Pudd’ng believes I have all the answers

When there’s a separation, a dad can be deadbeat; through omission or commission.

Distance makes hearts grow fonder, but it can also make them grow colder. Me? I have made it my business to be, as much as possible, up in my daughter’s business.

That’s the least I can do until Tenderoni and I get this broken sucker fixed.  

A separation means our daughter isn’t with me 24/7. Still, from the way she drops her financial cares and burdens on me, she still knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’m her go-to guy.

And that’s a good thing. It shows me that, unwittingly, she’s putting to use the new word she told me they learnt in school: hierarchy.

Being my little girl’s go-to guy means, if need be, I go way beyond the call of duty. Pudd’ng’s “memos” sometimes come when I’m broke.

However, they make me realise that my headship and providing powers aren’t in contention.

Sure. I’ve got it bad. But here are some of my daughter’s “memos” which make my day …

Shillings and sensitivity 

Sensitivity is, I have found out, one of the things closest to my daughter’s little ticker. Some weeks ago, just like she does each day after school, she winged me her latest memo: they had been told to go with clothes, which their school’s administration would take to a children’s home.

The week before, it was this sad

memo …

“Dah-dee? The father of a boy in Class One died and we were told to bring money … not coins,” the sensitive sweetie said, “but notes from 50 shillings.”

Comic relief 

This reminds me of way back in primary school. One time I had to be content peeping through the fence as a magic show went on. Reason? I didn’t have the five shillings required. So, whenever Pudd’ng tells me about an upcoming show in their school, and I hear the excitement in her voice, I remember my MIA.  

“Dah-dee? A comedy group is coming to our school and we were told to bring 70 shillings,” baby girl piped sometime back.

Seventy bob is different things to different folks. Small change. Supper dough. Or a kid’s comic relief.

Finishing line

Making sure all of my daughter’s academic needs are met is part of my fulltime job. However, there are some requests she makes that I veto. Towards the end of last term, and the beginning of this, she was raving about going to school on Saturdays for tuition.

Yesterday Pudd’ng came home from school and memo-ed me some learning effects that needed immediate replacement …  

“My pencil and Kiswahili class work book are finished,” she announced.

I had to hold back my Grundyism tendencies, prompted by her direct translation of that last word from Kiswahili: imeisha. 

Impulse trap 

Part of my job is noticing things. Then taking the initiative. Noticing things such as the fact that baby girl’s shoes are getting tighter.

At the back of my mind, I already know that pretty soon, we will make the shoe trip. Which is fraught with impulse buying. 

My notes-to-self have not stopped Pudd’ng from sending me memos on the same. The only thing I’ll have to beware of is the impulse trap.

The last time we visited the Bata shop, my daughter almost got “stuck” to a pink school bag, which had her favourite cartoon characters … and some gladiator sandals.

Soil provider

Some memos that Pudd’ng forwards me have almost nothing to do with me. In baby girl’s science class, there is a lot of experiential learning going on nowadays. And this comes with its share of props and whatnots.

“Dah-dee?” Pudd’ng said a couple of weeks ago, “we were told to go to school with clay soil.”

Sigh.

I am sure that, back in the day, if I had dropped my father such a memo, I would have seen dust. 

PSST. Today I’m helping Pudd’ng with her English composition homework. The topic is, “My Father”. She asks me if one must tell the whole truth in a composition. I tell her that there’s such a thing as creative license.

And so it goes. The creative part Pudd’ng adds after the line, “My father takes me to church” is what she’s always dreaming about: “in his car”. That’s faith, saints.

But the line, in black and white, that niggles me, and I ask her to change it – (because I’ve also got me some faith) – is this: “My father lives in Donholm”. Man, that’s not creative license: it’s an indictment.