Keeping up with baby is no joke

Kuzaa si kazi. That is what they say.

Considering that giving birth is like pushing a camel through the eye of a needle, you might be tempted to think they are messing with you.

Especially if the memories of delivery are still fresh in your mind.

But, as it turns out, they are right.

Compared to caring for a toddler, giving birth is a leisurely stroll through the most picturesque of parks.

I have just spent a week with my daughter and I will tell you what, keeping up with the girl is no joke.

This child-rearing thing is not for the faint of heart. I have newfound respect for stay-at-home mums because after the week that I have had, being a full time mum is more work than work.

Lord only knows what possessed me to send my househelp on leave. Heck, I figured that I was going to be at home anyway, and the child is mine after all. How hard could it be to take care of her? I have very quickly found out that keeping a house in order while at the same time making sure a seven-month-old is bathed, changed, fed and entertained is a nearly impossible task.

The child kept me on the very tip of my toes and she did not let up for the entire week. Who knew you could butter bread, eat it, mop the floor, peel potatoes, wash dishes, take the trash out and fold clothes with a squirming baby on your hip? It amazes me that such a tiny person could take up so much time. Literally every minute of every day because when I was not attending to her, I was preparing to attend to her.

Making her meals or washing her clothes. Running her bath or putting her toiletries away.

Dressing her in clean clothes or changing her dirty diaper. Wiping her nose or oiling her face. Plaiting her hair or combing it out.

I ceased to exist as an individual. My world was reduced to the very essence of motherhood. It is the most humbling thing to become a servant in the truest sense of the word.

Every day, for seven days, the child has been my first, my last and my everything.

She knocked me off my throne and declared herself queen.

Like a boss.

It was hard at first, trying to juggle a bucketful of balls, but baby and I found a rhythm. We have become fast friends, navigating this new world together. We talk. We laugh. We cry. We bond. She is learning how to give proper kisses. Well, kind of.

She either purses her lips and presses them against my cheek or opens her mouths and baptises me with oodles and oodles of spit.

And when things get a tad bit crazy, and she figures that mama is about to lose the plot completely, she makes faces and blows spit in my face. So yeah, I guess saliva is her go-to prop for a lot of things.

Usually, she will cry if you leave her alone in a room but I explained to her that sometimes, mama has to put her down to get things done.

It was a very serious conversation. No jokes. I told her that if I did not do a few chores, she would be toddling around on an empty stomach, in yesterday’s clothes, smelling of baby sweat and covered in pumpkin stains.

And you know how hard it is to get those out.

“So you see my love, co-operation is the name of the game. I scratch your back your scratch mine, ‘capisce'? I said.

She raised her head, looked me dead in the eye and replied, “Ta ta ta...ta ta ta.”

I took that as a yes. And sure enough, when I put her down after her bath to clear away all the bath-time paraphernalia, she did not complain.

I hesitated for a moment, expecting to hear the familiar ‘woishe-why-are-you-leaving-me-alone’ whimper, but nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

She just picked up her rattle and began to play.

As I walked away, I heard her babbling happily to herself. If only I had known that all she needed was a good talking to.

Oh well, she may not have understood my words but we certainly found a way to communicate.

I have learned how to flow with her rhythm and she has learned how to flow with mine.

What can I say, she’s my ride or die chick. Until the end of time.