“It takes a village to raise a child”, an old African proverb states, and this could well be true – but where is my village?
I need them every morning when my crib is in chaos, and no-one can find shoes, toothbrushes, or hairbands. I need them all to remove my eight year old son from his massive stash of lego bricks underneath which a carpet once prevailed.
I need them when I totally and massively fail as a mother, which is mostly every single morning before school, and, quite often, at bedtime too. I mean, what time is bedtime in a normal household?
In between, when they’re at school, everything is pretty sweet – me and bobba (le chat), we rub along pretty well.
But the village people – they need to step in.
Indeed to get support from all around you, as a parent, would be amazing wouldn’t it? For us all, collectively, to take responsibility for the next generation. For our elders to apply their wisdom to every child in the street and for us, and them, to listen?
I remember being shouted out by an elderly lady for dropping litter, when I was about eight and feeling utterly ashamed.
She wasn’t worried about shouting at some random child and letting them know what’s what. She was just giving me, and any other snot-faced binlid, the same story and probably, I reckon, she would shout at full-on adults as well – that lady took no shit.
Old ladies are scary right? But that chick had it sewn up – she was old school.
I mean: ‘Hellooooo’ – we all need to take a leaf out of that chicks book and get back to our roots – get back to saying NON, NON, NON and OUI, OUI, OUI and not be scared to do it, on the streets, at home and even on the bus!
Pea.s not all old ladies are scary