do not jump over (skip) children otherwise they will not grow. If you skip them, you have to reverse the skip.
  14. Keep children away from matchboxes or fires otherwise they will always wet their bed.
  15. Children should not be given chicken legs to eat otherwise they will never learn how to keep secrets.
  16. If you carry a baby on your back supporting him with a lesso, he will develop bowlegs.
  17. If you stand over a child, you soon begin sucking their blood (kunyonya damu).

So those are the ones I’ve heard of. Which other ones have you heard of? Do you believe them?

Now Read: 15 Widely Believed African Myths and Superstitions on Pregnancy

Now how do I dress this post-baby body?

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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4

Like I told you earlier, I go back to work next week Monday.*Holding head in hands* But that’s not my major issue of concern today, for I think I have a bigger problem. I cannot find any clothes that can fit me. Yaani work clothes. The only fitting clothes in my wardrobe are my nightdresses, a few branded baggy t-shirts, baggy tracksuits pants and ofcourse, my maternity clothes (and in particular my favorite corduroy pants). I work for a very liberal and understanding employer but I think it will be quite disrespectful if I show up for work in any of the above attire. That will be akin to abuse of office privileges.

So why don’t I have clothes that can fit me? Because I have expanded. Naturally. It was expected but yawa, what will it take for me to get back to my pre-pregnancy size? Oh sorry, I guess I should be asking – will I ever get back to my pre-pregnancy size? You tell me. But miss babes already condemned me by warning me, while I was pregnant, that that will never happen.

Now, my major problem area is my mid section area. It is thick like a banana tree. The irony being that despite the thick mid-section, my tummy resembles a deflated tyre and is quite jelly. Grrrr. I must say that I was quite huge when I was pregnant. I am 4 11’, and I delivered a 3.7kg baby. This is how I looked at 7 months.

By the 9th month, there was no difference between my vertical and horizontal profiles. I looked like a small hippo. Now, how do I dress this my midsection? The main problem is to get pants that can fit me. Thing is, my height did not increase, but my width did. So if I get pants that fits me at the waist, the length is overflowing ,and if I trim them to an appropriate length, they end up looking like bermuda shorts. Or Sinbad’s trousers. So I’ve been shopping and shopping and shopping around, but I just cannot get pants that fit me. So at this particular moment, on a Friday, unless a miracle happens, I might just end up going to work on Monday in a nightdress. The flowered ones with three buttons at the front. Which are very good by the way for functionality purposes when you’re breastfeeding. I really love my nighties.

And then, let’s go to the upper body. Lets stop at the bosom area. I must say that in that department, I was blessed. In leaps and bounds that is. Now throw in pregnancy and breastfeeding. And the blessings multiplied in abundance. So now I have to look for tops that can comfortably accommodate my bosom, yet not look oversize. Because the ones that fit my bosom are the ones that are too big in all other areas, especially the hands and the shoulders, such that I look like I’m wearing a tight-oversized top (whatever that is). They end up looking like overalls because they are also quite too long for me. By the way why do people who wear overalls always have them in a size or two sizes big?

Haya, next – I didn’t know that my feet would remain expanded for this long. They enlarged when I was pregnant, but I thought they would bounce back once I’d downloaded. Now its three months later and they’re still not back to their original size. So the shoes that I used to wear to work are too tight. The only footwear that fits me right now are my slippers and socks. Geez, at this rate I’ll end up going to work in slippers.

So that’s where I’m at right now. I’m still scratching my head trying to figure out what exactly to do. The more I think about it, the more I fear that I’ll end up buying those ‘mathe’ looking clothes coz right now those are the ones I’m suspecting will fit me right. Ohhhh *shivering*, that’s a very terrifying thought because I certainly don’t want to look like a ‘mathe’, seeing as I’m only 21 years old *cough cough and wink wink*. I want clothes that will make me look young, but certainly not clothes that will make me look like I’m going to starr in a Nonini video.

Oh dear, now what will I do? Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and Monday will reach as I’m still sitting here on my couch asking myself what to do. Grrr!

Baby bag tales

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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0

So three weeks after Kitty’s birth, he was due for an appointment with his paediatrician. And after doing the necessary preparations for his trip to the outdoors, I handed him over to his father, before swiftly grabbing my handbag and following my two men out of the house (I’m still yet to learn how to balance carrying Kitty and carrying a handbag at the same time. How do they do it?).

But a few steps out of the house, I suddenly stopped in my tracks, letting out a loud gasp. Was I walking out of the house as though I had no child? I had only carried my handbag, as though I were going for a coffee date with the girls (wossup mkondo wa mwisho gang, wanamaresh). Yep, no baby bag. What mother does that, I wondered, as it gradually dawned on me that I had joined the club of women who are to be seen with big baby bags on one hand and baby on the other.

So I told the hubby to give me a few minutes as I dashed back into the house. But once inside the house I momentarily became lost. What exactly goes into a baby bag? I didn’t quite know so I threw in what I could think of – a diaper, a nappy liner, an extra baby shawl and his hospital records (would you believe I had even left behind his records?).

Then came the next shocker – where was the bag itself? I had no baby bag. Geez, and you would have thought that I had nine months to prepare for this moment. But nooo, I had forgotten to buy the bag. How that had missed my mind I don’t know. I had shopped everything baby by week 36, but I had never thought of a baby bag. How now?
So what I did was to throw in these things into a paperbag. A Tusky’s shopping paperbag. Shame, shame, shame on me. I walked out of the house with my head bent low. Surely I could do better than a shopping paperbag yawa tho! So I vowed to buy a bag as soon as possible. And I did exactly that.

So on our next clinic visit three weeks later, thank God I had a nice baby bag. Not an exclusive bag that looks like a baby bag, but a big nice bag that does not typically look like a baby bag -if you know what I mean. Yaani the big bags that a woman can carry around even without a baby in tow. The bag is nice, to the extent that three weekends ago, I left the house and carried it along with me – minus the baby. And I shopped for some stuff and stashed them inside the baby bag. Don’t ask me what I was thinking, for the things I shopped for (groceries et al) ended up contaminating the baby bag. Contaminating in the sense that I cannot put baby things inside it anymore because baby things are special and shouldn’t be mixed with other paraphanelia –if you know what I mean.

So now I had to look for another baby bag for our next clinic appointment, which was last week Friday. I didn’t want to carry his stuff in a shopping paperbag again. Surely that’s embarrassing. I mean, how on earth do you adorn yourself with a nice handbag and then carry your baby’s things in a supermarket paperbag? Shame, shame, shame on me again. I don’t want to be those kinds of mothers who dress to the nines, yet their kids are in tatters. Not nice.

So I got us a new baby bag. And I looooooove it. It is designed in patchwork, whereby pieces of different kitenge fabrics of similar size have been sewn together to create a beautiful pattern. You can see the photo

. It has nice pockets inside, and is big enough to fit all baby needs.

Now, I must confess that I love patchwork to death. There is something about patchwork that makes me think that everything around me is nice and blissful. I don’t know if it’s the colors that just remind me of my childhood – where everything was nice and blissful, without any stress. When I carry my patchwork bag, I feel untouchable as I am usually on cloud nine. So I’m very happy to have a bag that makes me very happy. I’m sure Kitty is happy too.

Oh and by the way I’m slowly learning that a diaper, a nappy liner, an extra baby shawl and his hospital records are not enough for our baby trips outdoors. I have since added two more diapers, baby wipes, a romper, baby jelly, a mackintosh, a burping cloth, a pen, camera and notebook (a journalist never misses this). I don’t know if there is anything else I need to throw in, but if you think there is, you can let me know.

Coming up: On Wednesday, I’ll feature an interview with a mother of twins – how life has been since she got them – her joys, challenges, experiences etcetera etcetera. So stay tuned to this blog. Cheers.

Nairobi traffic, Nairobi’s ladies, matatu drivers….I’m missing you all….

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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2

For the last 9 weeks I have not had much of a life outside of the house. I have been indoors bonding with Kitty, and it is only in the last week or so that I have been thinking about how I miss the familiarity of some things. Take note that I miss the familiarity of these things, and not that I miss them at all.

Top on the list are the following:

Do you know that I miss the Nairobi traffic cops? Yap, I miss seeing traffic cops and shaking my head in wonderment wondering whether they really ease the flow of traffic or make it worse. Why does it always seem that when the lights are working the traffic flow is slightly better as opposed to when the boys in blue are in command?

By the way, why do most traffic cops always have their cardigans on even in the sweltering heat? And it’s not like while wearing them they are sitting down under a tree. Nooo, they’re usually raising their arms up and down controlling traffic and occasionally running after the mischievous driver, all of which is physical activity and which I’m sure causes them to sweat. It really baffles me to see such an officer with a cardigan on, because I only imagine how hot and uncomfortable he must be. Not forgetting that they usually have their caps on, which no doubt makes them sweat all the more. But then again I am not a traffic cop so I cannot speculate much on that.

Since we’re talking police matters, I have always wondered one thing. I have never once in my life seen a pregnant policewoman. Not even one! Yet I know of very many people who are the sons and daughters of policewomen. Now, I keep asking myself where the pregnant police women are. And if they are there, do their uniforms – their trousers and shirts – come in mothercare design? Just wondering. Someone please help me understand this because it is something that continues to perplex me.

Back to the missings, I miss wondering why we Kenyans in matatu’s always stare down at people in private vehicles. After they finish sizing you up and down and determining your worth judging by the model and registration number of your car, they then begin stretching their necks trying to peep into every corner of your car – I don’t know hoping to see what. Even though most passengers are usually idle especially when in traffic, wouldn’t it be more constructive to read a book or a newspaper or something? Or maybe they can read their favorite blog during those moments *wink wink*.

And then, this will sound weird, but I do actually miss the craziness of a majority of matatu drivers. I mean, those people are special, and it is because of them that I always console myself that I am sane. The wayward thinking of many a matatu driver simply amazes me. Before I started driving, I used to hear stories of private car owners who would step out of their vehicles and shoot matatu drivers at point blank range. If my memory serves me right, there is one famed Kenyan professor who once did this. Other drivers carry whips (nyahunyos) under their seats and give matatu drivers a good whooping with them. I used to wonder what kind of rogue characters these are who perhaps had anger management issues. But nowadays, I happen to fall in the category of these rogue characters. Many are the times I have wished I had a nyahunyo with me where I would whip the madness out of some matatu drivers. But this is not to say that this madness is confined to matatu drivers. There are lots of drivers of personal cars who are just as crazy, but what I mean is that crazy matatu drivers outnumber, by a very significant margin crazy personal car drivers. These matatu drivers are in a league of their own.

(In totally unrelated news, matatu drivers have made me think of safari rally, so allow me to digress a little bit. I give a big kudos to news presenter Pauline Shegu-Mwanzia of KBC for participating in this year’s safari rally, and actually completing it to emerge among the top ten. Hongera dada!).

Moving on, I miss walking in Nairobi streets and observing we Nairobi ladies. Especially the Nairobi girls who dress against the weather – wearing skimpy little clothes when the weather is cold. They’d rather ‘freeze but shine’, they say. I wonder if this July will be the same as all others where their clothing codes will defy the weather.

Then I miss the color of their clothes, particularly yellow ones. Ever noticed that there is this distinct yellow colored outfits that are sold in Nairobi’s exhibition stalls? Yellow comes in different shades, but there is this particular yellow that is loved by the exhibition stall stockists. And these ladies just love matching their outfits – they wear a yellow blouse, a black figure belt, black pencil pants, yellow heels, a yellow hairband and a black handbag. The complete uniform! I don’t know whether this is part of the deal, but have you ever noticed that most of the ladies who dress like this are always chewing gum? And then they walk in groups strolling around town, as though they are in no hurry to go anywhere and are just perambulating idly.

Then there is another category of women – older women dressing as though they are in their teens competing with their daughters and nieces. Tight pants that can barely accommodate their over-bulged behinds and tops that hardly contain their falling potbellies. More often than not, such women always have a scaring amount of make up on them that is wrongly applied. I’m not a beauty expert but atleast I know when makeup looks bad.

Anyway, those are some of the things that I have been missing. Their familiarity that is. But all in all I love Nairobi and the little things that make it special. I wouldn’t want to be in any other town.

From Breast to Bottle: the Journey

By
Maryanne W. Waweru
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4

So after my start-up woes with expressing breast milk (I discovered the problem was the pump – thanks to the mothers who offered me advice), I became happy because I could now leave the house for a couple of hours. (You can read my tribulations about previously trying to express breastmilk on this link https://mummytales.com/baby/is-expressing-breastmilk-supposed-to-be-this-hard/ ) Now, staying with a lovely and cute baby such as Kitty is rewarding, but you must agree with me that staying confined in the house staring at the same walls day in day out for two months can take its toll on you. Sometimes you just need to get away from the house and its environs (the farthest I’ve been to since Kitty’s birth is the nearest kiosk).

You see with a newborn, you just cannot wake up one morning and leave the house. It needs some serious calculation, planning and strategy. And the first step to that is getting a good breast pump. That is if you, like I, are interested in exclusive breastfeeding. Thankfully, my sister-in-law lent me her electric breast pump as she is not currently using it. I tell you mothers, you are so much better off with an electric pump and so if you can invest in one, go for it by all means. Or if you have a good sister-in-law (mwaaaaaa mwarikhwa) or you have a good friend, they can lend you theirs. By the way I have come to realize that hii mambo ya pregnancy na motherhood ni kusaidiana – exchanging maternity clothes, pregnancy support belts, flat shoes, breast pumps etc. It is all harambee.

So the first time I expressed breastmilk, I did it happily and with a cheerful grin on my face, knowing it was my ticket to freedom for a couple of hours. I started thinking of meet-ups with the girls to catch up on the latest, trips to the beauty parlor (my nails look like Nebuchadnezzar’s), dinner and movie dates, as well as the occasional shopping sprees that can sometimes take hours. But the grin quickly faded away when I tried to feed Kitty. He would hear nothing of the bottle business.

When I put the bottle in his mouth, he gave it’s nipple a slight twirl with his tongue, then looked up and me, gave me some serious daggers, closed his eyes then slept in protest. When I tried waking him he would lazily open his eyes, again look at me very badly, then proceed to snooze – in protest again. Very frustrating. And that immediately sent me into panic mode. Not for one minute had I seriously thought that he might not like the bottle. I don’t know how that had missed my mind yet in retrospect that should have been the first thing on my mind. Clearly I had been consumed by my interests.

Now I was panicking. I’m due back at work next month, and here Kitty was pulling bottle tantrums on me. Pray, what would happen then?

So anyway, I figured I would preserve the milk until when he decided to wake up, then offer him the bottle again. No doubt he would at that time be hungry so he would take the milk in whatever means it was given to him.

So when he woke up, I offered the bottle to him. This time round he didn’t sleep, but he instead began letting out some loud yells. This kid sometimes shocks me. Just out of the blues he let out this scream that a passer-by would have thought he were being slaughtered or something. I tried to downplay the screams knowing that after a few yells, he would get tired. I calculated that hunger + tiredness = feeding. But I was wrong. Five minutes later, the little boy didn’t sound or appear tired or hungry enough, and if anything, he looked as though he were going from strength to strength. And ofcourse you know me -it really disheartens me seeing Kitty in such a state, so I quickly whipped out my tittie and offered it to him. Naturally the screams immediately died, and as he was feeding, I could have sworn I saw a sly grin of victory on his face.

That whole episode left me very fretful. Did that mean that I would never leave the house until he was a year old? Would I ever go to the salon for some ‘me’ time? Would I ever go back to work? Would I ever go for dates? This was gonna be a battle that I had to win. I had to strategize very carefully. Imagine strategizing how to win a battle against a 7 week old baby. Life is interesting I tell you.

So the following day, I expressed again, this time very determined that he would consume the milk. So what the clever me did was to tell my househelp (Auntie) to feed him. When she offered him the bottle, he refused. No surprises there. We both tried coaxing him, singing to him sweet lullabies, but he kept looking at us badly, and he once again slept in protest. But Auntie told me not to worry, that he would drink it when he was hungry. So when he woke up again, hungry this time, she offered the bottle to him. But the yells and kicks clearly meant he was still not in the mood for the bottle. I felt so much pity on him, thinking he was starving. But Auntie insisted that he would eventually get tired and feed. But my little boy had turned red and his face was all wet with tears, and I couldn’t bear to see him that way for another second. So I quickly took him and fed him nyonyo, calming him down and assuring him that I wouldn’t put him through that bottle-feeding trauma again. I had a lump stuck in my throat as I told him so.

Geez, this was not going to be easy. The more I thought about it, the more I reckoned that I would certainly not keep my promise to Kitty. Blackmail is good but not all the time. Surely he had to learn how to feed from the bottle. So I had to give it another try. So the following day, I expressed as usual. But I stared at the bottle all day long, each time breastfeeding him and each time swearing that the next feed was going to be the bottle. I did the staring and swearing business until the milk expired.

The next time we tried, Auntie told me to hush and not utter a sound, because when I do he knows nyonyo is around and he won’t take the bottle. When I hushed, he still refused to drink and Auntie told me it was because he could smell me and my milk (huh?). So she asked that I leave the room. I left, and after fifteen minutes of trying to feed him, she succeeded in getting him to drink 5ml. Only 5ml! But atleast it was better than nothing.

So anyway as days went by, I spent them agonizing on whether to give him the bottle again or not. And as the weather began changing, I figured I needed to get out of the house and buy him some cardigans. With the Nairobi traffic, that meant being away for about three hours. What if I left when I had over-pumped him with milk enough to sedate him for three hours? I decided that was what I would do. I had to get him the warm clothing. Better he starves for a few hours than he shivers in cold.

So on the d-day, I expressed some 125ml of milk ‘just in case’. Even if he decided to drink it, there was no way on earth he was gonna do more than 20ml. That was judging by the drama he had put me through. I left the house after I had breastfed him to full capacity.

Problem was every two minutes, I kept looking at my phone expecting a call from Auntie anytime. Never before in my life have I been so restless. Half an hour passed. No phone call. The further and further I got away from home, the more I panicked and wondered if I had made the right decision. An hour passed. No phone call from Auntie. An hour and a half passed. No SOS from Auntie. I then relaxed a little bit and went about shopping in the market. It was two and a half hours afterh I had left the house when the dreaded phone call arrived.

As I looked at the phone ringing, I didn’t want to answer the call in equal measure that I wanted to answer it. I was fearing the worst. I just didn’t want to take the call. I started shivering and sweating like crazy and after what seemed like eternity, I finally pressed the ‘receive’ button.

Auntie was quick and straight to the point.

“You better hurry back home because Kitty has finished all the milk you left.”

Say whaaaaaaaatttttttttttt????????

I asked Auntie to repeat many times what she had just told me. I didn’t even realize that I was shouting. They say that every market has a mad man (woman). That day all the shoppers saw the mad woman in the market. I suddenly dropped all the stuff I had not yet paid for and started making my way out of the market shouting: “Excuse me Excuse me schuss schuss me schuss schuss me…”

I hurried out of the market like a woman possessed, praying and hoping against hope that the traffic wasn’t gonna be bad. I used all the shortcuts I knew and when I got home, I was sweating like crazy. I burst into the house expecting to find an emaciated starving boy, but what I found was a very full boy sleeping whilst letting out the random fart. That’s how content he was. Gosh, this boy can really shock me sometimes!

Since then, I have left the house twice, and each time left milk in a feeding bottle. Auntie tells me that though he drinks the milk, it is never easy. He at first always refuses it and throws a tantrum and sleeps, but when he wakes up hungry and there is no nyonyo in sight, he ends up drinking it. Last Sunday I was out for two hours and when I returned, I was told he had completed the whole bottle in one feed. Now I’m abit more relaxed and I hope he’ll continue this way. I have to resume work sometime you know.

By the way, someone told me that I might have introduced him to the bottle too early, that if he continues with it he might end up rejecting the breast altogether. That apparently most newborns quickly realize that they don’t have to work nearly as hard to get milk from a bottle as they do from the breast. I don’t know if that’s a myth or if it’s fact. Is this true?

image: dreamstime.com

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