TO YOU OUR DAUGHTER, ON THE EVE OF YOUR SECOND BIRTHDAY

Dearest Netanya Ayinza Ramya Isharaza,

Today is the last day you can be said to be one year and something. Tomorrow, you will be two years old. It has been a year filled with so much joy. And growth. And just absolute life. A part of me can’t believe you not only walk but run. Then another feels like you have been running around all your life (and mine???). I have to remind myself that you actually once were satisfied with lying on your back, kicking your legs in the air and giggling all day. You who now climbs the highest slides in the park unaided. You who now has your mum and I running at full speed just to catch you.

It has been a good year.

Your mum and I were talking the other day and she suggested that this year, we write about what you, our daughter have taught us. And because you are turning two, we figured two letters would suffice. One today, and another tomorrow. So here goes your old man.

What have you taught me? In short, nothing.

But the devil is always in the details. So let me explain.

You, our daughter, have taught us that learning is a never-ending process. That it must be thought of in the present-continuous. Just when I think I have figured you out, I find out I actually haven’t. So no, you haven’t taught me anything. Even this lesson- of continuous learning- is still being learnt. But you are teach-ING me quite a lot.

First, we are learning to be patient. You, child, are an eager learner and quick. You hit all your milestones ahead of the projected time. With crawling, first it was my head. You would crawl up my chest to my head (and then sit on it, spects be damned). Then came the standing and walking, all before your first birthday. This year, the walking got steadier and then you started running. Since day one, you have had a thing for climbing stuff. We went from having stools around the house to help you stand up to keeping them away lest you climb on them. But then you figured you could climb on the chairs and then onto the table. When we thought you could be put on our bed and left there as we took a breather, you learnt how to climb down, then onto my desk chair and onto the desk. From the desk, you could reach for all manner of books on the shelf. Just when we thought we had figured a way out by closing the living door so that you are confined there, you learnt how to tip-toe your way onto the door handle, then pull like your life depended on it. It didn’t help that you were growing an inch a day! You also are a late, light sleeper. Sometimes I can almost swear you pretend to be sleeping. An hour’s nap in the day results pushes your night sleeping time from 10 pm to midnight. If we are lucky that is. Two hours and all bets are off on whether or not you will go on till 4 am. And when you decide to cry my love, you insist on doing it perfectly. The entire neighbourhood knows you, even though some have never met you! And so, through your eagerness to learn, your insatiable curiosity and screaming expertise, you are teaching me how to be patient.

I am learning that screaming back at you seldom helps. And even when it does, it leaves us both feeling lousy. And so I am learning to be patient with you. To understand that you are doing your best to learn. And sometimes, that means allowing you to learn your limits. I am learning that most times when you ‘act out’, you really are simply frustrated about something not being as you expect it to be. Or that what you are trying to communicate isn’t being understood. And I am learning that that’s okay. That calmly telling you to stop doing something actually helps (most times). But also, that what you are doing may not be what I think you are doing.

Like the other day.

I tried to feed you and you hit the spoon away, spilling the food on the table and carpet. I wasn’t happy. So I told you to stop it. And then I tried again and you did the same, this time screaming and crying. Now I was furious.

“Stop it!” I shouted at you.

You looked at me.

Surprised that I would tell you to stop.

I looked at you.

Surprised that you would act in such a manner when we both knew you were hungry.

Then you clasped your hands together.

I gasped.

A wave of guilt went through my body. Then shame. Then guilt. How could I have missed it?

You wanted us to pray first.

Like we had taught you to do before every meal.

And here I was, serving you your second can of yoghurt without praying. True, we had prayed for the first. But that was the first. This was the second. They are two different things that should never be confused as one meal just because we are eating them one after the other. Of course! It all made perfect sense now.

So we prayed.

Again.

For the same meal (the way I saw it).

For two separate meals taken in quick succession (the way you saw it).

And so, we are learning to be patient. Not just with you, but with ourselves too. To not be too hard on ourselves when we don’t get things right, just as we are not on you when you don’t get them right. Because while you are a baby that is learning everything for the first time, we too are first-time parents, learning things what to do as we go along. You, your mother and I. We are all students in this thing called child-nurturing.

Secondly Netanya, we are learning to trust you. About a month ago, we decided it was time to start teaching you how to use the potty. It was at this point that I learnt with horror, that most other parents we knew had started this training way earlier. I worried we had waited too long. Your mother as always had a plan. She had everything meticulously thought out. Nappy pants were bought, your tiny panties were brought out. We started the dreaded routine of letting you go free and watching you closely. Any indication that you wanted to pee and we’d put you on the potty. First, you resisted. The potty was a strange thing to sit on. Then you started enjoying the “game”. Squat, get whisked away onto the potty, sit for a few seconds, then run away. You kept everything inside because, honestly, who goes around releasing their stuff into a strange-looking chair while being watched by two adults that seemed to have nothing else to do? And just when we’d look away, you’d dart to a ‘private’ corner of the living room and release!

Day one ended with lots of wet patches on the floor. A few drops made it to the potty, but only because you got whisked onto it. Day two was pretty much the same, with just a little more wee in the potty. Day three had us wipe the carpet with all sorts of disinfectant because things had escalated to way more than wee on the floor. By day four, we were exhausted. But we had noticed your telltale. Day five, we got our first successful full pee-in-the-potty moment. We clapped and clapped like England had brought it home (I really hope that by the time you read this, it won’t still be a bad football joke and you’ll have no idea what I’m saying, but I’m not holding my breath). By day 7, you had got the hang of it. Two weeks in and you were potty-using like a pro. Three days ago, I noticed you wanted to go. Usually, you head to the potty and sit on it, then I rush to help you remove the nappy pants. This time round, I just let you be. To see what would happen. You looked at me in anticipation. I didn’t budge. Then you stood up, pulled the nappy pants down and sat back down.

My heart couldn’t take it! I retreated to let you complete your act and then screamed like England had brought both the Euro and World Cup home. Your mother was working. I didn’t care! I cheered and cheered. She asked what was up. I told her. She took a break and joined in the cheering. We had been trying to figure out how to take the potty training to the next level. Yet all we needed to do was trust you to get there.

It’s not just that. We have seen you do the right thing when we let you. Sometimes you haven’t and we have had to tell you as much. Yet over and over again, once you have understood what we are telling you, you have shown yourself to be trustworthy. You have come out of the pram and helped ups carry the shopping out and not just thrown it all over the place. You have carried water from Maama to Taata without stopping and spilling it. You have held my spects and not broken them. You have shared your stuff with other kids on the playground. And oh, Ayinza we are so proud.

The third thing we are learning is about your character. But that will be saved for your birthday letter.

Maama loves you Netanya Ayinza

Taata loves you Ramya Isharaza

To the moon and back, a trillion times.

For eternity and then a day.