How come
you aren’t happy nowadays?
I’m happy.
No, you
aren’t!
Yes, I am.
Are you
really?
Yes, I am!
Silence.
You can
tell me if you aren’t. You know, if there is something wrong.
Okay.
Does that
mean there is something wrong?
Nooo!
Silence.
You aren’t
happy, I can tell. You have been quiet lately.
Long
silence.
Are you
really okay, darling?
I’m fine.
(Silence)
Is school
okay?
Yes.
Is there
any kid who is harassing you?
What is
“harassing”?
Disturbing
you.
How do you
spell that?
D.I.S.T…
No, the
other one.
What,
harassing?
Yes.
H-A-R-A-S-S-I-N-G
It has two
“s”?
Yes,
darling.
Pause.
Well, is
there?
Is there
what?
Another
kid disturbing you?
Pause.
Sometimes
Kyle disturbs me.
Kyle is a
girl?
Nooo! She
laughs. Kyle is a boy!
How do you
spell that?
B-0-Y
Nice, but
I meant Kyle.
K-Y-L-E
I think
Kyle is a girl’s name.
Hahaha.
Nooo!
She finds
this funny. Which is a great for me because she finds me funny right about now.
So I’m going to wring dry this moment because I don’t know when next she will
find me funny given her disposition lately.
I tell her
that in my whole life I’ve never heard a boy called Kyle. Does he wear pink
bikers under his shorts? (Tamms sometimes wears little pinkish bikers under her
uniform by the way, I find it heart-breaking but I have no say over what she
wears underneath).
Hahaha. I
don’t know.
I think
Kyle wears pink bikers under his shorts.
Haha. Boys
don’t wear bikers.
(At Impala
Club they do!)
Well, I
think Kyle does.
Haha.
That’s too funny. (She likes to do that, add “too” before says “funny” even if
it’s not too funny).
Silence.
But you
are happy, right darling?
Yes, I am.
You can
tell she isn’t happy by reading that conversation, right? I mean, you don’t
even have to be a fun of the TV series Lie To Me, to know that she is lying.
And she has been like this lately; aloof, withdrawn, distant. The obvious
reason – which I will disclose in another post – is too clichéd a reason to
comprehend. But since she joined class one she has pretty much retained this
air of mystery. She seems preoccupied, like she is thinking about her thesis.
She used
to be all chirpy in the car as I drop her off in the morning. Now she just sits
there, only speaking when I speak to her. Like we’re having domez. Like I did
something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong to her. I swear. Well, apart
from that fact that I now insist that she has to read a book a day. Not a whole
book, for chrissake, I’m not an animal, but like one story. There stories are
like, what, 30 words? Is that enough to make someone sulk with you? No, that’s
not a rhetorical question. Tell me, is that enough for someone to sulk with
you?
When we
get to school she now just says “bye, see you later,” and jumps out. The hell?!
As in, if I don’t lean in to kiss her no kiss will be exchanged in that car.
None. Zilch. At first I thought maybe it was me, so I bought a stronger
mouthwash. I even trimmed down my beard for chrissake because she isn’t hot
about my beard. Nothing changed. Only, like, twice a week she will offer a
kiss. Twice a freaking week! The rest of the week, I have to initiate it.
You want
to know the truth? I’m tired of that shit. I feel like I’m the only one
interested in this relationship. I mean, I’m tempted to ask her; where is this
relationship going? But I don’t want to scare her off. Not just yet. Look, she
used to say “I love You” before she leaves the car. Not always, but like most
of the time. Now we can go four days without that. Not like I keep a scorecard
in my glove compartment and tick whoever says it and when, but it’s hard not to
notice when “I love yous” drop drastically. And please don’t say I sound like I
wasn’t hugged enough as a child, this is not the time, Oprah.
Look, if she isn’t interested in me anymore, she should just be a woman about
it and tell me the love died. I mean, I will move on. There are plenty of
little girls out there who appreciate beards. Do you know how many fathers out
there don’t have beards and their little girls wonder if they are in a normal
family? Do you?
(Silence).
But
seriously, do you think she is OK? No really, ama I’m being melodramatic?
Anyway so
I told the Missus. Not like reported her, that would be “told on her”. But I
told. Expressed my genuine concerns and fears. I figured women understand each
other. She said lately she has been like that. But why? She said she didn’t
have a clue too. She didn’t know? Gosh, aren’t mothers supposed to know
everything? I hear mothers can silently observe the way their daughter applies
margarine on her bread and on the third day immediately tell if they are
pregnant. Anyway so if figured that if a mother doesn’t know, perhaps Google
might?
So I went
online and Googled; “Moody+6yrs+old+girl+why?”: 2.8M search results in 49secs.
Yahoo answers are the dumbest, it’s open season for amateurs. You will find
people (OK, Americans mostly) theorising that perhaps her wintry moods is
caused by eating pre-package foods, or allergy to certain foods. Tamms is not
allergic to any food. Food is her friend. The search results also included a
perimenopausal blog. I doubt Tamms is menopausal, or even perimenopausal,
whatever that is. Actually I know people who I suspect are perimenopausal who
should read that blog. And they are men.
Then I
Googled: “Moody+6yrs+old+girl+God+why?” Same search results but only in 31 secs.
(Wow, Google, you keep outdoing yourself!).
Then I
tried Googling: Moody+6yrs+old+girl+God+why+me? 2.6M results, 0.57secs. The
first result? Voices of Infertility.
Undeterred,
I tried one last time: “Moody+6yr+old+Kyle”. This I did out of boredom, and curiosity…just
a bit. There is an important moral to this story, just in case you are
wondering; Google isn’t better than a mother.
Anyway,
three weeks later, I’m out of town, and the Missus calls me and tells me she is
constipated (when she turns 10 I realise I will have to stop revealing these
embarrassing details about her life). She is taken to the doctor who says that
he inability to poopo is because she is nervous; that the only thing she can
hold back is her poop. Hehe. (Doctors should really be paid more). Is she in a
new environment? Doc asked. Yes, she actually just joined class one, Missus
told her. Then you need to find out if all is well in school. So I come back
from my trip and I’m briefed and I mutter under my breath; “Kyle. That little
bastard!”
Next
morning I’m in school. I ask the teacher in charge for an audience in private.
(We are just about to discuss constipation). Moments later, in a quiet room, I
ask her how much she would take if she helped me lure a boy called Kyle outside
the school compound. OK, I didn’t. I tell her what the doctor said and inquired
how Tamms was adjusting. She says she is much okay, although she doesn’t really
speak up when she loses a rubber or pencil. But she says that’s not abnormal
behaviour. She says maybe she is just taking a bit of time to adjust to the new
teachers and kids. Then she adds, “Some kids are like that.”
Don’t you
just hate it when paediatricians and teachers refer to your child in that tone
“some kids are like that”? Doesn’t it make you hot under the collar? Some kids
are like what? No, say it. You know you want to say it; like what? Huh? Slow?
Special? Are you calling my kid special? Huh? What, cat got your tongue? No, no
no, don’t call security, what do you mean when you say some kids are like that?
What are you implying? Are you implying that I have genes that are retarded?
Are you questioning my pedigree? Put down the damn phone, teacher! Do you know
who my father is? I come from a long line of fishermen and carpenters. My
pedigree is fine! I’m not leaving this office until you tell me what you meant
by that statement. Some kids are like that, Jesus! For chrissake, sit your ass
down, teacher Doris!
That
conversation is happening in my head, by the way. Outside, I just chill. Calm
like a pond.
I decide
to change the topic.
Is Kyle a
girl or boy?
Perplexed:
Uhm, a boy?
Who is he?
I ask.
Kyle?
Yes, Kyle.
Ah, Kyle
(says his second name)!
Yes, who
is he?
Why?
No, I just
want to know.
Has she
mentioned Kyle? She asks.
No, she
hasn’t. I just, uhm, know him.
She looked
at me with that look that seemed to say, Oh, you guys go to the same gym?
Then I
come clean: I’m asking because, well, she sort of mentioned in passing that
Kyle can be a bit aggressive. (That’s me setting up that little sucker).
Ah, Kyle
isn’t a troublemaker. She says delightfully. The troublemakers we know. The she
laughs reassuringly.
I want to
tell her that the ones you think aren’t the troublemakers are the true devils.
They are the masterminds who should be watched around the clock. I wouldn’t be
surprised if they are selling hallucinogens in school. Kwanza that Kyle boy
sounds like real trouble. Keep that mangy racoon away from my daughter!
But I
don’t say nothing. (That’s awful English, by the way). I simply nod like a respectable
father and smile understandingly. But then I ask her to please keep an eye on
her. I tell her not to hesitate to alert me if there is something I need to
know, or do immediately. Then I stand up and thank her with a firm handshake,
which I hope she reads as a subtle reminder that the offer to lure Kyle outside
the school still stands. Then I leave.
We have
started this system where she reads to earn money for junk food. The Missus
picked this from one of those Facebook mother’s group. I think it’s Kilimani
Moms or something like that. (Note: why is it called Kilimani Moms when half
those moms don’t live in Kili?). The thing with reading with Tamms is that she
can decide to read her own things.
So for
example, we are reading a sentence that goes.
The big
bad wolf waited for the lovely princess by the bush.
But when
she reads it, she says:
The big
bad wolf waited for the banana princess by the bush.
And
immediately I’m like, “Tamms, where is banana in that sentence?” She keeps
quite. She is lying on me, on my chest, on the sofa, our reading position. I
read somewhere that this gives kids more confidence. Clearly it’s given her too
much confidence she is seeing bananas.
“Where is
the banana?” I ask again. A bit rough, I know, but I’m sort of pissed that she
isn’t taking this seriously.
(Silence)
“There is
no banana,” sniffs a timid voice.
“So then
what’s this word?”
“Lovely.”
She whispers then she looks at her mom to rescue her from this bad bearded wolf
that is worse than the wolf in the book waiting for the lovely banana, or
princess. Ok, maybe its late and she is tired and isn’t focusing. Maybe.
From the
corner of my eye I see the Missus shoot me a dirty disapproving look. She
thinks I’m too hard on her sometimes. But someone should, or she will be seeing
more than just bananas in a sentence. Who knows, next it will be avacados. Or
Rhinos. There is no telling, guys. Nip it at the bud.
“You have
to concentrate, Tamms, you cant say there is a banana when there isn’t a
banana, OK darling!” She shakes her head. Now she wants to break into tears. So
does the Missus. Oh, crap. Everybody wants to cry, over a mere banana. So I
step away from that landmine.
This is my
submission. I make her read because girls should read. That’s the kind of girl
I want to raise; a reader. A woman with a book is an empowered woman. Teach her
how to love books first before she can learn to love a lip-gloss. Books bolster
a woman. Books turn girls into ladies. And you don’t find many ladies around
and when you do, you wont forget them quickly. Books arm women with confidence.
A woman who reads will not shy from challenging an idea, a thought or an
argument. Their opinions are not cowered or tamed. And this is what I think our
little girls should amount to; ladies who have embraced books, ladies who
constantly seek knowledge. That’s a solid woman.
A woman
who reads isn’t just joy to herself, she is joy to people she interacts with.
And the time to start this affair with books is when they are young. When they
are still wearing pink bikers to school. But they can only love reading when
they are surrounded by books. If they are socialised in it. Half the social
problems women face, problems of interactions, wouldn’t happen if they just
learnt to pick a book in their earlier years.
Still not
convinced? Read “Don’t date a girl who reads” by Charles Warnke? Google it.
That’s what happens when you raise a daughter who reads; they intimidate men so
much that the only befitting way to describe them is through satire. That’s what
you want of your daughter. You want her to carry books in her purse, not
another series of Real Housewives of Atlanta.
Think of
it this way. When a man sits down with a real airhead of a woman, the man will
always somehow step down to meet her at that mediocre level. But when you are
the airhead and you sit down with this real sharp woman, the woman will rarely
step down to meet you in your stupid hovel. They are more impatient and
dismissive. You just have to step up and try meeting her in her level, even if
you only offer an illusion of it. This simply means that a smart woman will
unconsciously inspire her surroundings. Now imagine hundreds of thousands of
these women, women with hundreds of books in their hearts, imagine what these
women can do to their intellectual surroundings. Just imagine that.
Look,
Gang. Eventually, it doesn’t matter how many inches of heels a woman wears,
true elevation comes from what she has read. And you can take that to the bank.
So, I say
more bananas to our little girls.
