10 Mama Fears Before Departure (real and imagined)

This morning I had my first cup of coffee on our porch (out of a daily average of 50) while Ani happily swung in her swing beside me. After she fell back asleep, I snuck inside to pour another cup when I heard Mamicho arrive.

As soon as she found Ani alone(!) on the porch I heard her say, "Anifa!" (No idea why she calls her this.) "Why are you out here alone?! Who left you here? Are you sick? Did they make you sleep here all night? Is this what they're going to do with you in the United States?!"

And then I was reminded of all the fears Mamicho and Mama Youyou have shared with us over the years before our Stateside departure. Here they are in no particular order:

1: Charlotte will return to Congo and immediately be terrified of everyone because there are only white people and no gens noirs aux États-unis.

Nope, no Congolese here.

  by  shoothead 

2: The girls will get bitten by mosquitoes on their faces right before we leave and everyone will think they're neglectful Mamas. (In reality, chances are this would happen on our watch, not theirs.)

3: I will forget to sort through my clothes and give them what I don't want anymore.

4: I will forget to sort through my shoes and give them what I don't want anymore.

5: Charlotte will be miserable because we live in an apartment building in the States and she won't have easy access to her favorite place, the outdoors. (Mamicho has since learned that we don't live in New York City, as most assume all Americans do. And has seen many pictures of our homes in the country. She feels a little better about Charlotte's access to grass this year.)

Yeah, pretty opposite of the Shenandoah Valley.

  by  Bert Kaufmann 

6: In Ani's attempts to start walking she will fall and bang her head and end up with a nasty bruise right before her return. (Most days her forehead is black and blue from this awful stage of learning to walk.) Therefore, Mama Youyou has vowed to carry her everywhere right before we go so this doesn't happen.

7: I will rely too much on the Ergo to carry them around and no one will carry them au dos avec pagne, the girls' preferred method.

8: Charlotte will try to speak French (or worse, Lingala) with other children, and they will think she is crazy.

9: Charlotte will have only me to speak French with her and she will return to Congo with my American accent or she will have totally forgotten everything. --Okay, I made this one up, but they're probably thinking it.

10: They will miss their "real" Mamas so desperately that they will pine away for Congo and have a miserable time. --I made this one up too, but I'm sure they're thinking it. And we'll just let them continue believing it because at least once a day Mama Youyou or Mamicho reminds me that two months is a really long time. "Deux mois? C'est un temps trop long, Mama."

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Extended Breastfeeding. Or, as the Mamas call it: Breastfeeding.

Can we all just agree that the "Mommy Wars" are a gimmick created by corporate executives who want to get us all hot and bothered and sell things, especially magazines. Like this one:

Seriously, did they not search for the oldest looking 3 year-old (with the hottest mom) they could find?

How long you breastfeed should be in that same category of mundane personal choices like how long you keep your fingernails and how you take your coffee. Who cares? And why judge. Okay, I am a bit clueless about these things thanks to my removal from the Western world since before we were thinking babies.

But come on Mamas. It's time to pull it together and become secure in our choices, so that when some magazine executive thinks he can sell issues by asking, "Are You Mom Enough?" we see that's ridiculous and don't care. It's hard to wage a war with someone who doesn't care. Mommy wars over.

So I showed the cover to Mama Youyou. I can't lie. Her eyes doubled in size and her tongue hung out of her mouth. But then I asked how long Congo Mamas nurse and she said, "Well at least until Charlotte's age." Judgement intended. This speaks a bit to the sensationalism of the cover. Even if you think it's totally normal to nurse for several years, TIME still makes it look shocking.

Then she said, we keep 'em nursing for comfort, for convenience, for free birth control. (This is where I present Exhibit A: Our surprise 2nd baby conceived at the precise moment I stopped nursing Charlotte.)

Mamicho says she weaned her girls around 7 months-old so she could go to school. She admits this was WAY early. Ahh, now it makes sense why she thinks my breast pump is the second coming.

To find out more about Congo Mamas and their history of breastfeeding, I stumbled upon this fascinating article called "Le Bebe en Brousse" (or Babies in the Bush): European Women, African Birth Spacing and Colonial Intervention in Breast Feeding in the Belgian Congo. In sum, our Congo Mamas had a pretty good little system of extended breastfeeding, postpartum abstinence, and thoughtful family planning going until the wise ole Belgian missionaries showed up and introduced formula. And bribed them with gifts to deliver their babies in Belgian clinics. Oh and then fed their infants in mess halls and taught moms to sleep separate from their babies and wean early. Thank you, Belgians. You always knew what was best for Congo.

  by  Charles Glass 

Thank goodness the Belgians left the Bonobos alone. They nurse their babies until they're 4 or 5 years-old and wean them when they're ready for more Bonobo babies.

I breastfed Charlotte for a little over 6 months. Then for a variety of reasons, stopped. I distinctly remember someone of the American variety saying, "Oh, stopped already? Couldn't hack it, huh?" So basically, stop too early and you're a wimp. Stop too late and you're weird.

The magical moment when you can wean without social commentary is nonexistent. So it's best to do whatever the hell you want. I'm currently still nursing Ani and hope she can let go by kindergarten. Her attachment was not by design, but Dr. Sears would be proud. Ani can nurse as long as she wants because I'm too lazy to think about weaning. And honestly, I appreciate the calorie burn. Go ahead and judge me, but my current motto is, I'd rather nurse all night than workout all day.

And based on that cover photo, I'm pretty sure that mom's rockin' bod is thanks to nearly 4 years of milk production. Fact is, we nurse and stop nursing for many reasons. Some selfless, some selfish. Certainly none worth warring over.

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Baby Tea Parties

This morning I told a friend to send his daughter to play with Charlotte. He said, “Yes of course, but she has to finish her tea first.” This child is not quite 2 years-old.

I was reminded of one of the many “Mama moments” of parenting. And again, I don't mean me parenting. I mean my nanny Mamas who actually know what they're doing.

Sometime early last year I noticed a very tiny Charlotte ripping her bread into pieces and dipping it in her water. I thought, “Huh, that’s funny.” And then thought nothing of it. Then one day I happened to come home mid-morning when I’m usually at school. Charlotte was perched on top of the table on our porch sipping tea with Mamicho and ripping pieces of baguette for dunking. I very casually inquired about their morning tradition. Turned out Charlotte had been drinking black tea with milk and sugar and lemon grass (“pour une bonne santé”) since she could sit up.

“But Mamicho, isn’t there caffeine in black tea?” (This is when I learned how to say caffeine in French. Do you other learners-of-other-languages-as-an-adult remember precise moments like this for learning new vocab? I feel like I can tell a story for each word I know. Ha!)

Cut to Mamicho not caring if there’s caffeine in black tea. Much less the amount of sugar Charlotte’s gulping.
So then I consult Mama Google and read this, this, and this and decided it’s not really that big of a deal. I mean if entire nations of children (and in Charlotte’s case, infants) have been raised on morning tea, so be it.

Anyone else raising tea babies?

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When Mama Knows Best and That Mama's Not Me.

I know, I know. It's that same tired story (pun intended) of children and their sleep deprived parents. Read on if you relate...

Sleep Deprived Parent.

Charlotte's always been our champion sleeper. After she was a couple weeks old, she slept through the night. (This is something I kept under wraps because it's the last thing other moms want to hear.) Often she'll go to bed at 8pm and wake up at 10am. And she'll take a good 2-hour nap during the day. I give partial credit to the Amby Hammock, which I still think is God's gift to sleeping newborns...and sleepy new mothers.

Then came dear Annaïs. We knew there was no way the universe would give us another champion sleeper. And were we right. I think Ani has slept a grand total of 2 hours of her life not in my arm pit. The Amby Hammock, swaddle blanket, 5 S's, you name it, flew out the window with this one--but that's another post entirely.

The Armpit Sleep Position.

Sometime about a week ago Charlotte decided she wanted to join Ani in the ranks of making sure we're extra sleep deprived. We think we can trace it back to one of those famous Congo thunderstorms that send adults cowering under their beds.--Check out this map of the epicenter of the world's lightning strikes!-- Charlotte was probably the only one in the city who could sleep through these storms. But there must have been something about the way the wind blew her curtains, or the lightning that struck outside her window. Who knows. She's scarred and scared. So for the past week, after we put her to bed she cries, gets up, bangs on the door. We fell for this at first because it was so uncharacteristic.

A few nights in, and afraid we're slipping down that never-ending slope of bad going-to-bed-habits, I convinced Adam Social Services would be okay with us letting her cry for a bit. Well, this turned into her completely trashing her room in a rage. She knocked over her entire kitchen set sending fake food flying. Cleared off everything from the top of her dresser, in what I imagine was one angry swoop of her tiny arm. After there was nothing else to destruct, she banged on the door for about 10 minutes. Then crawled in her bed and went peacefully to sleep. She did this for several nights.

Adam's birthday was in the midst of this so Mama Youyou stayed for the night while we went out. I had to confess to her what had been happening at night and warn her it might happen again. She was confident it wouldn't. I was confident she was wrong.

Mama YouYou Knows Best.

So while Mama Youyou is battling the nighttime routine for us, here's our birthday dinner conversation:

Me: Can you believe there are people who get into bed and know they're not waking up until the morning?
Adam: No, those people don't exist. If you get into bed and you're not waking up until the morning, you have no idea you need to appreciate that fact. Appreciating this luxury is lost on people who have no idea how nice that is.
Me: Can you believe how many people get into bed at night and don't realize how lucky they are to sleep until the morning?

And this conversation continued to pick apart the ungrateful jerks who sleep all night.

When we got home I apologetically asked Mama Youyou how it went. She said it was totally fine and Charlotte didn't cry once. After she convinced me she wasn't making this up, I asked her to explain in extreme detail how she did it. I wanted the exact words she used.

She said, "I told Charlotte I was going to close my eyes and she needed to close her eyes too and then I would read her a book." "Wait. Mama Youyou, how do you read a book with your eyes closed?" She looked at me like the least of my problems was getting my kid to sleep. I blamed that question on her misunderstanding my French. (Did I mention I'm sleep deprived?) And then she said Charlotte just went to sleep. And how about Ani? "Oh, I just put her in her bed and she fell asleep." That feat is even less possible than getting Charlotte to sleep.

I might not believe this, but I've actually seen Mamicho put Charlotte to bed by saying, "Tu vas dormir sans problème. Ça va?" And Charlotte happily says back, "Ça va. Sans problème." No books, no fuss, no rage of destruction. She just goes to sleep.

I'm currently trying these Mama tactics. I use my best French Mama voice (those Mamas' voices, not mine). I'm happy to report there's only about 5 minutes of fake food throwing these days, so I guess that's progress.

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Cooking with the Mamas: Mandazis

Mamicho is from Eastern Congo, which is quite far away actually. She speaks Swahili and has a whole set of different recipes from the folks here in the west. I asked her if she’d make Mandazis for us. These are basically East Africa’s fried dough dish. Doesn’t every culture have a variation on fried dough? (Think: doughnuts, beignets, churros, koeksisters...)

She asked Mama NouNou if she could help too since she’s a baker extraordinaire. Here's her recipe and how we made them:

Mandazis

2 tbsp softened butter
4 tbsp sugar (add more of less sugar depending on how sweet you want them)
1/4 cup powdered milk
2 cups flour
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp yeast
3/4 cup water

Mix butter, sugar, powered milk and flour.

Dissolve baking powder and yeast in warm water. Add to dry mixture.

Gradually mix together.

Knead 5-10 minutes until it reaches a wet dough consistency.

Cut into rectangles and let rise (about 30 minutes).

Deep fry until golden brown...and enjoy.

--We added a little bit of powdered sugar on top to sweeten them up a bit! And Adam was tempted to take one of our baby medicine droppers and inject vanilla custard. That would have been pretty delicious, but not very authentic...

 

Baby Charlotte chows down on mandazis in Zanzibar

Next up: A fry-off with beignets. The colonial import/fried dough treat made here in Kinshasa.

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Cooking with the Mamas: Bitekuteku

Sometimes we like to stage cook-offs between Mamicho and Mama Youyou. And then reap the benefits. For example over break I said, "Wow, I really love Bitekuteku. Can either of you make it?" Knowing full well it's impossible to be a Congolese woman and not know how...

They also think it's hilarious that Adam is the house chef and get a kick out of teaching him tricks-of-the-Congo-cooking-trade.

So here is the first installment of Cooking with the Mamas: Bitekuteku

Bitekuteku

Serves 2-4 Congolese, or 10-12 Foreigners
2 large bunches of young bitekuteku (or spinach if you’re Stateside)
3 cups of green onions, chopped
2 small eggplants, peeled
1 onion, chopped
4 tablespoons oil (traditionally palm)
2 tablespoons baking soda
2 bouillon cubes
Pinch of salt
Optional ingredients: ground peanuts, fish

Boil the greens in baking soda for 3-4 minutes (This helps it keep its green color.) Drain and rinse (Be sure to rinse off all the baking soda.) Set aside.

Saute onion in oil, then add green onion, eggplant and peppers.
Add the greens and stir. (Here is where "rich people" would add fish or ground peanuts)

Add bouillon cubes and salt.

Cook until desired consistency (add a bit of water if necessary, but usually not.)

Serve with rice, plantains, beans, chicken or comme vous voulez!

Side note: As we prepared the Bitekuteku I swore we didn't really have anything in the States like it. And that the blog readers would be very fascinated. Then Mama Youyou and I were watching Cooking for Real on the Food Network, and of course she was making collard greens. Mama Youyou gave me that, "Are you kidding me?!" look she does so well...

p.s. I just saw that Bitekuteku is also known as the slightly-more-recognizable, amaranth! (Jill)

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Papa Jardinier

This weekend our neighbors spotted this in a massive web between two trees outside our house.

Now we’ve found some awful spiders indoors. Mostly the kind that make you feel sick to your stomach when you find them curled up in your shoes. But this giant guy had a neon orange abdomen and red legs. Isn’t that kind of like nature’s version of a blaze orange vest? “Warning! Warning! Hide your children!”

On Monday morning I asked Mupwa, the gardener, to identify him. He was truly amazed.

So much so that he snatched him from his web and let him crawl up his arm.

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