Saturday, 28 July 2012

Facing my fears...

Fear no. 1: Babies

“Shit-fuck shit-fuck shit-fuck ...” I thought as I rushed to grab the baby. “Shit-fuck,” I said as she began to wail. Her piercing cries carried across the house and did nothing to array my panic. I was afraid I would drop her again so I placed her on the sofa and paced around wondering what it is that I was supposed to do. 

All I could think of was the fact that I had just dropped the baby... that and a couple of ‘shit-fucks’. Her incessant wailing prompted me to pick her up and rock her as I felt tears threatening to fall from my eyes. What kind of shit mom was I? Not only had I dropped the baby but now I was on the verge of tears instead of finding a way to help my daughter.

Somehow I was able to find my phone and the cab driver’s number. He said he would be at my place in a jiffy. I smiled at that despite everything. Kimani was the only person I knew who actually used the word ‘jiffy’. The baby continued to cry all the while and I willed Kimani to hurry.

True to his word, he was there in a ‘jiffy’. “Where to, Madam?” he asked. All that had been going on in my mind was ‘shit-fuck’ so I said, “Shhh... Children’s Hospital.”


That, was an epiphany that I just had. You see, since a few months ago when my cousin and his wife got pregnant and had the most adorable baby boy I have been thinking that having a baby is not such a bad idea. My thoughts wouldn’t be so crazy were it not for the fact that I am 19, and barely in my second year of college. 

Watching Juno didn’t help much. Anyone who has watched it has to agree with me that Emily Paige ought to be the official Patron Saint of teenage moms. But today, all those dreams have been shattered. 

What was I thinking? I would make a shit mom. I would be one of those drop-the-baby-or-burn-it-with-hot-water kinds of moms. Nature must have been having a laugh at my fantasies. I would look ridiculous pregnant and with my luck, mine would probably be one of those bad-skin-and-flat-chests kind of pregnancy as opposed to a glossy-skin-full-chest-and-ass one.

I have no maternal instinct and most babies can sense that. I can’t hold one for even a minute before it starts howling. I suppose now that I have seen the light, I will leave teenage pregnancy to those who are better equipped for it... preferably someone with a wider pelvic girdle than mine.

Don’t get it twisted, I adore babies and maybe I will have my own litter some day. Supposing that one day when I think about it, the vision of a panic stricken me shouting ‘shit-fuck’ won’t have such power over me. For now, though, feel free to invite me for your baby showers. I can’t promise to agree to hold the baby though...


I wish I could use my first post here to gush about myself but that would be putting too much of myself out there. I would rather we took it slowly… this bizarre relationship where I write (not even sure if anyone will ever read this) and you read (without being sure who I am).

 We could start with the basics: like the fact that I am a 19 year old woman girl who likes to read, write, watch movies, listen to music, laugh with my friends and make fun of my small brother. That previous sentence sounded a lot like my list of activities on my facebook… makes it sound as if life is all rainbows and sunflowers with me.

It is, somewhat. I have everything I need and some of what I want. An amazing family, crazy friends, a complicated love-life, a major headache that is schoolwork, an evil sense of humour, free Wi-Fi at school, frequent releases from my favourite rock bands, and access to 10-bob popcorn whenever I crave it... and the opportunity to enjoy beautiful sunsets and sunrises from my bedroom window  in every other month except July.

When life is as simple as mine is, the Muse has to smile extra brilliantly and for long hours on end to provide me any inspiration. Hence the reason why I don’t believe that the Muse has anything to do with the myriad of ideas that crowd my mind begging to be released. Some are mere opinions... the proverbial two-cents-worth. Some are worth much less than that...
So, as I always tell Reza every time I am about to share something bizarre which he might not welcome with as much enthusiasm, ‘Wait for it...’