Confessions of A Work At Home Wife And Mom (Part 2)

4C5F79F9-E301-4212-80A8-1FC2DB594DD1There’s a magical hour in our house. It’s right around sunset, before the night descends into a departing winter blackness. My husband is home, the kids are (usually) napping which frees my hands to cook dinner and life is perfect. The overwhelming “aloneness” of being the only adult with my children dissipates and is quickly forgotten. It’s family time. The picture I had in my mind of what it would mean to have a family actually materializes. The children play on the living room floor as hubby reads or watches the news  and I attend to the business of cooking and serving dinner.

After packing away tonight’s leftovers, I snuggle on the coach with my hunny. Well, I should say, I wake him up from his snoring sleep, make him scoot over to make room for me then curl halfway into his lap. As soon as I plant a kiss on his face just because, here comes our two shadows.

“Give me a kiss, Daddy,” Thing 1, my oldest demands with his lips puckered.

Such a ham, that one. Hubby smiles and grants the request. I mean, how could you not?

“Gimme tiss, Deddy” Thing 2 chimes in, running as fast as his little legs would carry him towards his father. Daddy obliges with a chuckle.

I look over at my kitchen in disdain. I need to wash dishes, clean off the counter tops, sweep and mop my floors before I can go to sleep with a clear mind. I like to clean as I cook but there are days when that is absolutely out of the question. If the kids are awake while I’m cooking, they will not let me out of their sight.

“I wanna help,” my almost four year old would chime as I’m cooking, pushing a dining chair towards the oven. I have to be hyper-vigilant to keep him from burning himself on any hot surfaces – his favorite place is right beside me by the stove. He wants to chop, season and stir right along with Mommy. Most days, this is our time to make memories. But on some days when my sleep deprivation and constantly churning mind gets the best of me, I find myself snapping at him.

“Move! Move out of my way! Look at this mess you made!” I recently bellowed at him, frustration rising because he gave me more to do. I look over at the mess of chicken bullion powder and curry seasoning he had knocked over.

Great! I had swept the floor not even five minutes prior.

“I’m sorry, mommy,” he said, his eyes welling up already.

The guilt I felt was like a gut-punch. It really was not his fault. My baby wanted to help his mama cook. His elbow knocked the uncovered spices over as he was attempting to grab a spoon for me. It was mistake that I could have easily made myself and I made my son feel bad for it.

Lord, please do not let me damage them. I am doing my best. 

My thoughts collide wordlessly on themselves and I blink back an unannounced sting of tears.

“It’s okay, baby. You didn’t mean it. You were just trying to help, Mommy, right?” [He nods wordlessly, wiping his eyes].

“Mommy is sorry for yelling,” I state, reaching down to envelop his small shoulders in a hug. “You wanna help me clean it up?”

He smiles and nods enthusiastically. All is forgiven. Oh for the mindset of a three-year old who forgives even the gravest offenses in the blink of an eye and thinks nothing of them again.

God, please don’t let me break them.

As munchkin and I continued cooking, Pumpkin (my youngest) noticed that my attention was diverted and began to whine. “Mo-mmy? I waaaannnn duce (juice),” he demanded like the tiny boss of the house he knew himself to be.

“You’ve had enough juice today, boo boo. No juice. You can have water,” I state sternly. My mind remembering his oldest brother’s last dentist visit. No cavities but his teeth were showing weak points that demands we eliminate sugar from his diet. The fear passed down to his younger brother’s dental health.

I gotta watch how much sugar they are eating and drinking, I remind myself.

The “no juice” verdict sends Pumpkin into a tailspin. You would have thought his favorite pet died the way he wailed and threw himself on the ground. The tears flowed as he mourned his existence. What cruel world would deny him the sweet nectar of the gods? His growing mind must have wondered as he laid on my kitchen floor, a puddle of tears and toddler angst.

I roll my eyes in his direction as I grab his sippy cup. I make a concoction that is three parts water and one part fruit juice and snap it shut.

“Here, boo boo!” I thrust the cup in his direction, and like magic, the fountain of tears dry up and immediately he is on his feet.

“Tat you (thank you), Mo-mmy,” he sniffs as a small smile plays on his lips.

Mommy – 0, Toddler – 3,451.  The running tally in my head flashes like a scoreboard.

It’s okay. We will brush extra long tonight, I console myself. Anything to keep my hands free so I could finish dinner and supervise my sous-chef in the kitchen.

Making dinner with two toddlers in tow is equal parts a battle of wits (between the adults and their tiny overlords) and actual food preparation. There is a reason I do not attempt my longer, more complicated recipes unless the children are asleep. I literally do my best cooking between the hours of midnight and five.

Now that today’s dinner has been long digested and I am getting some good snuggle time with my husband, I remember my night time chores. I sigh deeply as  I pull myself away from my husband and his warm embrace.

The kitchen awaits.

Pumpkin suddenly remembers that mommy has not read him a story today.

“Mommy, I want weed eet (read it),” he says as he scrambles towards me, book in hand.

Ugh! I have got to clean this kitchen!

“Boo boo, take the book to Daddy. Daddy will read it,” I say, passing the buck to my partner in life. This is a favorite tactic of mine. When the kids are driving me absolutely crazy or one of them has a dirty diaper that smells like death (and my stomach is feeling particularly weak for whatever reason), I send them to their dad.

“Go to daddy” is my rallying cry for “I don’t wanna deal with this right now,” and most times it works. Alas, tonight will not be one of those times. The man I just left on the couch is snoring again and Pumpkin is approaching a full-blown meltdown if nobody reads him this book.

“C’mon baby, let’s read,” I beckon to my youngest, attempting to nip the tears in the bud before they start.

After story-time, we begin our bedtime routine. I wake my husband and invite him upstairs with us. I really want to skip bath time tonight; the dishes in the sink are still beckoning to me. No sooner do we get to the top of the stairs do my kids run towards their bathroom.

“Mommy, I wanna bap,” the youngest declares.

“Yay! Bath tiiiiiiiime!,” the oldest chimes in doing his best impression of Sid the Science Kid.  How come children always know when you are at your most exhausted and pick that exact moment to be their most demanding? No worries. I got something for them. As I run the bath water to the perfect temperature for both children (oldest hates to be cold, and youngest hates to be hot), I plot my escape.

“Okay baby, time to get in the bath,” I help each child out of their food stained, juice-stained, slightly peed on (I’ll explain later) clothes and into the bath. After I hunt down rubber duckies, plastic balls and foam letters to keep them company,  I walk towards my husband in our bedroom.

“Babe, can you keep an eye on the kids for me? They are in the tub and I really need to get that kitchen together,” I ask as I softly wake him from his stupor.

He nods groggily and I make a mad dash downstairs before any of my three men could ask anything else of me. As I walk downstairs, I pick up socks, shoes and toys that have lost their way and gather the pile together. I put toys in the designated baskets downstairs and leave the clothes on the stairs as a visual reminder to put them in the kids room.

I am not going back up there until they are all asleep.

Cleaning the kitchen is strangely therapeutic. I do my best thinking when I am left alone with a sink full of dishes. After scrubbing all the dishes by hand (old-school Nigerians are allergic to dishwashers, ask anyone), I put them in the dishwasher to dry and clear off all my surfaces, putting everything in cabinets or the kitchen pantry. When my work space looks perfect, I breathe a sigh of relief and smile. A quick glance at the clock tells me it is already after midnight.

So much for getting to sleep early tonight.

I make my way back upstairs to bed, grabbing the pile of clothes and socks on the stairs as I go. When I stop inside the kids room to drop off the clothes, I notice the mess of toys and clothes on their floor.

Can’t leave it like that.

I organize their clothes and shoes into their respective side of the closet and toss all the toys and books into the baskets that line the wall. Baskets are strategically placed all over the house for quick clean up because what I am not going to do is kill myself trying to clean up after a house full of men (who share none of my OCD tendencies for cleanliness). Baskets make organization easy. A roomful of toys quickly becomes clean floors and organized space with enough baskets.

I stop by the kids bathroom to turn off the lights and notice that the bathtub has not been drained. I let the water out and scoop out the mountain of bath toys that were left behind. Then I grab a towel to mop up the water on the floor, organize the vanity space littered with tooth brushes and toothpaste before finally heading towards my bed.

As I toss the towel into the hamper, I noticed it is filling up so I load up the washing machine instead. As the machine fills with water and begins slushing about, I continue my journey towards the bed. A quick peep into the darkened room reveals my husband passed out with our youngest on his chest (pumpkin still doesn’t sleep well on his own), and munchkin sleeping diagonally across our king-sized bed. How do two little people take up so much room on an adult size bed?  There’s literally no where for me to lie down unless I curl into a ball at the foot of the bed.

Forget it.

I make my way to the guest room and flop on the bed. Thirty minutes later, I am still auditing my day in my head, going over each detail to ensure I have not missed anything.


What’s today?

The sixteenth since it is after midnight, my phone screen confirms.

Dang it!

The light bill was due on the fifteenth and would be scheduled for disconnection if payment was not received by 5pm. I am already seven hours too late but better to do it now and call them in the morning to throw myself on someone’s mercy if necessary. I rush back downstairs to retrieve my purse and debit card and make a call into the system. I make the $250 payment and head back upstairs, making a mental note to check with the energy company in the morning.

The night passes as usual. The youngest woke me up with his whimpering around 3:30AM when their father got up for work. My oldest is still splayed all about on the bed, making it impossible for anyone to sleep beside him without making bodily contact.

I suspect his X position on the bed is on purpose. His favorite past time is rubbing up against me like a cat when I am trying to sleep. As someone who HATES to be touched as I am falling asleep, his touch irritates me into wakefulness every night. I have resolved to building a barrier between us using the comforter. Sometimes it works, sometimes the system is defeated.

I lull my youngest baby back to sleep and pass back out until the sun wakes me. I slept through my alarm. It is now 8:30. Thankfully, today is low-key day.

I check my calendar to make sure.

I have an appointment at 1pm, which means I need to be dressed by 10am, an hour for our morning routine, another hour for breakfast and whatever shenanigans the children can create to delay us from leaving the house and I should leave the house not a minute after 12 noon to drop off the kids and still make it on time to the office.

The client is a referral from a friend. My girls are forever boosting my business and recommending me to colleagues. I don’t want to disappoint. When I call my mom to check in, her voice tells me that I woke her up.

”He-hello? She croaks out, her voice cracking with the strain of answering her phone while not fully awake.

”Sorry, Mommy! I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just calling to say hi. Call me when you wake up,” I quickly hung up before I told any more lies. I forgot my mom worked yesterday.

She can’t watch the kids. She works 12 hours during third shift and needs the mornings after work to rest. Hubby is at work till 6pm and my dad is out attending to work duties. Both my in-laws work nights and sleep during the day as well and none of hubby’s siblings or mine are around.

Dagnabit! (I’m officially an elderly white man trapped in a 30 something year old black woman’s body).

Where are all those people who were praying twins, triplets and quads on me during our last baby shower? If you want me to birth a football team worth of kids, the least you can do is watch them for me while I work.

After racking my brain for a few minutes, I head towards the office with the kids in tow. I don’t have a choice. They are coming with me to meet a brand new client.

This is about to be the most shambles that has occurred in the history of working while Mom-ing.

Times like these, I remember why childcare costs two grand a month. When you’re desperate, you do what you have to do. My current budget is stretched so thin, I can see through it. An extra two thousand a month in expenses would put us in debtors prison (God forbid).

Whatever. No time for shoulda woulda coulda. I have to deal with the present. When we arrive at my office, I pull out coloring books, crayons and snacks from my office stash. We have many clients with young children so we maintain a decent activity area to keep them quiet.

”Okay boo boos. You guys color and let Mommy work, okay.” This is bribing 101. Don’t judge me unless you’ve been held hostage by toddlers before.

Let’s just pray it works.

“Okay, Mommy” they reply in unison.

Liars! My instinct tells me. But my optimistic and slightly panicked mind says to believe them.

When the client arrive, I walk down to the lobby and meet a surprise. The couple awaiting  me is an interracial duo.  The wife seems to be from Eastern Europe if her accent is any indication and the husband is one of my skinfolks. We exchange greetings and I prepare myself for the maylay this is about to be. (I left the kids playing in the office to make the quick walk to the lobby).

As we near my door, I can hear the cries of my children. I guess they looked up and found out I snuck out.

“My children are in the office today because I couldn’t get a sitter,” I offer by way of explanation.

This has got to be the most ratchet consultation in the history of law practice. I’m actually completely embarrassed but I put on my best unbothered face, take a deep breath and open the door.

What I meet is utter chaos. My children have dumped a box of plastic balls on the carpet. Broken crayons and torn coloring books littered the carpet like toddler-made confetti. My two offsprings look up with cherub-like expressions. Someone else must have made this mess.


Weren’t y’all just crying?

I swear I was gone for all of 30 seconds. How did they do this so fast?

“Where did you go, mommy? Why did you left us?” My oldest asks accusingly.

”I only left for a little bit, Munchkin. See I came right back,” I explain, avoiding the couples’ eyes.

This is SO janky! I hit a mental face palm while smiling confidently in my would-be clients’ directions. If they take off running and don’t look back, I wouldn’t blame them.

”Excuse the mess,” I say as unfazed as I could manage as I round the table to sit in my designated area. “Please have a seat,” I motion to the waiting chairs. “How can I help you?” I ask once they are both seated.

The next thirty minutes were filled with preventing my children from pushing over an office printer and shattering it into a million pieces, wrangling a chocolate bar the size of his head away from munchkin and eventually, obliging Thing 2 when he insisted on sitting in my lap as I offer legal counsel. In between dying from being utterly mortified, mothering and lawyering, I am able to piece together the clients’ story.

The wife came from the Czech Republic two years ago on a visitors visa. She was married at the time but her husband stayed behind. She meet the real love of her life while in the US and they decided to get married. She forgot to get divorced first before remarrying (really, ma’am?). What could they do?*

My advice was short and to the point. Annulment. You can’t get married while you’re married. Annul the second marriage because no court is gonna recognize it as legitimate while she’s still married.*

But the first marriage was all the way back home. No one would know if she didn’t tell them, she insisted.

I explained the paper trail that one leaves behind when dealing with international travel. Her visa application probably told the truth of her marital status. She can’t hide it now. Annul the second marriage and if you’re still in love, divorce your husband and remarry for real for real.**

We conclude their consultation and say our goodbyes. My kids are still operating with all the decorum of Tasmanian devils but that’s neither here nor there. What matters is we survived and I’m no more edge-less than I was when the morning began (thanks, Post-partum shedding 😒).

My nerves are completely SHOT! I decide it is time to head home. With my computer bag over one shoulder, my purse on the other arm. I grab hands with each kid and we march on to the car.

I open the door to put Thing 2 in his car seat first. I had to carry him for the walk in the parking lot because he was slowing us down but now my shoulders are burning like nobody’s business.

What have we been feeding you, little boy?

As soon as I release his hand to latch his little brother inside the car seat, my oldest takes off from my side. My heart leaps inside my throat!

He knows better! Even at the age of three he’s had multiple lessons on the dangers of cars and oncoming traffic. He usually makes it point to stay close to my side in parking lots and near streets.

But this is my fault too. I usually put him inside the car and close the door before I put his baby brother down. He saw a chance at freedom and he took it.

“Come here, NOW!” I say in my best disciplinarian voice.

He most have sensed my fury because he shuffles over quickly, his head down and mouth hanging.

”What did Mommy say about running where there’s cars?” I ask sternly, my heart still beating from the terror of what could have been.

“But, I want to get the dandy yayin (dandelion),” he mutters, bottom lip quivering.

I noticed the enticing weed sprouting up in the landscaping by the door.

“Are you suppose to run when there are cars outside though?” I ask, my anger subsiding since I am no longer terrified.

“No,” he admits, a rare occurrence.

“Okay, so you know we don’t do that. The next time, you disobey Mommy, you will be on punishment,” I state with finality. I usually leave the disciplinarian portion to my hubby but I can’t very well let the children run haywire while he’s at work.

Still can’t believe somebody gave me whole children to raise.

Every day I marvel that someone out there trusts me to be somebody’s mother. Most days I feel like the same 17 year old girl who got dropped off for her first day of college, petrified of getting things wrong and desperately wishing my mom was here to hold my hands. But nope. I’m somebody’s mama now. Two somebodies in fact. And I’m closer to 40 than 18.

No sooner did I put the car in reverse did munchkin announce, “Mommy, I’m hungeee!”

SMH! I have got to get my life together!

I’ve had these kids all afternoon and did not think about lunch. Just because I can go from morning to 6pm before having my first meal does not mean my children want to participate in my “I’m too busy to eat” Olympics.

They like food.  And I don’t blame them.

”Chick Fil A it is!” I announce enthusiastically to no one in particular. There’s no way a home cooked lunch is happening today and I don’t feel the least bit bad about it. As far as I’m concerned, CFA is God’s anointed restaurant so it doesn’t count as fast food.

When we pull up to the drive through, the line is at least 40 cars long and yet by some miracle (Jesus works the register Himself and the Holy Spirit fills the orders), we got our food within five minutes.

I told you, this place is anointed.

Thing 2 has fallen asleep on the ride so his older brother uses the opportunity to eat both orders of chicken strips because he was still “hungweee” after eating his own lunch and washing it down with two cups of CFA sauce.

The rest of my week was uneventful if you don’t count the “Instagram war” with an associate’s wife. Before you get all judgy on me, let me preface by saying it was not my fault. I saw them at a mutual friend’s wedding and said hello to both parties. For some reason, the lady took offense, took to my instagram page and cussed me slam out for being “disrespectful.” And she called me a fake born-again. I have zero clue what crawled up her breeches and I don’t intend to find out. I blocked and deleted both parties. I’m not one for dealing with a husband and not the wife. Y’all are one flesh so you can be blockt (with a T) together in one accord.

And that “fake born-again” thing could have really hurt my feeling if I was still a hypocrite. But me and Jesus sorted things out about nine years ago so I’m cool. I let the comment roll off my back and keep it pushing.

The best thing about having children this age is watching their relationships with each other. My kids are exactly two years and a week apart. I’m extra fertile in the summer, I guess.

Or maybe hubby is extra h-

Uhm…you know what?

Never mind.

The point is that having my kids so close together makes parenting the hardest job ever but it’s an absolute joy watching their friendship and bond develop.

Annnnnd, my oldest is 90% out of diapers. Not 100% but accidents are few and far between and he only needs Pull-ups for overnight sleeps. Considering that his diapers alone were costing me $50 a month, I’m glad to be almost done with this phase. And have you ever smelled a three year old’s poop? He smells like a grown man. That’s no baby. The last time he accidentally pooped in his underwear, I wanted to fight him. Like literally, square up little boy because you’ve offended all my senses and there will be retribution.

Putrid. Absolutely putrid. When that happens I throw his clothes away. Because who’s hand washing poop? And who’s putting that foul stench and matter into my good washing machine? Not I! My Nigerian people would call it being a “suffer head,” which I am not.

Throw the whole baby away, they said (the innanets). If I could lift him, believe me I would have.

The best part of my life is I get to watch my children grow up on a day to day basis even while earning an income for my family.

The “least best”  (there is no “worst”) part of my life is that I still haven’t mastered how to care for myself while caring for my family. When I neglect my needs (sleep, proper nutrition, therapy and self-care), everyone suffers – my husband, my children and even my clients.

I’m not always the wife, mom or professional I desire to be. I still worry about money because it feels like I don’t make enough. And ever so often I get this nagging feeling that another woman would do better with my life than I ever could.

But it’s not true.

Opening my life up this way is not about pretending perfection or even moaning and groaning about how difficult my roles are to navigate. My goal in sharing my confessions was to give you some insight into my day to day life and to remind myself that my circumstances do not have to be ideal for me to find joy, humor or contentment in my current stage in life.

Whatever point you find yourself in life, find what works for you and flourish. It doesn’t have to be perfect for you to own it


*fictional clients with a fictional scenario. I’m not giving y’all real life info because I like having a job.

**this is not legal advice for you, reader. This is a blog. If you want a consultation, call a lawyer (not someone who plays one on TV). 












Confessions Of A Work At Home Wife And Mom (Part 1)

4C5F79F9-E301-4212-80A8-1FC2DB594DD1.pngThe alarm blares in my ears and my heart does that automatic panic it does every morning when I attempt to get up without waking the kids.

7 A.M. already? It felt like I slept for 15 minutes. My eyes burned from the three o’clock cries of my almost two year old who still doesn’t sleep through the night. And the urine soaked sheets that had to be changed at 5 in the morning because his older brother had an accident. By the time I found new sheets for the bed and put a towel over the wet-spot, the sun was creeping up. Mocking my silent plea for just three hours of uninterrupted sleep.

It was not meant to be.

My husband had left for work two hours before sunrise. If I wanted a shower, this was my only window of time. I drag my weary body towards the master bath, trying to keep the house as quiet and still as my babies needed it to complete their 8 hours of rest. At this age, they should be sleeping for 12 hours each night!

Ha! In order to achieve that, I would have to keep them in bed till noon. Gone were the days when my youngest would fall asleep faithfully at 8PM each night. Even when we go through their bedtime routines by 7PM, they sit wide-eyed until 11:00/11:30 on most nights. It takes 10,000 cups of juice, water, milk and dozens of snack bribes before they run out of requests and sleep will no longer be denied.  Neither one of them will sleep without touching me in some form or fashion.

What happened to my sweet babies who slept in their bassinet or crib from the first day they arrived from the hospital? Toddlerhood has morphed them into these two men-in-training with personalities bigger than their combined 50 lb frames.

I love them with a fierceness that keeps me kissing their cheeks and praying for their futures even when my brain reminds me that I have not had one minute to myself today.

I turn on the shower to the hottest setting before entering. The scalding heat seems to melt my weariness away for a few minutes and I sink into the deliciousness of the water on my skin. Even when the kids are asleep, my mom brain tells me not to linger too long or one will wake up in tears and wake his brother. They panic when I’m not in the room to meet the morning with them. As if the house has swallowed their mom whole.

Ten or fifteen minutes is all I allow myself. I moisturize and move to my closet to choose my uniform for the day. These days, I dress with purpose. A collection of new dresses from my mom and Mom-in-love means I have options. Every day my outfit most reflect my new role as a woman who works from home. My look must be comfortable but polished. Professional yet low-key. Most days I go from making breakfast with the kids to making a run to the courthouse for a client to meeting a new client at the office. Wardrobe changes would only slow me down.

I choose a black and white sweater dress which is mid length and appropriate for all work duties. A new favorite since the weather decided our free trial of spring was over and temperatures now hover in the 40s on most days. Again, the dress reminds me to be grateful for hubby’s mom who knows my size instinctively no matter how it fluctuates, and who also happens to have amazing taste in clothes. In another life, she would make a superb personal shopper or stylist.

No sooner did I slip the dress on, my youngest cries “mom-my?” Their cries seem to affect me differently than it does their dad. If they are not hurt or in distress, my husband can tune them out for hours at a time. I, on the other hand, have heart palpitations whenever one of them seems to cry in pain. Even when they are crying just because it’s Tuesday, the noise interrupts the effective functioning of all my major organs. It’s a biological response. I literally cannot think straight when their crying is prolonged and uniterrupted.

I scoop up my youngest pumpkin and plant a kiss on his soft, brown cheek. “Good morning boo boo,” my nickname for both kids since they were en utero.

“Tood monin, Mommy.”

How could you not love that cuteness? The next two hours are filled with bath time, picking out clothes, dental hygiene and all the like as both kids are wide awake now and ready for breakfast. We head downstairs towards the kitchen and I turn the TV to PBS Kids or Rootle as it has been renamed. Breakfast is simple, pancakes that only need one minute in the microwave for a stack of three and my (almost) world-famous scrambled eggs with red peppers, tomatoes and onions – a family favorite. As the kids sit down to breakfast, the requests for juice, milk, Daddy, chocolate chip cookies or a new toy from the store pile on, uninterrupted. I say yes almost automatically. Not exactly promising anything but mainly attempting to get a few minutes of silence so that the food will actually make its way into their tummies.

My kids are a joy except when they are hungry (which is every 45 minutes). I am not trying to deal with toddler attitudes today so for all of our sanity’s sake, breakfast is a most.

It briefly dawned on me that I had been awake for three hours and have yet to sit down. I shrug off the thought as my youngest declares he is done with pancakes and hunts down a book for me to read aloud. It’s the same “First Words” book we’ve read 981 times at this point but it’s clearly a crowd favorite. Before I could sit down to oblige, my phone rings. The number an unfamiliar one, I hesitate briefly then answer. Hopefully it’s not a telemarketer.

”Hello, my name is *insert generic Yoruba name*  I got this number from *insert unique Yoruba name of someone I do not know*. Please how can I see you today? It’s urgent. I have some matters with immigration that someone said you can help me with.”

I take a mental deep breathe or sigh, careful not to make my thoughts audible.

Why do Nigerians do this to me? Even if the matter could be explained in five minutes over the phone or via email, they insist on meeting in person. I’ve resigned myself to our culture and no longer complain. Immediately I do some mental calculations. If I’m desperate (I am), I can ask my mom to watch the kids for me while I make this meeting. We are dressed already so it would take me 30 minutes to get the kids unloaded at my moms house and another 30 say goodbye and drive to my office.

“If you’re free now, I can meet you in an hour or so? Do you want to meet at my office by 11:30pm?” I offer.

”Yes, that will be fine. Please send me the address.”

”Okay, I will text you now. Thank you, sir,” I reply, hoping I sound gracious and professional, while trying to keep the children’s background noise to a minimum.

I scoop up shoes, jackets and preferred car toys in their various sizes and push the kids towards the garage. I open the door for my oldest munchkin and encourage him to get in his chair “like a big boy!” He does so with agility and I round the back of the car to buckle his baby brother in his car seat before returning to secure my first born. My arms are burning from the combined weight of my son and a mountain of jackets and toys but we are locked and loaded. Ten minutes later, we pull into my parents drive way. The ranch styled house took a while to grow on me after living in two stories my whole life but now it’s home too. I use my key and nudge the kids inside while I peep into the master bedroom to find my mom.


”Hey Baby!” She calls from the bathroom.

”I have a meeting at the office, can you watch the children for me?”

”Sure, that’s no problem. Go ahead and go. I’m coming out now,” my mom emerges from the bathroom smelling like flowers and warmth. Her hair still in a silk bonnet even though she’s dressed for the day.

”Thank you, Mama. I should be back in like two hours or so,” I give a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and dash off.

“Bye baby. Listen to Grandma,” I directed to no one in particular as I hug both boys. Within minutes I am driving towards my office. I arrive 15 minutes later and shoot a quick text to my appointment.

“Please call when you are in the parking lot so i can meet you in the lobby.” The winding hallway of our business building winds along in four different directions when you enter and it’s easy to get lost. Six years after moving in here, I still don’t know our suite number so I can never give it out with any semblance of confidence unless I am looking at the door.

I take a few minutes to tidy up my desk, find a notepad and move to the front desk that belongs to my office mate and colleagues. Her desk is more impressive than mine hidden behind the bookshelf that separates our work spaces so I prefer to meet clients there when she’s not in.

I rack my brain, trying to place the name of the person who referred this new prospective client to my office.


I’m better with faces than names so it could very well be someone I’ve spoken to dozens of times and I’ve never bothered to ask their name.

“I’m here,” my text messages buzz, interrupting my reverie.

“On my way,” I reply without a thought.

When I walk to the lobby, the only unfamiliar face belongs to a man, early thirties, skinny and dark complexion. I smile a hello and walk towards him.

“Mr. *generic Yoruba name*? I ask with an uncertain smile.

“Yes! Nice to meet you,” he replies, beaming as he extends his hand.

We shake hands and walk towards my office. “I’m glad you were able to find the building okay,” I say by way of conversation.

“Oh yes. You are very close to my uncle’s place. He lives on this side on town,” he volunteers.

When we sit down at my (colleague’s) desk, Mr Generic Yoruba Name begins telling me  the cause of his visit. Someone had told him that their sister’s cousin’s niece’s best friend got their green card by filing as a ward of the state. Did I know how he could do the same and how much would it cost?*

I explain that I have never heard of such a thing and that he should give me time to investigate it.

Do I know if he could travel to Nigeria if he’s visiting visa is about to expire?*

We went over the stipulations of his visa and after twenty more minutes of questions, he was satisfied and ready to take his leave. He promises to follow up with me if anything changes and I also determine to look into the matters we discussed to see if there was any merit to the information he was given.

When he leaves, I check in with my office-mate who informs me that one of my traffic clients dropped off a past due payment. It’s in the office on my desk. I walk back over to my desk and notice the inconspicuous blank envelope under my printer.

The money is enough to pay a utility bill at home and put gas in my car for the week.

After making the deposit into my business operating account, I head back towards my parents’ house. I actually need to sit down and write today. And I need to eat. My hunger pangs remind me that I skipped breakfast this morning and haven’t stopped for lunch yet.

It’s okay.

When I get back to my parent’s house, I grab a banana and a piece of baked chicken from the oven. The kids are lost in the magic of Disney Junior so after their initial squeal of glee at my entrance, they go back to ignoring me, fixated on the screen. I sit down and savor my snack. I could go home now to write which may or may not happen because being back home with both kids in tow means going back to running back and forth fixing snacks, getting toys, changing diapers, assisting with potty breaks, breaking up fights, cleaning up messes and praying desperately for nap-time

At least if I stayed at my parent’s house for a couple of more hours, I had some help. After relaxing for 30 minutes, I bite the bull by the horn. It’s time to head home. I want to figure out dinner before my husband gets home at 6pm. I load up all our diaper bags and toys and my mom helps me buckle the boys into their seats, and we are off.

By the time we pulled up to our garage, both boys are asleep. I say a silent thank you to God and gingerly unload them. My oldest sleeps like the dead when he naps. I unload him first, laying him on the coach and carefully removing his coat and shoes before returning for his younger brother.

My youngest pumpkin stirs in protest as I move him out of his car seat. My heart thumps within me. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. He quiets back down and I find my breathe again. I lay him on the couch with the care of a bomb-squad disengaging a homemade explosive. One wrong move and the whole house will explode into chaos and I can kiss writing (or peeing by myself) goodbye until their dad gets home.

By some miracle, we made it without either child waking up. I sit down to work on my novel. I started the story when my youngest was a newborn and abandoned it at various times because of the challenges of motherhood. But inspiration has been calling to me over the past weeks and it will not be denied today. As the story of Nora and her loved ones unfolds before my screen, I look down to discover that two hours have gone by. Time to get dinner ready.

I need something easy and delicious.

Fried whiting, baked sweet potatoes and mixed vegetables. I make quick work of the dinner preparation and when my husband walks in, I’m washing the last of the dishes.

“Hi, hunny!” I greet him with a grin and a hug before planting a kiss on his lips.

“Hey!” He replies with a twinkle in his eyes, his gaze roving over my body in appreciation.

He still makes me blush.

(Look out for Part 2)


*Conversations portrayed here are fictional renditions of the types of inquiries I get at my office. I would NEVER actually disclose the contents of my conversation with a client because client-confidentiality is a thing (a big thing) and so is the State Bar. I don’t want those problems.


Dreams of Destiny

When I was 26, I had a dream, desire and vision for a ministry geared towards pre-college-aged girls. I knew it was from the Lord because it resonated so deeply with the burden of my heart. So I hit the ground running and started in my church at the time. Daughters of Destiny, girls between the ages of 13 and 18 who would be mentored on a weekly basis via Bible study, prayer and open dialogue about the issues that affect their age-group. Everything the Lord gave me, I gave them. They were my babies as much as they were my little sisters in Christ. Their destinies mattered to me. Their future was my greatest concern. I wanted them to win where I had failed. I wanted them to reach adulthood without being shattered versions of their true selves. I wanted them to know Christ for real and to walk in wholeness. We prayed. We fasted. We fought. We made up. We persevered and we learned from one another. I made plenty of mistakes with these young ladies as a young woman myself who had no previous experience or training in ministry. I got my feelings hurt. I wanted to quit. I wore my heart on my sleeve and more than once, I allowed their teenage angst and anger to creep into my dealings with them. In a lot of ways, I was not the matured adult in the room because the ministry was my baby as much as the girls themselves and any attack on either felt personal and I took it as such. Ultimately, what started as a group of 13, 14 and 15 year olds grew with the girls and I watched my babies graduate high school, head off to college and the pursuit of their dreams. I cherish the honor of being part of each of their success in one small way or another. I remember each young lady in that group that God gave me with deep fondness and I still feel a fierce responsibility and protectiveness over them even as they are now in their early and mid twenties and flourishing quite well without my guidance. I miss them but there is no going back. That chapter in our lives is over. I now have the joy of praying for them as adult women who are making their own choices. I pray that the faith of their parents has become theirs on such a personal level that they cannot severe themselves from the cause of Christ. And I pray that they exceed me in all of their accomplishments because all of them are filled with talents beyond my wildest aspirations.

Mentoring and teaching these girls put me in touch with destiny, my own. They showed me how deep my love for the younger generation goes. They were my first training ground. Without rising and falling with them in tow, I would never have learned the importance of seasoning  biblical truth with a generous helping of love. Watching them blossom even today reinforces my passion for mentoring. Everyone needs a mentor, present company included.

That same glimpse of destiny keeps me restless when I see a young person in need. As we speak, I am itching to gather the young ones around me (age 11 to 16) like a mother hen to ask them the questions I wish someone would have asked me at that age. I want to be to them what I did not have in middle school and high school. But for everything there is a season, and I refuse to move prematurely. I have no plans of “starting a ministry” even one that addresses the demographic of young people who currently melt my heart. For now and for the rest of my days, I plan of blooming where I am planted. As the Lord directs my steps to meet young people who need compassion from an adult, who need guidance that is biblical yet friendly, I will respond.

I will tell them the truth but not before I assure them that they are loved. I will show them my scars to spare them my trauma. I will teach them to find God for themselves and I will walk with them even when they disappoint me. I will not judge them but I will not lie to them about the consequences of sin. I will not command them but I will guide them towards truth. I will not “lord” over them but I will live to demonstrate why even the foolish things of God are better than the wisdom of man.

This is my pledge as I continue to dream dreams of destiny.


Forgiving Me


I am used to forgiving myself for the mistakes I made before I came to Christ, knowing that God has given me a new beginning. For some reason, it is much harder for me to show myself grace for things I have done incorrectly after receiving Christ. I have access to the One who has all wisdom and knowledge and I am still making stupid mistakes? Ugh! (insert face palm)

Without a doubt, the thing that was missing from the first 26 years of my life was a sense of purpose. For as long as I could remember, my only job was to go to school and do well. Of course I had responsibilities as a young person in my parents home but the bulk of their expectation for me lied in my academic success. So I did that. After finding my feet in middle school following my move from one continent to the other, then again in high school after changing schools in the middle of the year, I excelled. I maintained high marks in school. I went to college and killed the game academically. I graduated with honors and met my goal of going to law school. Law school was a beast of a different nature but by God’s grace, I finished and I passed the bar on my first attempt. My purpose for those 23 years was to go to school and do well.

Done and done.

However, I did an extremely poor job of preparing myself for life after graduation; so without academic goals to meet, I found myself floundering for a sense of purpose at the age of twenty-four. My dream job never materialized and I was completely unprepared for not having opportunities fall into my lap. I did not know how to market myself or be aggressive in pursuing the salary I desired or deserved so I lagged behind, waiting on anyone who would drop the perfect opportunity in my lap because they liked me.

Encountering Christ in 2009 filled my life with purpose but I did not allow Him to direct my career. I had given up on myself career-wise so I poured myself into spiritual enterprises. I flourished spiritually even as my career shrank. I convinced myself that material success did not matter and buried my head in the sand, preferring to invest my time in my spiritual growth. My purpose was to expand the Kingdom of God and I was trying to convince myself that going to school for 19 years (I started when I was 4) was just fulfilling my duties; it had nothing to do with my calling in Christ.

It was a lie. I was avoiding addressing my shortcoming because it hurt my pride to think I could be failing in such a necessary area. The year 2009 should have been the year I took the bull by horns and addressed my fear of career-failure. It should have been the year I began the process of perfecting my craft in order to monetize my gifts. But I squandered a golden opportunity. Looking back almost nine years later, I still kick myself for “starting late.” So many of the holes that I had to dig myself out of in my 30’s would be non-issues had I not squandered the gift of time given to me all those years ago.

But I am glad God is a Redeemer. Even though I was allowing my gifts to waste away rather than letting them make room for me and bring me before great men, God did not allow me to rot to nothing. He has used various means over the past 10 years to keep me creating – this blog being the greatest of the avenues to keep my dreams alive during those desert years.

My dreams are finally big enough to scare me. These are not vain ambitions or delusions of grandeur but ideas and thoughts that have been part of my understanding of myself for as far back as I can remember. The things that I find myself doing with ease, that fill my life with joy and purpose also happen to be areas of need in the lives of those that I meet or those to whom I am already connected. I am still forgiving myself for not starting earlier. I regret the wasted years but I am encouraged that God who dwells in eternity can make time work in my favor.

If you are sitting on your dreams and waiting on the perfect time to start, allow me to be the push that you need from the Lord. There is no perfect time. Start today. Start now.