Chaos, Curiosity, and a Lesson from the Ball Pit

By Jo Teunissen – Director of the Durban North Baby Home

A few days ago, we took the boys to Bounce. You know the scene, balls flying everywhere, kids bouncing off walls, shrieks of laughter echoing across the trampoline park. The boys were living their best lives, diving headfirst into the ball pit, climbing, running, and basically testing the laws of gravity. Meanwhile, I was doing the usual parent thing, constantly counting heads, making sure they were not trying to kill each other, making sure no one had escaped or gone missing in the chaos of the pit. Every parent out there knows the feeling. It’s like trying to navigate a room full of sugar fuelled squirrels. one moment they’re there in front of you, the next they’re scaling the do not enter zone, and you’ll never know what will end up stored in their cheeks.

Our own family already looks different when we go out ,people notice, people stare. But when you add the Baby Home crew to the mix, well… we really turn heads. And that’s fine, of course, but it comes with the usual side effect: questions. Lots of questions.

While I was sitting catching my breath, counting head bobbing up and down in the ball pit, a lady nearby, watching her grandchildren, leaned over and asked, “Which one is your child?” I answered politely and pointed out my crew. She asked again. And then, on the third try, she said, with what I can only describe as surprise and a hint of confusion, “But… they are black.”

At first, I laughed. Out loud. I mean, what else can you do? It’s awkward, a little funny, and almost ridiculous in its bluntness. I did a brief explanation of who we are and why I have so many kids. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized — yes, they are black. Yes, there are a lot of them. And yes, so what? What difference does that make? What difference should that make? 

It’s moments like this that make me think about visitors at the Baby Home. People come here to visit, knowing it’s a home for orphaned and abandoned babies. They understand, in theory, that these children are vulnerable and precious. And yet, curiosity always creeps in. Some feel entitled to know every detail: How did the baby come here? Why didn’t their parents keep them? How were they conceived? Do you get white children? What’s this ones story?

Now, imagine if this were normal everywhere. Walking up to a colleague at work and asking, “So, how happy were you as a kid?” Or leaning over to your barista and saying, “Who raised you?” Weird, right? That’s exactly what it feels like when people ask personal questions about our babies or make comments in public.

The truth is, children are not conversation starters. They are not exhibits. They are not “inspiration material” for strangers at the trampoline park. They are kids, with histories and stories that belong to them — and only them.

We have learned to navigate these public appearances like pros. We count heads, check the ball pit three times, make sure no one is lost, and remind the kids to share, to play safely, to laugh. And yes, sometimes people stare. Sometimes they ask questions. But the lesson here is simple: kids are not objects of curiosity, and their stories are not ours to tell.