Becoming… I knew something was off, especially in my mouth, as no matter what I ate, sourness lingered, making me feel uneasy. Eventually, one Saturday morning in April, Akosua Owarewaa Dakwa unexpectedly barged into our Condo Crib, wielding a wrapped stick and instructing me to pee on it. Dutifully, I followed her instructions, and as soon as she heard the flush, she entered the room and stared intently at the stick. Then she let out a yelp. “You are pregnant. You are pregnant,” she exclaimed, confirming my pregnancy. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks, and despite suspecting it before, having it confirmed was petrifying, leaving me feeling overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for myself and the new life growing inside me. Fast forward to the present, Kofi is almost two decades old, and despite my initial shock, the joy of welcoming another child, this time an Abena, into the world knew no bounds, even if it meant getting another ticket for a baby bump while speeding on the highway. Leading simply “Stop running around,” I screamed. This was like the umpteenth time I had said this to Abena and Kofi. They refused. Next thing I heard was a yelp of pain and blood dripping. Abena had slipped on the tile, breaking the skin very close to her eyes We ended up in the emergency unit. Another time, we were traveling from Wisconsin to Maryland. When we got to Atlanta on transit, Kofi refused to go through the security turnstile. He threw a tantrum for no reason as he flew all over the airport, infuriating his Pa. He carried him on the pretext of taking him to the bathroom. Kofi came back docile. His Pa had given him a few licks on his butt. He healed quickly through. Those were their toddler years. Ah, there I was, sprawled out on the floor atop a patch quilt, still in my day clothes, utterly spent. Half asleep, the mundane glow of a Netflix movie flickered on the screen behind me. My gaze drifted to my little Madam, also clad in her after-school attire, idling nearby. In response to my instruction to bathe, she hesitated, then piped up, “Mummy, can I ask a question?” “Why not?” I replied, asserting our somewhat democratic household. Then, clear as day, she inquired, “Mommy, have you bathed? Do you always bathe in the evening?” Ah… Ah… Ah… The African mother in me yearned to cinch my imaginary wrapper tightly around my chest, adjust my glasses to sit squarely on my nose, and position my hands on my hips, glaring at her while rattling off unprintable phrases, as my foremothers did when kids dared to question the status quo. Instead... I took a deep breath, summoning a placatory tone fromwithin, and explained the rare instances when I avoided water in the twilight hours. I felt a sense of satisfaction as she shuffled her tiny feet away, the refreshing sound of the faucet running and water gushing out filling the room. Sigh. Leadership sets an example, indeed. You never know who’s keeping tabs on you before she draws herself a bath. The pressure. Inherited Habits I settled into the fiber-covered armchair, my gaze fixed on the 20-inch dark screen before me. Suddenly, it dawned on me—I wanted to watch 22 men chase a ball while I cheered them on. “Yaa,” I called out, but there was only silence. Gradually, faint noises emerged from downstairs, confirming Nana’s presence. “Nana Yaaaaa,” I called again, a bit louder this time. “Yes, Mummy,” came the reply, albeit reluctantly. She made her way up the stairs to the second landing. “Can you turn the TV on for me?” I requested. Miss Yaa shot me an incredulous look before her eyes darted towards the remote control, just within reach of my closely cropped nails. With painstaking effort, she picked it up, aimed it at the screen, and pressed the power button. Voila! The screen lit up. I couldn’t help but wrinkle my toes in amusement. Remotes, I thought, are a nightmare with their myriad buttons. “Oh, and a glass of ice-cold water too,” I added, realizing I had unconsciously slipped into a familiar maternal role. Oops! I’ve just become like Mom. Parenthood Highway Bumps and Joys Along the Way On the 32 The Birthday Journal
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