July | 2014 | ABC days of being a penwoman

“Mummy come”, she tugs the helm of Mummy’s house coat.

Mummy cooooooooome, sit here (points to the floor). But Mummy is busy chatting online and chuckling at comments on Facebook.

“Can’t you see that I’m busy? I’ll be with you soon,” she says, as she hushes the child up.

The child won’t budge but keeps pulling Mummy, like one who’s fighting for her right.
Reluctantly, Mummy sits on the floor and tosses the ball to her child.

When will this game be over? she wonders.

Dear child is having fun as she throws the ball in the air and rolls it on the floor.
Mummy yawns; “I’m bored,” she says, sneezing and thinking of ways to introduce a new game.
Dear child revolts, so the game continues against Mummy’s will.

“Dear child, please bear with me. Mummy is having a serious conversation online; also, she has lots of emails to reply and many novels, newsletters and blogs to read.”
She reels them out, jumps to her feet, walks off and plops in front of the computer like a nerd.
Dear child cries and wanders off to play on her own.

“You need to go to school,” Mummy says. “At least I can dump you on the teachers—they are paid to cope with your energy—and find time for myself.”

“Dear Mummy, I am ready for school,” mumbles dear child.
“I long to leave home, meet my peers, play in the sand, scribble on paper, play pretend games, mould play dough, play with sugar, flour and milk, sing nursery rhymes and enjoy all the things my peers do at the creche.”

“I’m sure Teacher Irene and Teacher Linda (finds a name for her imaginary class teachers) will play with me.” She rolls her eyes, resting her teeny weeny fingers on her chin.
“She will not always complain that I’m stepping on her well-manicured and newly painted toenails.
She won’t always tap her phone or push me away to play on my own.
She will applaud me when I scribble or place stickers on paper.”

“She won’t force me to sit in front of the TV while she punches away on her tablet.
She will sing to me, read new books and join me in playing with dolls.
She will tickle me, study me, know what I like to do and put me to sleep when it’s naptime and bedtime.”

“I will laugh, roll on the floor, dip my hands in paint, splash water, and never mind if I get dirty.
At least I can toss the clothes in a washing machine when I am back,” she says, standing akimbo.

“You would be exhausted by the time you’re back home, dear child.
So exhausted, I would have to put you to sleep,” undaunted Mummy replies.

(Dear child comes back from school)

“Dear child, you are shouting!
Speak quietly; don’t you realize this is a quiet neighbourhood?”
Dear child cries hard.
Mummy glares at dear child.
“Be quiet; you cry too much.”

“You litter your scribble books and toys all over the house
I can barely find a place to put my feet. What junk!” Mum protests. “This house has just been tidied.”
“Please, go back to school; in fact sleep there.
No more holidays for you; the teachers will put up with you. Mummy scratches her head in frustration.

“Dear Mummy, when will you ever have time for me?” dear child says, pouting.

“You said I’m a gift from the Lord; you said you treasure me.

But you want me out of your space; you pick on everything I do and won’t let me be a child. You’re always in a hurry; you drop me off at granny’s or at school and pray I sleep off by the time you’re back to pick me.
Mummy, I need YOU, not the cartoons and certainly not Grandma nor the Teacher!

I need your cuddles, hugs and kisses;
I need you to pray with me, play with me, hold my hands and talk to me like you really care.