By Wakanyi Hoffman
This little blog was recently picked up by Feedspot for entry into the Top 100 Parenting Blogs of 2020. When I received the email, I was slightly conflicted about the award title. I wanted to write back and say that this is not a parenting blog. That my writing is not an instructional manual for other parents, but my children’s anecdotal reference to their childhood memories.
Silencing the inner parenting critic
But that self-defeating inner voice that often permeates through the minds of creative artists suffering from impostor syndrome needed silencing. It is not unlike the inner parenting critic that mothers around the world will admit to carrying in their hearts too.
I wrote back, ‘What an honor, thank you.’ Then I evaluated my role in the global parenting sphere- after all, I write about my family’s adventures, which would not be complete without the four children that I birthed. Thus admittedly, I am writing about motherhood as much as I am influencing 21st century parenting.
However, my individual parenting style, if it is one, falls outside the normal realms of most mothers’ trusted methods of raising children around the world. For it is often lost in the clouded haze of navigating cultural barriers with each move to a new country. It constantly demands new ways of adapting to new cultural expectations while holding onto my instincts, which I can say, is all I have in the way of parental advice.
Defining my parenting style in a new country
It has been more than ten years since our first major global move. I arrived in Nepal with a toddler on a cool September afternoon, without having given a single thought as to what effect the Himalayan tribes would have on my parenting style.
As soon as the suitcase full of baby supplies of diapers and wipes had been unpacked, I went out into the city, weaving my way through the narrow paths ready to face a new grocery experience.
With my toddler in one hand and a small note of handwritten Nepali phrases on the other, I navigated unfamiliar territory. I learnt quickly with each item ticked off my poor translation of Sanskrit to English grocery list, that being a mother in a new country also meant having to define my parenting style.
As soon as I put my little girl down to reach out for a clay pot of fresh yogurt, she wandered off and out of my sight. Frantic, I left the curiously packaged yogurt and ran in search of her, wondering how it is that a tiny human standing just below my waistline can run faster than world record breaking marathoner, Eliud Kipchoge. Then I heard her giggling in the next aisle.
I walked there to find her with a newfound friend, a little blonde girl about the same age, whose mother appeared there just as I did, having been looking for her daughter too. She was French and our girls, not at all bothered by the gaping language barrier between them, had found an easy way to non-verbally communicate inside jokes and seemed to be secretly laughing at the scolding looks on their mothers’ faces.
This encounter led to an invitation to join the local playgroup of other expat and local moms and from there, new friendships were made.
Learning to trust my instincts
Whenever I look back on that first day as a new mother in a new country, I think of how easily it was to trust this stranger, who went on to become one of the most influential mother friends in my parenting journey. I could not, therefore, teach the concept of ‘stranger danger’ to my children without adding a finely printed disclaimer that says to: trust your instincts to say ‘I feel safe‘ or ‘I feel unsafe’.
It takes practice to know the difference and I am glad I trusted my instincts that day. The French mom would become a confidant with whom I shared our second pregnancies. We would spend many days at a friend’s house in the middle of Kathmandu, feasting on decadent little sweet treats and endless cups of tea while we breastfed our rambunctious newborn baby boys.
This mutual friend from Northern India had taken on the role of big sister, intent on fattening us and ensuring a healthy supply of breast milk. This tradition that can also be traced to my home culture too, where aunties are charged with making fermented porridge for lactating mothers.
Whenever we exchanged parenting advice, there were more parallels between my African ways, the French ways and Indian ways, all of which were aligned in the ways of a Nepali mother too.
Learning that parenting is an ongoing cultural experimentation
Parenting, as I continue to discover, is an ongoing cultural experimentation, a test of how well one can adapt to a changing environment, while listening keenly to that inside voice. But it takes a lot of guts to go with one’s instinct, and not with what’s current or what one is used to.
For instance, when my oldest girl turned 3, I deliberated over whether or not to send her to preschool, a Western practice that had started permeating through Nepali modern parenting.
But with limited options, and doubtful of the whole concept of ‘school’ for a child barely out of training diapers and still stringing short words to form sentences, I decided to join yet another group of non-schooling parents. We were all unified in our instinctive desire to extend this organic childhood experience for a few more years.
We formed structured weekly play dates that involved singing classes, a story time that I pioneered at a local library, cooking lessons that were rotated in each other’s kitchens and a Montessori-inspired session led by a Buddhist monk that one of the other moms had secured.
We called our preschoolers Little Yetis, an ode to our environment, befitting of our Buddhist Montessori school overlooking the Himalayas. Not once did my Catholic upbringing tug at my guilt conscious, beckoning me to find a Christian preschool. Her faith, I told myself, was rooted firmly in a much wider belief in universal oneness.
Finding my guiding principles when parenting in between cultures
In all my parenting years, and that’s 13 going on 14 now, I could not point a finger at one overarching philosophy, whether secular or religious, that has been applied towards my children’s upbringing.
As our physical environment tends to change quickly, so do my tried and tested ways of modeling good values alongside learning a new language, new manners, or new skills. But the one rule of thumb that I could say is a guiding principle is information gathering.
I tend to lean closely towards older mothers whose children have already hit major childhood developmental milestones such as: crawling, walking, going to school, teenage, and so on, to learn about what they have already experienced.
It is that mom standing calmly beside her toddler throwing a tantrum without losing it herself because she has already experienced that with her older children. Her self assurance is a sign that she has developed a set of tools to manage this latest brand of parental testing.
Or that mom smiling dismissively at the snappy retort from her teenager. Her lighthearted demeanor tells me to resist the urge to press the panic button, as she leans closer to whisper her secret to surviving that phase and successfully raising wonderful teenagers.
I meet these moms at school pick ups, at the store, at the playground and other such places where stories can be shared freely, and knowledge dispensed far more candidly than any parenting instructional manual.
These expert mothers provide a first-hand experience and are a great balance to information gathered from my stack of parenting books, filled with scientific, research-based advice.
From there, I make a judgement call, based on what feels good, sensible and ‘normal’, the latter stretching the lengths and depths of what is considered as statistically acceptable in most cultures of the world.
Defining my normal when learning new rules
But when rules keep on changing, one must also define what feels normal. For instance, a rite of passage such as teaching my children how to ride a bike, happened in four different countries, with four different sets of rules.
Throughout these experiences, I stuck to the ‘No helmet, No Bike’ policy while liberally adapting to the ways in which other kids in those countries had learnt to ride their bikes.
With my firstborn, I let her loose on a deserted, suburban street outside of Manila city. It was a typical hot day with 100% humidity and she was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, but padded in a heavy, pink helmet, knee pads, and hand gloves.
I was a new mom and new to this risky business of certifying a preschooler as a cyclist. With a ‘safety first’ attitude, I watched her zoom down the road and followed her closely with my heart thumping heavily inside my throat.
The second time I did this was with my oldest son who was quite possibly born with wheels under his tiny jaundiced feet. We had just moved to Bangkok and I was heavily pregnant with his little sister. To keep him occupied, I had packed his skuut, a little wooden bike with two wheels and no pedals, with which he could scoot around.
But he didn’t just scoot around. He sped past the driveway in our rental apartment block, causing the management to install speed bumps just for his safety.
When I asked what the rules were for teaching children to cycle in Thailand, I got mixed advice. There was the unofficial guidelines ranging from letting them race alongside the speedy tuk tuks on the road and hope for the best, or padding them up from head to toe with the latest biking gear and pushing them with kid-gloves along an empty parking lot.
But my son had pushed the boundaries of his limited driveway and was ready to take on the tuk-tuks and the Kenyan mom in me felt that this particular kijana was always going to test the limits of my heart rate with each new risky adventure.
I remembered how his sister had suffered near heat exhaustion back in the Philippines on her maiden-trip on two wheels and decided against extra armor. With only a helmet, I gave my little guy a push and turned the other way as the whole neighborhood watched him go down, out of the gate and onto the road, alongside a smiley tuk-tuk driver.
My Thai neighbor had assured me that he was perfectly safe because the guard at the gate would most assuredly follow him, which he did. It was a calculated parenting risk and an excellent attempt at blending in with your rules still intact.
Taking a step back to accept help from others
I was prepared to teach my third child to ride the bike using a self-composed manual, a hybrid mix of Thai and Kenyan parenting. But on a summer break to visit grandparents in Ohio, she took it upon herself to get on a bike, armored in a helmet and knee pads, attempting to go down an alleyway.
With her aunt and grandmother by her side, I realized that they were much better equipped to teach her the ways of American bicycling. I tossed the metal manual to the summer skies, and took a step back, trusting that they would instinctively know how to interpret the rules around child safety better than I would, as I stood on unfamiliar parenting ground.
Revisiting familiar ground rules back at home
But when we moved to Kenya later that summer, there was only a grassy field upon which the children could ride their bikes. They needed to adapt to new territory and I needed to revisit old and familiar ground rules back in my home country.
When the kids raced down a slope that led all the way down to an electric fence that provided security to our compound, I was less concerned about potential injuries from not wearing helmets and more worried about the potential for falling onto the fence.
Even though the fence was turned off during the daytime, it would cause the alarm to go off later in the evening if I turned it on without checking to see if all the wires were still intact.
Learning new ways of parenting all over again
When our stay in Kenya ended last summer, we moved to the Netherlands with only one non-cycling child. In a country where it would seem that children learn to cycle as they crawl, I needed to get our 4-year-old son on two wheels fast. At the same time, I needed to learn new ways of parenting all over again.
As soon as we arrived, I was surprised to see little ones without helmets whizzing past their parents and vanishing onto four-way streets filled with cars and more bicycles. But the neighbor next door to our rental summer Airbnb assured me that this was normal here. She said, “He will just go with the flow”. Which is exactly what he did.
I watched my little boy, who had suddenly grown taller sitting upright on the lowest setting of his small bike, as he swiftly glided alongside his dad, joining much more experienced cyclists in the province of Groningen, which is the labeled the top cycling city in Europe. But he had a bright orange helmet on his bobbing head, which gave me a little peace of mind and a reminder that my ‘No Helmet, No Bike’ rule had withstood the test of time.
An ‘adaptive’ parenting style
If my parenting style could be described in one word, then it would be ‘adaptive’. I don’t stick around in one place long enough to know what truly constitutes great parenting or not.
This style is often formed through intensive cultural orientation, layered with a great dusting of local housewives’ lore and balanced with bits of my upbringing.