Life, seasoned with perspective.
A lighthearted reflection on the chaos and joy of parenting during the holidays. It shows how everyday moments, though exhausting, become the memories that make life meaningful.
I am currently hiding in my bedroom as I write this. Door locked. Lights off. Complete silence.
I am hiding from my own children.
Before you judge me, let me say this. I love them deeply. But at this very moment, I needed a breather. A real one. The kind where no one calls your name every two minutes.
Tell me I am not the only parent who does this.
It is the holidays. And as Nairobians would say, these children have finished me. Properly. Completely. I am a shadow of the man I once was.
Also, before I forget, once these holidays are over, I will need three professionals: a carpenter, a glazier, and a plumber. All courtesy of my beloved offspring. I will explain.
Let me start somewhere.
Last week, I took my youngest for a medical checkup around Upper Hill. It took longer than expected, and by the time we left, Nairobi traffic had fully assembled. Time on the clock: 5.23 pm. Estimated arrival home: 7.15 pm. I accepted my fate.
Then it came.
“Daddy, I am hungry.”
I saw it coming. I really did. But stuck somewhere along Uhuru Highway near Nyayo Stadium, I made a decision. I ignored it. In my defense, I was dealing with survival.
Silence followed.
Then I made the mistake of starting a conversation.
She waited. Calm. Calculated. Then she looked straight at me and said, slowly and firmly, “I said I am hungry.”
I felt it. That statement had weight.
We negotiated like serious people. We agreed that once we saw the famous orange supermarket, Naivas, we would stop.
We did.
And that is how I ended up buying soda, crisps, cupcakes, and snacks for what felt like an entire village. Not just for her. For her siblings. For tomorrow. For unknown emergencies.
That girl negotiates like a seasoned politician.
Now, this is the last week of the holidays. These children have taken me through emotional valleys and mountain tops. If this is what we did to our parents, then I would like to apologize. Deeply.
Let me paint a picture.
At night, I tuck them in. They smile. They hug me. There is even a chorus of “Love you, daddy.” My heart melts. I sleep peacefully.
Morning comes.
My first born is not talking to me.
Not even a good morning.
Someone explain what happened in those eight hours. Did I offend her in my dreams?
Let us move on.
I am seated peacefully, watching my favorite show. Suddenly, there is a commotion. I reduce the volume. My first and second born are at it again. Sibling rivalry at a high level.
I tell myself I will not interfere. They must learn conflict resolution.
Then, bang.
A door slams.
My heart skips.
Before I recover, another louder bang from the other room. At this point, I am questioning my life choices.
But wait, there is more.
One afternoon, I am enjoying a quiet cup of tea. A very important activity. My eyes land on something strange. Marks on the dining table. Fresh scratches, like someone was conducting a science experiment with a blade.
I ask.
What follows is a well-coordinated chorus of, “Not me.”
Parents, how many times have you heard that phrase this holiday?
As I process that, I look up.
Red marker art on my wall.
Abstract. Bold. Uninvited.
Now, let me explain the carpenter, glazier, and plumber situation.
The drawers in my house have decided they no longer believe in closing. The cabinets are hanging on for dear life. The shower cubicle has given up. The hallway sink has developed a leak that sounds like it is counting down to something.
All this in just a few weeks.
And yet, here is the interesting part.
This chaos, this noise, this madness, it is also the joy.
Because in between the door slams and snack negotiations, there is laughter. There are hugs. There are random conversations that make no sense but mean everything.
These are the moments.
As I sit here in my hiding place, enjoying this rare silence, I realize something.
One day, this house will be quiet.
Too quiet.
No slammed doors. No “Daddy, I am hungry.” No mysterious damages that require a full maintenance team.
Just silence.
And I will miss this chaos.
So yes, I will call the carpenter. I will fix the shower. I will repair the sink. Proudly.
Because these broken things are evidence of a house that is alive.
A house full of love.
And as for that black S-Class Mercedes my first born promised me, I am holding her to it.
Because after these holidays, I have earned it.
About the author:
Kibisu Mulanda is a media executive and strategic communicator with over 20 years of experience in television, NGO storytelling, and youth-focused content. He is the Acting Head of Switch Media Ltd and teaches media at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication. A Certified SIYB Trainer, he blends storytelling with strategy to drive social impact,
About the Author
