I awoke this morning to the sound of little feet scurrying into my room. Another day, another peanut butter and jelly sandwich to pack. I usually look out my window to get a glimpse at the weather. I’m still not trained to read the weather report. Wind and rain swooping in from the West usually changes to a report of sunny skies by the time I check again anyway. The effect of global warming is really messing with my outfit choices. This time, though, the changing atmosphere triggers thoughts of Kenya, its atmosphere, and the recent journey I was lucky enough to take there. With aerial views of Kilimanjaro welcoming me home to the motherland, I descended into Nairobi, city of over 3 million. The traffic from the airport reminded me, quite unfondly, of home. A 20-minute drive to my hotel, easily took an hour. Obscene amounts of adults and youths walked along Uhuru Highway to work and school. I unfairly assumed that they couldn’t afford cars. While that may have been true for many, I resolved that they were just plain smart; walking was way faster than driving.

I wondered if African moms had family calendars hanging on their kitchen walls, and if they were as obsessed with time management as many American moms. With the recent political unrest in Kenya, many of the mothers were hitting the pavement daily to find work. Some had been recently let go because every facet of the economy there has suffered. I flashback to what’s happening in my own home. My four kids ask me daily, “Are you going on an interview today? Will you be home, when we get home from school?” In my sweetest voice, I tell them that I will probably see them before bedtime. There are no guarantees for me or many American moms right now. The topics of war, rising gas prices, low wages, and no wages litter our conversation–and in between many of us pray for change. Walking through the streets of Nairobi, I see a lot of the hustle and bustle characteristic of a large city. Stimulated by everything I see, I almost forget that there are problems in Kenya—until I see a homeless woman. Why are ghosts of home following me? I was expecting to come to Africa and find everyone eating food from gardens they grew, local enterprises thriving and villages raising children. When I see a sign that reads “Tujenge Uchumi Yetu!” (‘Let’s Build Our Nation!”), it hits me that I was still home in many ways. A trip to coastal Mombassa revealed a more tropical setting, but the same spirits lived there. I met a woman named Wanjiru who was fortunate to still have a job at a hotel, though many hotels had closed due to crippled tourism. She was educated and the mother of an eight-year-old girl obsessed with all things tap—she wanted to be a dancer. My heart warmed as I shared that my own daughter begged me every 20 days without fail to take ballet classes again.  Wanjiru was trying to fit her daughter’s dream into her work schedule while I was trying to fit my daughter’s dream into my budget. Six months ago, my schedule was the issue. I was looking in the mirror. Wanjiru has a clutch of ostriches in her backyard and Kilimanjaro as her backdrop. I have a band of persistent squirrels in mine with the Statue of Liberty as my backdrop. We are different in many ways. But I as I stuff a PBJ into a backpack, I remember that providing for our families through meaningful work, and raising a healthy and happy family, despite the struggles, is on both of our horizons. 

Wilma Ann Anderson is editor-in-chief, publisher and cofounder of MahoganyBaby.com.