In Summary
  • That takes me back to my own days growing up under a hawk-eyed and disciplinarian mom I have come to christen Margaret Thatcher.
  • When I was a child, Mom threw this huge party to celebrate some feat I cannot seem to remember.

Most parents will tell you that their children are well behaved until visitors show up, then the young one you thought you knew metamorphoses from a butterfly into a caterpillar.

The usually quiet child will be talking so loudly or jumping on house fixtures higher than you have ever seen them do.

The problem is usually not the newfound monster energy; it is that these new talents come with a syndrome very close to deafness.

You will be shouting all over for the baby to stop whatever he is doing and he will either ignore or take on an even more annoying exercise.

That throws the modern parent into a dilemma because we are told that constantly punishing your child before guests or fellow children lowers his or her self-esteem.

That takes me back to my own days growing up under a hawk-eyed and disciplinarian mom I have come to christen Margaret Thatcher.

HUGE PARTY

When I was a child, Mom threw this huge party to celebrate some feat I cannot seem to remember.

She prepared a lot of food, among them ugali made of millet and sorghum. The truth is that it looked hideous to me, so when it was delivered on the table I quickly and loudly pointed out that it looked yuck.

Mom gave me this annoyed look from one side of her eye, trying to cue that I should keep my mouth shut.

I missed the very important message and continued ranting negatives about that which our good host had set before us.

Fed up, mom lovingly held my tiny hand, dragged me out of the dining room and walked me a secluded corner of that compound.

I craned my neck to hear what this great woman had in mind this time, but she knocked my skull so hard I held onto consciousness by a whisker.

In an attempt to keep the matter private, she stayed around to fend off the few random visitors who strayed into our little punishment corner.

She was patient enough to hang around until I had shed all the tears in my glands then she lovingly led me back to the meal table.

Those who saw us must have concluded we were having a sweet mom-son moment, unaware that I had begun questioning whether she was my real mother.

She even had the guts to look at me with a smile and propose that I tell the guests a beautiful story, perhaps trying to force a smile on me too.

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