Last night, my four-year-old helped me decide what to write about today.

Well, sorta…kinda.

I told him that I write and it’s called blogging and that people actually read them 👀 (hello, hi). I then asked him what I should write about and he said write numbers. Uhm. 

“It has to be something a little more serious than that.” Another quick suggestion came and it was that I can write about my friends. 

Nice! He mentioned a few of them by name and my heart did a little summersault  that it does when I realise that in some small ways, my world has become his world too.

But I recently wrote a piece that touched on friendship, so I told him I needed another idea.

“You can write about your family.” He said. I asked exactly what about my family that I can write about and he said my mom and dad. I asked again, “what about them?”

He shrugged. “Uhm…I don’t know. They just dead.”

Haaaa weee ngane! Kanjalo nje?! How I got to tell him about my late parents and if or not he actually understands death, is a story for another day. But little boy didn’t show some love.  

So that’s when I realised what I should write about. Not my friends. Not my family.

But about him!

Children are some of the most honest people you’ll ever meet.

They don’t spend twenty minutes trying to find the right words. They don’t soften every statement with three disclaimers and a smiley face. Or state facts in a jokingly manner.They simply say what they mean.

And sometimes it’s hilarious. Sometimes it’s shocking, like last night.

A few nights ago, I was exhausted. Yakwazi ukudinwa? I didn’t even want to breathe (jokes). 

Our bedtime routine usually includes a story, but that night I had absolutely nothing left in my reserve. I will take the judgement because reading a story means changing voices to suit characters. If a lion is roaring in the story, I actually have to roar. You get the picture? Yahhh I wasn’t doing that that night. 

So I made an executive parenting decision like the Chief Executive Mommy that I am and we listened to an audio instead.

A few moments later, baby boy says; “I’m so heartbroken.”

I burst out laughing. Haaa because what! 

Not because his feelings weren’t real, but because what do you mean you’re heartbroken at four years old?

Meanwhile, he was dead serious.

And the more I thought about it, the more amazed I became. He knows the word.

He understands the feeling associated with it and he knew enough to connect the two.

His bedtime story had been outsourced to some random white woman (hay kabi guys), and the child was devastated.

Valid, honestly.

Then there are the moments when children hold up a mirror to us.

I spend a lot of my time telling him to be patient. If he wants something, he wants it immediately. Not any moment later. Instant deals, khonapho khonapho.

Sometimes tables turn. I’ll ask him to do something. And he’ll calmly look at me and say, “Mama, be patient.” Isibindi sengane! The audacity.

However, the accuracy? On point. A life lesson wrapped up in one tiny, noisy and nosey human (love you loadz ke sana).

And that’s the thing I’ve noticed about children, especially abafana the boys.  They’re incredibly expressive.

They’ll tell you they love you twenty times a day. They’ll run across a room just to give you a hug.

They’ll randomly grab your face, kiss your cheek and say, “I love you, Mama,” as if it’s breaking news. So I think when boys (grown) tell us they love us, they mean it…wuuu ngyazdlalela, abafana abatshiswe (jokes, again).

There’s something beautiful about that openness. Is that the same for you girl mommies? 

Somewhere along the way, many of us learn to hide our feelings. We become more careful, more guarded, more worried about how we’ll be perceived.

Children haven’t learned that yet.

They love loudly.

They complain loudly.

They celebrate loudly.

And apparently, they experience heartbreak loudly too.

So if my son is anything to go by, children are out here saying the things the rest of us are thinking but would never dare say out loud.

And I love that for them.

Love and light 🧡