Fubby

As of late, The Trolls, my two hilarious teenage sons, have started calling me ‘Fubby’.

Having called me a bunch of wayward nicknames during our lives together (I’ve been called ‘Mom-o-soar’, ‘MomZilla’ and ‘Madam’ for at least a couple of years now), I’ve grown accustomed to the boys addressing me in various ways.

We’re talkers, my little tripod family and I, and saying weird things to each other is our love language.

Some families are huggers. Meh. Hugging creeps me out. Thank God now, due to Covid-19, hugging is officially not a thing any more. Some families are do-ers. The only thing we really like doing is snacking. And some families are achievers.

Uhm. We’ve achieved how to really like each other.

Don’t laugh. That’s a massive feat. You’d be surprised at how many families really can’t stand each other.

But back to Fubby. That’s what the kids call me now. According to Troll 2, the youngest and more talkative of the two, Fubby is a combination of Fat and Chubby, and is apparently the perfect word for what my body resembles lately. Naturally, as a female I was outraged when at first I heard his explanation and demanded he show me exactly which parts of my body garnered such horrendous judgement.

He (quite successfully, I might add) pointed out 20.

And I haven’t tried defending myself or my body image ever since.

And now, weeks later, I kind of really like my new name. Fubby sounds happy and warm. Like a mom is supposed to be. And as nicknames go, I think it’s the perfect combination of sweet and embarrassing.

There are so many bad things which transpired this past week. So many things which could have wrecked my sanity. So many things which should have broken my heart. So many things which threatened to derail my spirits, and so many things which almost saw me lose the last bit of hope I clung onto.

For one, Walvis Bay burned this week. Literally. And it rocked me to the core to see those flames engulf the night sky. People died this week. People I knew.

I got diagnosed with hypertension this week, after days of not understanding why I always felt dizzy, always felt weak and always felt like I was literally going to tumble over and die.

And to top it off, those Covid-19 numbers just kept on rising and rising.

But it’s the small things I’ve decided to focus on today. Because being able to see the silver lining is a skill so many of us are in dire need of.

This is the scary, confusing, sad ‘new normal’ we’ve been warned about, and as Darwin put it so many years ago, it’s the ability to adapt, not strength, not intelligence, that will see us survive as a species.

And the only way I know how to adapt to any of the crazy changes we’re pushed collectively to deal with recently, is just to be grateful for the small everyday things, and love the hell out of the people who love me back.

I call my loved ones every day just to say ‘I love you’.

I smile at strangers. I dance in the kitchen with my boys. I wear my mask. I wash my hands.

I adapt.

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