Tuesday, 28 July 2015

Don't hug me bro! ..Please?

I hate hugs.

Don't know why.

Never liked them.

I evaded one today from Frank's college by  pretending to be shy and couldn't avoid another  one when I met up with Frank and a friend of his for drinks.

Pressing my body against another human, for an uncertain length of time is weird to me.

Like Frank's friend who hugged me tonight,- she held me  long and hard and I kept thinking "really? You don't think the side hug would have sufficed?"

My sister in law drives me crazy with the hugs. There's  a big section of every visit dedicated to the hello hug and the good bye hug between the kids, and the "did you hug auntie?" and then I have to lean in with a stupid smile on my face. If you have to tell people to hug, what's the point?
Shouldn't there be a mutual 'oh my God I really need to press up against you for a socially accepted length of time to show you; I care, I missed you, I need to know what your hair smells like, etc."

I have felt this urge, I know it's real and I have given in to it with joy. BUT COM'ON, NOT EVERY SINGLE TIME.

My sister is sleeping over tonight  and will leave in the morning. I probably won't see her for another year.
Will I?

Sunday, 12 July 2015

Happy birthday Charlie.

It's the last 15 minutes of my son's birthday and I couldn't be any prouder of who he is.

He really does have the best heart and I just had to explain to him that not everybody is NICE. Some people are mean or act mean and we can't always report them to a teacher.

I'm afraid for him.

Nice won't cut it

Saturday, 18 April 2015

Charlie and Lola (Death and Dreams)

Most times it is difficult to be sure your  kids understand abstract terms.
Charlie is obsessed with death now. He asks questions like how many ways can we die. do some people get to go past 100, what happens to all the blood in our body? sometimes I try to explain and sometimes. . I just take advantage.

He came from school with his water bottle still full, so I ask why didnt you drink water all day today and he went
"is it really important to drink water, we just pee it all out, so what's the point?'
so i say
'we don't pee it all out, our body uses it for many things."
I was going to go the whole 'hydration ' route but he made a face like he couldn't really be bothered  and so I finished with
'our bodies need water for blood and you know if you don't have blood you die!!!

Empty water bottle this past week.

Lola woke up and said
"in my dream I was jumping on a trampoline"

I guess she understands what dreams are. wasn't so sure.

Monday, 6 April 2015

Note to future self 2.

Dear future me
Please  don't ever be the kind of parent to lay your problems at the feet of your kids.

It's  not supposed to work that way.

Hopefully you have never forgotten or regretted my first note to you -

'Note to future self 1'.

Don't ever EVER get pregnant again.

P.S. s
Just in case you had another baby
Is it Frank's?
Better not be. He's an asshole to me when I'm pregnant because apparently I'm a witch.

Dear Future Child,
Is your name Ulari?
I love that name and i'm sure I love you too.

Monday, 16 March 2015

Ain't nothing special about yo mama.

It was 'mothering sunday' yesterday and my time lines were assaulted with all the praise poetry to the best mothers  in the world.
We all love our mothers: their's is the 'purest' form of love. They are beautiful, (even when they really aren't,) selfless, the biblical virtuous woman who always puts her family first. She will not eat until her kids have eaten, she will magically lift a car to save your life, your very own fairy godmother  albeit a tad less glamorous.
Something nags at me all day and I ignore it because hey, it's the weekend and why think when you can just lounge, and then  I come across a Facebook post from a friend.
His, is a song writer's ode to his mother, who I must assume must have been a saint. The best mothers are of course the dead ones. (I hear they make the best mothers in law too.)
While his thoughts of his mother are of course valid, I cant help thinking of all the words I know this same 'friend' describes other women. The all too familiar 'hoes' and the 'bitches who ain't loyal'. it is the first time he has shown a tender side but I am not suprised.
The dichotomy that is woman to the Nigerian man is baffling: MY mother and MY sister and MY daughter are clean and unsullied . Because they are mine.
All others are pigs.
Okay,okay, maybe not pigs. they are at least entertaining beings that sate you temporarily, an underhanded trap in itself that leaves you yearning for more. And only your sperm can release them from hoedom, transforming them into mothers and giving them a chance at sainthood.
Well, colour me saved.
To all my fellow saints -let's raise better sons.

Tuesday, 27 January 2015

Thursday, 4 December 2014

'But he is Sinterklass' helper, mama.'

Tomorrow is the 5th of December  and Sinterklass (Dutch santa) will -to be frank I don't even know what Sinterklass does or what this day is. But it's the dutch Christmas.
When Frank first asked if I could live in the Netherlands, I googled plantain in Netherlands and racism in netherlands  (can't remember which first but
I refuse to live in  a country without plantains ) and was promptly introduced to Zwarte Piete.



I've tried to ignore it knowing it can't be ignored forever.
My daughter came home with a picture to colour a few days ago, I threw it away without telling her.
Maybe because it was black and white and wasn't coloured in, it was easy to be pushed aside but today Zwarte Piete came home with my son in full colour and I just feel tired.

His name is BLACK Pete for fuck's sake. Is there a White Pete?

I was raised practically, by two African parents who didn't believe know any fairy tales. I'm not big on princesses  and white men coming down chimneys (I'd probably  stab him and ask questions later)
Last year we did the whole 'Santa came' for my then 4 year old, but I just decided- no more stupid stories.

Dear  Dutch people please don't make me have to explain racism and black images to my 5 year old son.