Seeing my Kids Grow

It has been a tradition (sort of) for me to pen something on my birthday. As I turn 48 years old this year, I want to write about my kids.   If you have spent time with kids, you probably know that they can be an inspirational source of joy.    I have been blessed to look after a number of kids and in true African style, they are all my kids. But today I want to write about my six children, the ones that I have lived and shared the biggest part of my life with.  Like all children, Becky, Diana, Ernest, Rachel, Ryan and Renee always trigger strong emotions in me.   Most times, they make me smile, laugh and on a few occasions one or two of them have brought me close to crying, yet I love them all.  That just proves that parenting is not without its setbacks. Generally and for the majority of my kids, I have warm and loving memories. I have struggled with things as serious as deliberate disrespect and disobedience to smaller things like the state of their room.  That notwithstanding, watching my six kids grow up has been one of the most gratifying things in my life.  It has been both a delightful and difficult experience, but mostly enjoyable. Due to their age differences (the oldest is 33 and the youngest 13 now) and the fact that some were born abroad, there are few times (like December holidays) when all six were at home at the same time.   I am therefore used to having the house with 4 kids most of the time, but on occasion when all 6 were at home, my patience would at times be stretched and small things would trigger my moods.  In such times, I would wish to have a house without kids.  Now that it is gradually happening, I am starting to see how misguided my wishes were.  

I have always wanted my kids to grow up to be independent and to be able to fend for themselves irrespective of their gender.    Now, that they are leaving one by one, I feel a lump in my throat.  I feel happiness and sadness in equal measure. When Diana, told me she was leaving, I was close to tears and yet that’s what I always wanted.   It is what should be done, they are becoming themselves and that’s what I have always taught them and wanted them to do. At the same time it feels so wrong, that there are not there any more, that I cant call their names in the house or joke with them any more, that I can only get to know how they are through phone calls.  I sometimes sit by myself and want to burst into tears.  It is a weird feeling of gloom peppered with ironic happiness.

I am happy and thankful that our two older daughters brought honour to our family.  I am happy that like us, they believe in the values of family and marriage and I hope that they inspire others.  I hold on to the hope that there is still a lot ahead for us together as a family.  I have heard other parents who have come before us saying, that is how it is and that we will get used to it.  We were blessed to have this brood.  It means that at one time, we had our older kids watching the younger ones. Our youngest is only 13, she still watches cartoons and asks unbelievably innocent questions. She still religiously hugs me every morning and every night before going to bed.  But the days are numbered and they are more obvious now that I have seen how quickly all this happens.  Nothing can ever prepare me for that moment.  That she is the last one, makes it even the more difficult to bear.

Yet in many ways, I should be happy that my wife and I have done a great job, but what does the future hold for us?  I have come to the unwelcome conclusion that we are in a transition and that we are moving to that stage when none of them will be in the house and yet I am not prepared for it.  It is a joy and sorrow to see my kids grow.