Today, my baby — my miracle — Olivia Lindiwe de Lange turns five. Five whole years of personality, sass, genius-level questions, and occasional emotional blackmail.
She is the love of my life, my soft place, my loudest teacher, and the most beautiful plot twist I’ve ever experienced.
Let’s start here: when Olivia was born, she came out looking like someone else's baby. I mean that in the most literal sense. She was so white — pink, even — that nurses, white people, security guards, and concerned aunties everywhere felt entitled to investigate. “Whose child is this?” they’d ask, as I breastfed my child. One white woman once asked me politely, “Do you know her mother?” Ma’am. I AM the mother. I’ve got the cracked nipples and c-section scar to prove it.
Black people were just as confused: “Sisi, where do you work? Are they still looking for a nanny?” No, mama. But I am available for career coaching because clearly I’m doing something right.
Despite the confusion, Olivia came out swinging — not literally, but definitely with that main-character energy. She never crawled. Not even once. One day she was lying there, blinking at me like “I’m observing.” Then boom — she stood up and walked like she had somewhere to be. Just like that. No warning. No wobbles. Just a baby-sized Beyoncé strutting across my lounge with authority.
Now listen, being a first-time mom is not for the weak. They say “you’ll know what to do when the baby comes.” Lies. The only thing I knew was panic. I was the president of Panic Mechanics Anonymous.
Her first sneeze? I was on Google. Her first fart? Emergency room. Her first fever? I called a prayer line, a paediatrician, AND a traditional healer. I had her wrapped in blankets at 26 degrees. I slept with one eye open for the first year. Honestly, motherhood felt like one long night shift with no HR department.
And then came her first fall — oh, dear God.
She slipped off the couch while trying to climb like a baby goat. She bumped her head gently on a carpet. Olivia cried for five seconds. I cried for 45 minutes. I was ready to resign. I was pacing like I’d failed as a parent.
I even called my mom in tears, and she calmly asked, “Is the baby still crying?” “No,” I sniffed. “She’s watching cartoons.” “Then go sit down, Zintle. You’re disturbing her peace.”
This child, honestly. She didn’t even wait to grow into her personality. By age two, she had more opinions than an ANC conference. At three, she told me she doesn’t like boring clothes. At four, she asked if people in heaven get tired of flying.
At five, she’s already counselling me when I look sad. “Mommy, don’t worry. You’re strong and beautiful. Do you want my last sweetie?” I always take it. Because... duh.
Raising Olivia in a country like ours — with all its race politics, patriarchy, and awkward stares — has been a journey. She is from a mixed marriage, but she is fully rooted. Fully mine. And I’ve had to learn how to raise a child who doesn’t look like me in a world that still doesn’t know how to mind its business.
But let me tell you — this child is culture, intelligence, and fire rolled into one tiny, talkative powerhouse.
She’s well-spoken. Emotionally brilliant. And dramatic enough to win an Oscar for her daily outfit selections. She dances like she owns the floor. She speaks like she’s addressing Parliament. She hugs like she invented affection. And I look at her every day and think, How did I get this lucky?
Today, she’s five. But in my heart, she’s every version of herself I’ve ever loved — from the white baby I had to defend in Woolies, to the toddler who walked like she had rent to pay, to the brave, beautiful girl she is now.
She is the reason I get up. The reason I fight. The reason I stay soft in a hard world.
Happy birthday, my light. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for surviving my panic. And thank you for making every day of my life more magical (and more expensive).
Mama loves you, Olivia. Always and forever.
Happy birthday mntanam omhle.
