Aisha Iqbal

Intown. Suburb. And the dilemma of heart and mind.

2012-02-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

Our house hunt continues in full force and though we've narrowed our lengthy housing options to two, it's not making the decision any easier since the two we heart are diametrically opposed to each other.

I love where I currently live. I love our local park and the faces now becoming familiar. I love Waleed playing with other kids, regulars like him, and I love the front porches of the charming bungalows lining the streets. I love the school system, the walkability and I want to live in this area more than anything in the world--- but:

The homes are old and small [at least in our price point, we wandered into an open house for a Tudor and had to pretend to nod straight-faced as the agent informed us the 2,200 sq ft home was approximately 900K. That's all? Hm, if it wasn't for the kitchen I'd make an offer today. Hideous darling. Get me my mink we're out of here] they also have no garages and our parents would probably pass out before they crossed the threshold.

For these reasons we expanded our search to another area, equally close to K's job, but more suburban in feel. Definitely close to highways, good schools, [and while some intown folks scoff at chains, I do admit I love me some Macaroni Grill] and most definitely we could get double the house for the exact same price--- but:

When we go to the in-town showings, neighbors stop and say hello. They coo over Waleed and tell us we'll love the neighborhood [which, is so amazing in the South. To be brown. And wanted] We see children riding trikes while mothers plant petunias and well, our eyes gloss over and the world looks rose colored and we just would rather not live anywhere in the whole world.

I like both areas. But I like them for completely different reasons. One appeals to my heart. The other to my practicality. I want Waleed to grow up amongst wonderful neighbors and culture. I also would love a spacious bathroom an open floor plan instead of a series of boxed rooms and a two car garage. But I can't have both.

Some scoff at the 'suburban' concerns saying community is earned not inherited which is probably true to a point but I've lived in suburbia [albeit that one was a true 'burb not remotely near the city] and I know sometimes you just can't make community happen. But multiple children in a 3/2 bungalow will get incredibly tight.

It's so hard to decide between community or house. I worry I'm making too much out of community since one does live in their house. Or making too much out of house since good community has intangible benefits. Our agent jokes he's providing us the buffet of options but we have to pick which dish to eat. Except unlike a meal, home buying is a semi-permanent decision involving a lot more cash than tacos and the two choices are so vastly different, K and I just sit there wondering which way to step, afraid if we pick one we'll regret the other, and if we pick the other we'll regret the former. And regret leaves a bitter aftertaste. My heart screams intown. My brain gives a stern no. And since these two halves make my whole, I'm a very confused individual indeed.

What would you do?

This here life

2012-01-31T09:58:00.001-05:00

Baby woke at eight o'clock. But I woke at seven [because he's sleep-trained me thus]. Spent the morning putting on diapers [backwards], searching for glasses [on my head] and a phone call from a frantic friend wondering if I was quite alright what with the twenty-five missed calls from me with unintelligible messages [Waleed]

In good news he added a new word to his limited verbal repertoire this morning. In addition to highly necessary ones such as tractor, ducky, and doggy, he now stands at the foot of our bed, hands on hips, bellowing GREG! [our real estate agent who I assure you we do not speak to quite so forcefully]. We narrate all the live long day words like dood [milk], khana [food], and diaper-time, but he walks around gleefully shouting hathi [elephant], Jesus, and now, Greg. Which, while any new word is great, the words he chooses to pick up on are well, quite befuddling. Still, a word is a word. I'll take it.

As I head to the park with ~~Tigger on ten shots sugar~~ my son, I take solace in the coffee shop next door. And the refills that will be had. Coffee, surely it was invented for days exactly like these?

On the arrival of terrible twos. And swatting.

2012-01-30T00:10:00.001-05:00

My son while not speaking much, is advanced in other areas such as running, climbing, and throwing, and as it turns out, he's decided he doesn't need to wait for the big two point oh to jump right into the once-thought-to-be-mythical but now very real-so-very-real terrible twos.

To be fair, there's a lot of awesomeness. Like the mad-crazy-love. The curiosity at literally everything. The imitating [sometimes embarrassing when done in the company of others as your son finds tweezers and proceeds to 'do' his eyebrows], and the sleeping, oh dear God the sleeping is eternally beautiful and I will forever love this part of growing up.

But back to those terrible twos.

I'm okay with the new pickiness over all things food [and the tossing to the floor of all things food, which if you have advice, I will love you forever] but its the other new development that is getting to me: specifically, the swatting. My gentle little chipmunk who is usually the one beat upon at playgrounds and in livingrooms everywhere is now the one raising his baby hands at others. And this stern former-teacher who could stop children in their tracks with the look is absolutely baffled as to how to address this since my kid? He seems to think the look is the funniest thing ever.

In his defense, he doesn't go up to children to smack them, he does it when they enter into what he perceives as his personal space, such as entering the 'toy house' in the playground he was in first, or any other circumstance in which he feels like he needs to 'defend himself'. The swat is not hard. It could almost be confused for him patting the child on the head. And it has yet to provoke a cry. Most children just look at him with a confused expression and carry on their business. And while Baby Center tells me this is normal, it's still swatting, it could get painful when he develops more strength, and well, it's still not cool.

When the situation occurs, I get on eye-level, hold his hands firmly in mine and tell him no. I tell him we do not put our hands on people this way. I then take his hand and run it gently over my cheek to model gentle behavior and if we know the child affected, I take his hand and model gentle pat on the shoulder to show that if he must touch, this is how. He gets it in that moment, he looks down with puppy dog eyes, he models the behavior I showed him, and then ten minutes later, he completely forgets again.

He is not destructive or mean-spirited, but I don't want the swatting to lead to hitting or punching and want to stop it now at this particular phase. It's tough because I see in the moment, when a child is up in his grill, he doesn't pause to think, he swats, and well, I'm just confused as to how most effectively deal with this new turn of events in the ever changing parenting game.

How are you handling, or plan to handle, the discipline thing? Ever faced swatting? How did you successfully solve it? Or are you reading this with marker stained jeans and egg discards in your hair and are just glad to hear you're not the only one?

Waleed versus Crib. Waleed: 2. Crib: 0. Mama: Frazzled. [**Updated]

2012-01-24T13:05:00.003-05:00

Just yesterday K and I had the following conversation:

K: When do you think we should transition him into a toddler bed?
Me: Maybe when he's three?
K: Not sooner? Like when we get a house?
Me: That crib is the only reason he agrees to sleep. He can escape a toddler bed. He can't escape a crib.

Why did I tempt fate by having this conversation? Don't I know better?

Because as of twenty minutes ago? He can climb out of his crib. Twice. I put him in for his nap. I leave the room. Two minutes later, grinning baby in PJs in the living room. I moved the rocking chair to the other end of his room. I took away his bumper. Two minutes later, the pitter patter of little feet on hardwood floors. K came home and Waleed eagerly demonstrated how:

And while its good to know how he does it. I also need to figure out how to stop it. Because this? This is bad. This is very very bad. I'm going to put him in his sleep sack for the next attempt since I'm assuming that might make things more challenging for him, but I can't transition him to a toddler bed yet since we're in a microscopic condo and we really want to stick with the furniture we have, and also because if we put him in a toddler bed how will we ever convince him to sleep since its so easy to jump out of a toddler bed? Though I guess its getting easy for him to jump out of a crib too.

As I watch him stroll around the condo in his footed PJs inspecting books and relocating our shoes, I sense a self-satisfied pride in his gait. While I do want him to assert his sense of self, I do not want it asserted in Houdini-like-crib-escapes. Any advice, commiseration, sympathy will be rewarded in eternal gratitude from this very befuddled and quite overwhelmed mama.

Love Insh'Allah officially released TODAY [and a give-away] THE WINNER IS . . . . SHAWNA :)

2012-01-24T09:54:00.004-05:00

Love Insh'Allah hit stands today! The same day the New York Times wrote this fantastic piece on it! And the book? It's already in its second printing! This is thanks to you. I know many of you already purchased the book but would you like an extra one to gift to someone? To celebrate release day I'm giving away one book. Want it? Leave a comment that say so. Contest ends 8pm EST 1/25/12. Proud to be a contributing author to the collection and as I revise my own novels, I hope one day soon I'll be sharing those with you too.

Based on Random.Org, Shawna you won the free copy!!! Please e-mail me by week's end with your address [aishacs at gmail dot com] and I will send it your way!

Where I'm From

2012-01-23T00:27:00.002-05:00

I am from kinu fields and orange groves

From green bangles and crayola crayons

I am from Saved By The Bell and Garfield on childhood Saturday mornings.

I am from schoolyard bullies and sleepover slumber parties

From pizza and taco night and buttery potato parathas.

I am from Amelia Badelia, and Pele's Coat. From Sweet Valley High and Babysitters Club. From Judy Blume and Irene Hunt.

I am from library cards and backyard swing sets, from carvel ice cream, and constant make believe.

I am from notebooks filled with stories written not from want but insatiable need.

I am from chai cups, and dinner parties, from mixed tapes, and BFF heart chains.

From sandy beaches and long pants, from warm sunny skies and skin lighteners.

I am from Harpers Ferry and Days Inn. From Disney World and road trips.

And brothers, rotating in the same orbit of my universe.

I am from Hurricane Andrew that leveled my life and from the laughter at nail polish that remained unscathed as the world lay in fits of debris at our feet.

I am from farmers, and land owners, from Hindus and Turks. From converts and reverts. From a man who took a plane ride from the only place he knew to a place he never saw, and from a woman who also chose to do the same.

From the streets of Cordova, Costa Rican volcanoes, Blue Mosques and the crashing waves of Oahu,

From Midwestern snow days, Little Panda and sushi. I am from hookah, and Friday dinners,

and from my safe space to land.

I am from those that never were.

I am from the one that is.

Thankful to Tracy for sharing this meme with me, one that was harder to write than I could have imagined but well worth the effort. As a Pakistani-American who is asked this question on a regular basis, it's therepeutic to consider where one is truly from, the experiences that make our life. I'm sure I will be revising and adding to this poem as time goes on. If you wish to do one to share on your own blog or to write privately, here is one of the links as to how to do it. Most don't follow the template, but no matter how you choose to write it, you'll be glad you did.

International Blog Delurking Week

2012-01-19T00:10:00.000-05:00

It's that time again! International Delurking Week!!!! Okay, well, sort of. It may or may not have happened last week, but, I just found out about it now, and I reason, that if one forgot Valentines Day it didn't mean they couldn't give flowers and chocolates on some other day and make it just as special? Its just a part of life after the 'RSS feed' that more people read your blog than actually leave a comment. Since there's a week set out out to delurk, I thought I'd ask if you're reading to stop and say hi! As the lovely Mel put it on her blog:

It is fairly easy. Leave a comment in the comment section below admitting you’re here. You can simply raise your hand and meekly admit you’re here with a simple, one-word “here”; or you can proudly raise your hand and tell us all a bit about yourself (my preferred method); or you can tell me what type of cookie you’d be if you were a lump of cookie dough. The point is I want to know about the people who read me.

Are you a blogger who also forgot about International Delurk-N-Say-Hi week? It's not too late to post this yourself! [and then I won't feel like the only one on date night at a fancy restaurant with a big pink bear on February 18th] Either way, if you're reading this [yes, you!] thank you for reading, and do say hello! please? pretty please? :)

Talking, and the fact that he's not.

2012-01-17T00:19:00.001-05:00

Waleed flipped over at three weeks. He crawled at five months and took his first step in month nine. He ran by year one and races up and down stairs like he owns them. Was I one proud momma at these milestones reached earlier than the checklists stated? Did I boast as though I was personally responsible? In the words of a certain someone, you betcha.

The other day at the playground, a cute 'Jerry Maguire' kid of four [I know, he told me] attempted to engage in a lengthy conversation with my son who stared at him like he sprouted three noses. Said child, turned to me:

Max: Why isn't he talking.
Me: Well, he's still a baby.
Max: How old is he?
Me: He's a year and a half
Max: My dad said I was talking by then. He said I talked before I could walk. He said talking is more important than walking. Walking isn't a big deal.

Touche.

It brought up again the nagging thought, like a kernel in my shoe, that my sweet little guy? He doesn't talk much. Don't get me wrong, he understands stuff. He understands when we tell him not to do something, he helps clean up, putting his bottle up on the table, and no one can convince me he didn't understand when I told him I was going to get a job. He gets stuff, but he doesn't say stuff short of a handful of words [15] none of which are really to communicate save bus [stop/done]. And I can't help but wonder: should I be worried?

His doctor thinks its because he's bilingual though I know bilingual kids in his age range who speak quite a lot. My best friend thinks its because I didn't talk to him enough in the early months, which, I love her and it might be true, but ouch. My mom thinks some kids walk earlier, some kids walk later, and some kids speak earlier and some kids walk later, and at the end of the day it will be okay.

His doctor said if he's not gabbing it up by two, that's when the worry bells go off especially since in my case he's learning two languages simultaneously, but he's creeping up close to that special day, and while I'm not panicking, weepy, or wringing my hands, as a mother, I can't lie and tell you I'm not a touch concerned.

Anyone have any personal experience with this? When did your kids start chatting, bilingual or otherwise? Any advice to help further language? I sometimes feel tempted to switch to just one language in the hopes that it will help him speak sooner, but bilingualism is such a gift. Any advice, perspective, opinion much appreciated!

On motherhood. Presence. And the lack thereof.

2012-01-14T00:55:00.000-05:00

I consider myself a very present mother.

I don't mean that I have this whole parenting thing down, because I most certainly don't. I don't mean I sit and play with him constantly, because while we do play, he's happy independently playing and I give him the space he thrives in. It also doesn't mean I watch him like a hawk, he's always in sight but I do cook, clean, or read a book sometimes and my eyes are only two.

My definition of present as I mean it is I am very attuned to my son. I am in a state of marvel that he's mine. I truly genuinely enjoy the moments with him, especially the cute ones that grab your heart and squish it like when he walks around in his father's shoes, or picks up a book squealing with delight. I even am present in the tougher moments when he won't sleep, or his tummy hurts, or he's just in a bad mood. In those moments I am no where else but there, in that moment.

It's been a rough few days, tissue and tears rough. Nothing life or death, but just difficult, and involving phone calls and inconveniences and worry and frustration and helplessness that's taking up a lot of mental head space. Mental head space away from Waleed.

For Waleed ofcourse, life is gravy. I envy the days that I had at his age, when surely my parents managed stressors and worried but as a toddler I was blissfully unware. [Ofcourse I was also unaware that I was unaware]. I'm doing everything I should. His physical needs are met, his naps are on time, we've played hide and seek and had piggy back rides and trips to the park and I read to him all the stories his heart desires.

But inside, in my heart, that precious mental head space, I'm not present.

As I hide Pooh for him to find, I think about the things plaguing me. As I spoon out his food, I consider the options. As I change his diaper, singing songs and chatting, I worry the options won't work. I'm physically doing but I'm not mentally doing. I'm giving him myself, but not all of myself. As far as I can tell, this is the first time this has happened.

When I was nine, my brother Ali, five, wanted to play with me. I still remember sitting on a lawn chair in our patio immersed in a book I just couldn't put down. Play with me, he begged me. When I'm done, I told him. You're always reading, he cried. I watched him leave and shrugged. Now? I don't remember the name of the book. But I remember the moment I was not present for my brother.

This isn't the same thing, but in some ways it feels that way. The way I smiled at him half distracted as he stomped about in his Abu's boots. The way I let him watch an hour of Sesame Street not for its educational value but so he could be absorbed in something while I addressed other things. The way I gave him a Cliff Bar when he fought me on his lunch because at least he could eat it by hand and I could attend to other things.

I'm always there for Waleed's bedtime rituals, but today? Today I forgot. And when K called me to Waleed's bedroom because he was going to sleep and didn't I want to give him his goodnight kiss? Waleed wrapped his arms around me and kissed me twenty-five times, and I left feeling like the worst mother in the world. He loves with everything he is, why couldn't I have done the same? He may not know it, but I do. And considering there are people who would lay their lives for my stressors if they could have their child, being distracted as I am hurts more.

I know guilt is part and parcel of motherhood but somehow telling myself this isn't helping. I feel like I've done a really bad job these past few days. I feel like God gave me the moon and I'm focusing on a misplaced pebble. One day these stressors will be a distant memory as will my son's childhood and I know what I'll regret between the two. I am so blessed to have him, and today I felt like I was redoing the mistake I made with my brother those many moons ago, I will forget these stressors but not the way I wasn't fully present.

Prayers for Tripp

2012-01-13T09:37:00.000-05:00

I've been reading Courtney's blog for years, and now, her precious Tripp, battling EB, has days left. She asks us to pray that Tripp finds peace, something he's had very little of on this earth. Send her your love, and then go hug your kid. Because no matter how much they scream, or yell, or throw their food-- damn what a miracle it all is.

An announcement: The secret love life of this American Muslim woman

2012-01-13T00:17:00.000-05:00

I met K while hiking along a cliff in Fiji. Our eyes met over the jagged shoreline and instantly we knew this was it. Two years of committed dating later in which we frequented live shows, spoke for hours on the meaning of life in various coffee shops and flew to Italy to determine our travel compatibility, we married under a hut on the island of Lanai. It was just the two of us, and it was beautiful and it made me complete.

It's also mostly false.

I met my husband in a way different than most, a way that prompted some friends to offer to help me plot my escape, and left me tongue-tied when coworkers or colleagues asked how this girl met that boy. I often evaded, mostly generalized, and told few the truth but as my marriage grows I feel less timid and more sure of my story, more free to lay open that vulnerable piece of me for the world to see and to think of it what they will.

Which I now am. In a book. Love Insh'Allah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women published by Softskull Press is hitting bookshelves nationwide January 24, 2012 but available for pre-order here and delivered to you by release day.

The editors of the book told me my story made them cry. Early readers told me it gave them hope. I don't know what my story will mean to you, or the story of the 24 other brave and beautiful women whose stories will touch you, shock you [oh yes, some will definitely shock you], make you laugh, and quite possibly make you cry, but I know in this book, in my story, I spoke my truth, and while I didn't meet my husband in a sweeping grand romantic way, I met him. And therein is what gave my Fiji story it's fundamental grain of truth: a girl met a boy. And through a marriage of upheavals, and loss, and trials, and tests, I found beauty, joy, and love, so much love that completed me in a way I never thought possible. Alhamdullilah.

Thank you, a million times over, for your support.

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

2012-01-12T00:03:00.003-05:00

One. I love trees. There is countless poetry with odes to roses and daisies and while they're lovely in their own right, trees are the moon to their stars. Like the beautiful old oak outside my condo window. When we moved in it was covered in lush green leaves, within weeks they turned crimson, then barren and now, today, I looked out and saw small buds, the promise of renewal for another year. Waleed and I love settling down to our box seats on the couch to watch squirrels play, woodpeckers peck, and blue birds rest before moving on. I love seeing it at different times of the day and different states of being such as with wind raking its leaves, or rain pelting its bare limbs. It is one tree but it is never always the same. Admittedly as beautiful as this tree is, were I to have such a view from my owned residence I would worry about its proximity to the house, the branches that need to be shorn and the state of its flower bed come spring. But none of this is my responsibility, and while I certainly hope we're not still living in this condo overlooking this tree for too many more seasons to come, right now, it's a pleasure to have the company of this tree. I don't research trees, don't know a maple from a myrtle and I'm honestly just guessing its an oak. But oak feels stately, oak feels old and wise, and when I see this tree I see the quiet wisdom of one that has seen everything, that watches without judgment as it continues its branchy ascent to the sky.

Two. My parents love tea so I love tea so it seems Waleed loves tea, or at least the sight of us drinking tea together. In Florida, he deeply desired to join us with a cup of his own and no a plastic sippy cup just wouldn't cut it. I wish I knew why even in this day and age toys are gender identified for girls and boys. Like strollers, they're in the 'girl' section of Target and they're all pink. As are upon my research, tea sets with descriptions of your little girl will enjoy hosting tea parties. Regardless, I purchased one you can actually drink out of, made from recycled products [and in the USA] that I saw Waleed and Bean playing with at Baraka's house and though Waleed could care less about the colors of his pink and purple tea set and is far too young to read the descriptions of this perfect toy for a perfect little girl, I'm glad he can nurture his gentler side by making tea, and strolling his baby giraffe in the [yes, pink] stroller. When he's fully grown wouldn't I expect him to make his own tea or stroll his own baby? Why learn that lesson later when its so easy and so incredibly fun to learn it now?

Three. It's been cold, miserable, and rainy these past few days. I used to say I loved winter, but that was when I lived in Florida and winters consisted of a light parka and a chance to bust out the leather boots. Winter, real winter, is no such thing and while it's milder here than it was in my days in Michigan, bleak landscapes of gray clouds and soggy grass tend to put a brick in the pit of my stomach. Until, Waleed. Last year I attributed my cheerful disposition to nursing since oxytocin is said to elevate mood and dreaded the next winter with the happy hormones out of my system. But so far, so good. I think part of it is that with a baby there is no time to sink into oneself and let the gloominess outside settle into you. There is apple sauce to pour, and 'piano recitals' to applaud. Studies show the more you move the less you brood and perhaps a baby helps force one to move more than they might otherwise. But the other part is it doesn't hurt to have Waleed to study from. It's cliche that I've learned so much from him, but the truth is I have and its not more clear than on gloomy dark days like today. He is the definition of living in the moment. Cognitively, for him, this moment is all there is. When he sees a squirrel flinging itself from branch to branch, he doesn't pause to compare it with other jumping squirrels or it's relative coolness to animals at large, he just sees something joyful and he smiles and he's happy because this moment is all there is. When he's happy about going on the swing, or strolling his baby giraffe, he is in that moment the happiest he could possibly feel. And, well, me? I guess I'm affected by the company I keep:

Beautiful old trees, pink tea cups and joy, unbounded, limitless joy. Despite the bumpy rough parts to this particular day, these are the moments worth remembering. Hope you have a beautiful Thursday too.

112 in 2012

2012-01-05T12:34:00.005-05:00

I've missed my listings and truth be told having these lists helps keep me mindful and focused on my year and living it beyond the monotony that can sometimes creep in on the day to day. Hoping to update it weekly as I cross off items on the list. Excited for a new year and new goals to look forward to! What are your goals and resolutions for the year? Please do share if only to motivate me so I can tell myself I'm not crazy for goal-ing as I do. [or well, you can tell my I'm crazy too].

1. 365 Project. Again. Last time I focused too much on perfection, this time I'm focusing on capturing moments and achieving my intended goal of mindfulness.
2. See the ocean.
3. See the mountains.
4. Lose fifteen pounds.
5. Run a 5K.
6. Then a half-marathon
7. Read 50 books.
8. Get a pedicure.
9. Learn to make Roti
10. Use cash for all purchases for two weeks.
11. Buy a house.
12. And leave no box unpacked.
13. Donate stuff.
14. Quit the nail biting habit
15. And get a manicure
16. Get an eye exam
17. And order contacts
18. Get a physical
19. Find a reliable, trustworthy babysitter
20. Use said reliable, trustworthy babysitter.
21. Don't turn to mobile device during times with family, friends, etc.
22. Find a cute pair of black shoes
23. See a movie in theater.
24. Buy a cool display shelf for Waleed's books
25. And fill it with classics
26. Complete the edits for my novel
27. Write in my moleskine every day [give or take five days]
28. Go sugar-free for one month
29. Take a vacation
30. Play air hockey
31. Make one of my detailed 'desi' drawings on white canvas
32. Try a new local restaurant/eaterie
33. Find a new local park
34. Have a picnic
35. Learn a new chocolaty dessert
36.Keep the cell phone away from the bed and don't use it before sleeping for one month.
37. Do a beachfront condo/house rental
38. String lights up for Eid
39. Get Waleed a hair cut
40. And a new nose ring
41. Get updated sneakers
42. Lie down on a blanket on the grass and watch the stars
43. Find a new TV series [already out on Netflix] to enjoy.
44.Try 12 new recipes.
45. Take 25 great shots on my SLR camera
46. Frame two.
47. Buy a good bag for my SLR camera
48. Go to my local farmer's market.
49. Look into a community-bulk-local-produce-buying-thingie.
50. Make an Urdu English alphabet book for Waleed
51. Start updating my 101 Things To Do With My Child
52. And create the 101 Things I Did With You scrapbook
53-59. Read Harry Potter 1-7 through and through
60. Grow a plant and not kill it.
61. Create a recipe book
62. Celebrate Halloween with the babe
63. See a live show, play, fine art performance
64. Call Madiha
65. Remove facebook from my smartphone.
66. Remove my notifications from my smartphone for at least one month.
67. Unplug completely from the internet for one complete weekendd
68. Make and bake and take homemade cookies to a friend's house
69. Buy Waleed Crocs
70. Be in bed by 10:30 for two weeks and note the difference. The kiddo gets up at 7am rain or shine. May as well begin sleep training myself better.
71. Find a new go-to sushi spot in town
72. Have a great sheesha hangout with friends
73. Play poker
74. Whiten my teeth
75. And get a cleaning.
76. Create a skin, bath routine for downtime and relaxation
77. Meditate daily for one week.
78. Do yoga regularly for a month. In a class.
79. Read a book. In Urdu.
80. Cook ahead of time for the week, just once. To see how it goes.
81. Have a proper Thanksgiving meal. Even if its not on Thanksgiving.
82. Watch five Oscar nominated films.
83. Write six love letters- what a fabulous idea.
84. Get a haircut.
85. Get a professional massage
86. See a live sporting event.
87. Share four homemade recipes on my blog.
88. Try a meal from a country I've never tried before.
89. Spend one weekend on a self-imposed writerly retreat writing, writing, and well, writing.
90. Draft my next novel, even if it kills me.
91. Read every unread book I've purchased.
92. Visit a Museum
93. Go to the botanical gardens
94. Review five places on yelp
95. Buy an Adele CD
96. Update my Amazon wish list
97. Make five physical picture albums
98. Do five random acts of kindness for strangers like pay the toll of the person behind me, etc.
99. Do five random acts of kindness for people I love.
100. Venture into matchmaking territory again, at least once.
101. Get a library card for my new county
102. Change my tags to my new county
103. Subscribe to a really cool magazine [suggestions?]
104. Read the magazine.
105. Buy a cute brewing teapot
106. Buy 100% organic, fair trade [when possible] food for one month.
107. Do a water based boating, rafting, tubing event
108. Eat Godiva
109. Order back up glasses
110. Do NaNoWriMo
111. Rewatch a TV series of choice that I've loved and missed like Gilmore Girls, Veronica Mars, etc.
112. Update this list weekly.

The Capital One Bowl Game and why I no longer hate football

2012-01-03T00:49:00.000-05:00

It's no secret: I hate football. As in the NFL theme song spikes my blood pressure by twenty on first note. While I hate it for how it takes up my TV-time [we are a one TV household], the violence, and the droning screams of the fans, I mostly hate it because it seems absolutely pointless. A bunch of big dudes fighting other big dudes for a leather ball. Why does this game make little boys cry and some lucky big boys millionaires? Why do people paint their bodies crimson and tattoo the mascots onto their arms? Why does it matter?

I went to my first real football game today to support K and his intense love of the South Carolina Gamecocks and my jaw dropped upon entering the stadium. While I knew at a stadium capacity of 70K there would be thousands of folks, its one thing to know and a completely different thing to see such a mass of humanity some young, some old, some with shirts spouting biblical urgency and others with slogans better left unwritten and yet, all there for a common purpose.

Well, sort of. Opposing purposes is more like it as one half wanted the other half to lose, badly. I watched as some teammates on both teams kneeled, eyes closed in desperate prayer before kickoff and wondered if God is granting wins how does He pick between equally fervent requests? It amazed me the passion, the screaming until voices went hoarse, the tears [oh yes, so many tears] over victory and the lack thereof. And while some of it can be attributed to inebriation [I believe it was K, me, and kids under five who were sober at the game] the passion was at its root for the game, for the teams they loved so sincerely.

And yet how arbitrary this love is.

Nebraska fans are fans because they grew up there, or got accepted to college there, not any particular merit of the team and same goes for any other team under the sun [mostly, K is a redskins fan despite no proximity geographic or otherwise to the greater DC area]. Steve Spurrier coaches at SC because they offered him a job. He cared just as deeply for Florida when coaching the Gators. He'd get a tattoo of a corn on the cob if he was hired to coach Nebraska. His love and passion is arbitrary as is the love and passion of nearly everyone there.

But does arbitrariness mean insincerity or a love less worthy?

Most of what we hold most dear to us is a circumstance of where we were and who is around. I love my son because I believe him amazing and also because well, he's the child God gave me. I will stand by my siblings through anything because I believe them exceptional and beautiful people and also because they're mine and the same blood courses through our veins. I'm a raving fan of Zaxby's because I like the chicken and relaxing atmosphere but also because in our previous suburb the eating options were slim. I think my local farmer's market is the bees knees but I'd probably feel different if my home was in the Noe Valley or by the Embarcadero clear across the country. I'm nor saying we only love certain things because its all we know, but I'm saying that in our lives we love certain things for reasons beyond carefully considered reason and more from a gut feeling, a subjective love that comes from a place perhaps not fully logical but true and sincere nonetheless and not worthy of my condescension.

At the game it amazed me-- so many people so fully vested in this one game from the the fans who spent thousands in travel, tickets and board, to the band members, referees, mascot, camera crew, doctors, conductors, water boys, cheerleaders, coaches, and teammates all in it for the sake of the team and in the same exact breath all in it for themselves and only themselves because each person had something no matter how large or how small at stake and each person had a measure of glory at that game.

Football, I realized today, is in some ways, a small scale version of life. You win some, you lose some. There's 'good' guys and 'bad' guys [and who is who depends on which side of the field you stand]. You struggle, you cheer, you worry, you yell, and then ultimately, its over.

Until today I wondered what the point of it was but questioning that is questioning the point of living on this earth and enjoying almost anything. Who am I to judge why one person would rather watch a football game than read a work of fiction, or watch a film, or bike around a lake? And while you won't see me wearing a rooster on my head and screaming at the television screen anytime soon, I do finally understand the love of a game. Football matters, because it matters to people. It matters because it does. I finally understand.

2012 and bloggy changes

2012-01-02T00:46:00.002-05:00

I gave up writing movie and book reviews last year. I miss them. While Good Reads is great and I'll continue using it, its not the same as writing my reviews on my own site. I was touched when some of you contacted me asking me why I no longer did them and suggesting I resume. So they're back, both sites and I'm starting off with The Patron Saint of Losers, book #1 in my 50 book challenge for 2012, and a review of the haunting, hilarious, perfect movie Young Adult. I've also restarted up my 365 Project, the first picture is a dark cell phone shot, but I'm going to have to let go of perfection if I want to succeed. Coming up soon? My 112 in 2012 because well, I miss that too since it was a great way to be mindful and focus on one's goals. Hope you enjoy reading them as I do love sharing them!

Two Thousand Eleven: Thoughts on the year that [now] was

2011-12-31T02:06:00.000-05:00

This is the year my son turned one and walked, ran, spoke, screamed, squealed and blessedly slept. This is the year I spent each and every day, including the most difficult and trying ones, completely gobsmacked that I get to be a mother to this amazing child and the year I allowed myself to relax as I realized: I'm not so bad at this parenting thing after all.

This is the year we sold our house a process that lasted four months from start to finish but felt like four years when doing so on your own with a baby in tow. It was a difficult process but it taught me that while I can paint, and clean, and upgrade, the end result, the desired result, is not up to me. This is the year, I learned to accept this lack of control, to fall into it, to trust it a lesson that will surely need fine tuning all my life but a profound one at a time I need it most

This year was also the year my running, biking, diet conscious father had a heart attack and triple bypass. We're in Orlando now, toasting our toes in sandals under the Florida heat eating oranges from the tree my father planted with Waleed swinging on the swing my father searched the city to find. My younger brother left for Miami today and when I felt tears prick my eyes my throat constricting it was not simply because his departure meant the winding down of my time home, but because I realize how lucky I am to have this time at home.

2012 remains a void of uncertainty, will we find a new house? A publishing deal? A new job? Will I finally complete a half-marathon or find certainty in my spiritual quest?

I don't know.

But right now as these words form sentences on this screen, I know that life is fragile and precious and beautiful and I am so lucky just to be here. Life is not as much about where we are going, but how we are choosing to get there, and so far, so good because this? This right here, is enough.

Happy 2012 to all of you. May it be as good as the best year you ever had, and hopefully better still.

On Santa boats, small living, and screaming. Loudly.

2011-12-16T10:56:00.003-05:00

I've only been at my parent's house for approximately 12 hours and these are the events transpiring [in addition to the dancing Santa, on a musical boat, being pulled by a truck, being escorted by twelve bedazzled scooters up and down my parent's street. Yep. I love you Florida. Don't ever change]:

1. Waleed ran around with a toy train pretending it was a space ship that crashed loudly to earth. Every ten seconds.
2. He ran up the stairs. And down the stairs. Twenty-five times.
2. He found my childhood Casio piano and banged out several new original musical compositions.
3. And then rushed out to the fenced backyard pulling oranges and inspecting grapefruits while I sat under the covered porch and read a book.
4. He stood in the center of the family room and belted out the ABCs [incomprehensible to anyone but the well versed in Waleedism] in full opera dramatic grandeur. I swear the walls might have shook.
5. He then proceeded to pretend with his stuffed animals about what appeared to be very loud, very angry middle east peace talk negotiations. There was clashing of stuffed heads of state.
6. He turned a chair into a shopping cart and pushed it around the house adding books and pens that might come along the way. [He also appears immune to the noise that wood scraping against tiles makes which I sadly, am not]
7. We called Baba and proceeded to have a speakerphone conversation complete with wild gesticulations and leaping from sofas to emphasize certain necessary points.

And each time these things happened, I instincitively cringed. Instinctively went to tell him to stop because of the neighbors. They might hear. And then ofcourse I realized, no one can hear. It's us. And he can scream as loudly as he wants with wild abandon. He can jump from sofas. He can toss his train. Because it's a house and it's just us and it's okay.

And while small-living has its benefits such as less to clean, and no yard to mow, and lower heating bills [and I am sure there are times you do want someone to hear you if you are screaming] my is it nice to let my son let out his full on boyish giddy self. It's nicer than I can put into words. I'm sure Bob is happy too.

Really hope we find a house we love soon.

Happy Nineteen Month Birthday

2011-12-13T00:14:00.000-05:00

Dear Waleed,

Last Thursday you turned nineteen months old. You've become an avid stick collector always bringing them to me with pride expecting nothing short of jaw-dropped amazement at your finds. A few weeks ago we walked past a fallen tree you stared at with such longing I could almost see the wheels in your brain turn as you formulated how best to convince me to take home with us this beautiful stick, the biggest stick you ever saw.

We're still in our condo and we go to your favorite park daily without fail. Despite the fact that this is an entrenched part of our daily routine, each time we walk up to the park you squeal and jump as though you truly thought you would never see this place again. This month is also the month of your teeth which while missing in action for most of your life are now coming in quick bloody succession and leaving behind the baby I knew and bringing forth a little boy, one I can scarcely believe is mine.

In keeping with your impending boyhood, you get things more this month. You tell us bus [stop], try to sing the ABCs, and you read. My train driving, laundry-hamper-pushing, jumping squealing angel monkey now loves to read. Put Me In The Zoo [which I inexplicably feel drawn to read in a German accent] is your favorite as is the Urdu Bul Bul Ka Bacha. You love this book. Just the sight of this book makes you leap up and clap. You laugh at certain parts, you squeal and wave goodbye when the bulbul is released to join her friends. Some days I look up to find you lying on a pillow, book in hand, turning pages in intense concentration. I love that you love to read.

Though you remain a boy of few words you understand us, perhaps more than I can properly appreciate. A while back unsure if I should stay at home or perhaps go back to work I applied for a job that seemed right up my alley and decided if it was meant to be I'd get a call. I got the call. The interview went great. They called me to come in again. I felt torn as it was the sort of job I'd love to do and in an environment that seemed ideal. I lifted you up after the phone call, jokingly explained it to you in a sing-song voice, that mama had a job opportunity and what did you think of me going back to work. You stared at me. And you broke down into inconsolable sobs. Elmo, Pooh Bear, promises of the park-- nothing would soothe you. You refused to go to your Abu, instead you clung to me your arms and legs wrapped around me and wept for a good thirty minutes. I didn't take the job. When I told you this, how much I love being home with you, how this [ultimately a] job offer and this clear choice I had helped me see just how much I can't leave this behind yet, you ran to me and tumbled into my arms and kissed me for five straight minutes. I don't know how you understood it, and some say you didn't understand a thing, but I know you did. I saw it in your eyes, the understanding, and most startling, the appreciation for this choice I made for us. Thank you for appreciating me and for not taking for granted an arrangement you have every right to believe your birthright. Every parent does what is best for their family, and my job opportunity helped me realize that right now being home with you and pursuing my personal creativity is the best thing for all of us.

Your nani and I love exchanging books with one another, nearly each time we meet, the trading of paperbacks are inevitably involved and maybe one day, I'll do this with you. One of my favorite authors is Alexander McCall Smith, and recently I read a book of his in which he wrote something that stopped me in my tracks. I try each month to leave you with a bit of advice, and this month, his words contain wisdom I hope you will one day absorb and live by:

We should all busy ourselves in being who we are, although many of us do not and spend so much time and energy being something else. We try to be what others want us to be, or what we ourselves want to be. And then we suddenly realise that our lives have shot past and we have not got round to being who we really are.

Waleed, strive to be brave, confident and creative. Strive to go to the moon or build designer igloos for wealthy Inuits or whatever you wish to do to that is true to your heart and your talents. Be the best you but always be you. Because I see who you are, and what I see? Is beautiful.

Love,

Your Mama

On loving me. Hating me. And monkeys.

2011-12-09T00:07:00.001-05:00

It's been years since I shared some of the interesting ways that led you to my virtual doorstep, but these? These are definitely worth sharing.

Do I love Aisha Iqbal?
I love you Aisha Iqbal.
Hate being married to Aisha Iqbal
How to psychoanalyze Aisha.
Want to leave Aisha*
Aisha Monkey

Not sure if this is incredibly funny or incredibly creepy but really hoping these searches were not specifically intended for me.

Ranch homes and Craftsmans and Bungalows, oh my!

2011-12-06T00:42:00.000-05:00

We fell in love with our previous home the moment we laid eyes on it. We took one walk through of the inviting kitchen, the easy to maintain backyard with built-in benches and an awning strewn with lights, made an offer and signed the contract on the spot. We were that sure. Granted, we later felt it wasn't the best fit with the lengthy commute but when we walked into that house the first time? It was a tingly excitement akin to love. And now? Well, we want that special feeling again with the next house but the few homes we've seen either I fall in love and immediately want to shop for diamond rings while K is more meh while each house he gets a skip in his step about makes me stare at him wondering who are you? When we finally agree on a house we both adore we inevitably get there to find the ad failed to mention the home was located on a highway, or next to a cow processing plant, or has just a little itty bit of lead paint, you know, things we can't really work with and I'm secretly beginning to wonder if we'll end up looking fruitlessly for years in vain never finding a house ever, which would not be good for us, or Bob.

In an effort to fall in love together, we decided to make a list of our must haves and came up with a few: good schools, open floor plan, spacious kitchen, master bathroom, porch or balcony from where we can watch the rain as it falls to the earth [so very important after a lifetime with and eight years without]. We're flexible about most everything else like garages, house-age, in-town location, and well, maybe that's the problem. We're so open to everything we're finding nothing.

Option One. The area we're in now has renovated 1920's bungalows with extensions and add-ons like attic-level master bedrooms which horrified my mother so much she threatened to stay in a hotel while visiting if we were to purchase a property in this neck of the woods [We think she's bluffing]. I love the charm, the history, and the walkability of the area. People are friendly, they stop and say hello, and there are festivals nearly every other weekend. The schools are among the best in the state. I hate not having a garage, the floor plans since homes in this era are more closed off and I worry about the challenges of caring for an older home. Plus we'd most likely have to go with a small 3/2 with closets slightly larger than shoe boxes. But our neighbors would bake us cookies. And I like cookies.

Option Two. Another area with great schools and a five minute commute consists of entirely 1960's split-levels and ranches. Most look stunning inside with updated kitchens, hardwoods, etc and the Punjabi land-owner in me does size up the considerable land these homes sit on and imagine the mung beans that could perchance be planted but at issue is that when I drive up to them, I want to cry. K has fallen in love with a number of these ranches but what with the crying on my part, he's not pushing them too much. Still, they're good values and good locations so I'm trying to remember that looks aren't everything.

Option Three. Brand new home built from the ground up. We'll just have to sell two kidneys apiece to do so in-town. Still, maybe being house-poor but house-happy is a fair trade-off? [And honestly, I do not want a McMansion like this, but brand new homes in-town are the same price of suburban McMansions which is hard to wrap my mind around.]

Option Four. A home in between all of these, built in the 90's or beyond that are the norm of most American homes but because I know once a house is nearing the ten year mark in these homes everything and I mean everything falls apart like the air conditioning, heating, roof etc I'm not eager to go back to redo all that I just got done in the house I left.

Since we are clearly incapable of settling on anything our new extremely understanding agent is taking us on ten blind dates this Saturday. Let's hope love finds a way.

Live in any of these types of styles, what do you love or hate about them or wish you could do differently? If you had to buy a house now, knowing all you know, what would you do differently or the same? What are your must haves? Any advice or warnings much appreciated.

On finding temporary housing-- and faith

2011-11-28T00:34:00.002-05:00

With the countdown of thirty days until closing passing faster than we ever could have imagined, we knew there was no way we could house-hunt, inspect, appraise, and get approved for a loan all in time to transition from house to second house. Besides, I didn't want to. Owning a house helps you realize how heavy an anchor it is. A beautiful anchor perhaps, one you plant roses around, but an anchor tying you down nonetheless. I wanted to be free.

But I didn't want to be homeless. And with four days left until closing with no place to live we were beginning to quite seriously panic. We wanted to rent where we might want to purchase, a place that was walkable and community-friendly, but there were no rentals to be found, the few we did wanted multiple year leases and no leeway for breaking a lease early. We drove up and down streets, culled Craigslist, and asked everyone we knew [and many we didn't] to no avail. We hit up the apartment complexes and the corporate feel left us cold as did the add on fees for clickers, stickers, and flickers that left us nearly dizzy as we tallied up how much they would actually cost us. And the termination fees-- harsh.

Dejected. In tears. With just days left to go before closing we headed to our son's favorite park after a day of fruitless searching just as the sun began to set. Unable to find parking in the usual spot we parked on a different street. Through choked back frustration I said to K, I feel like there's a perfect spot for us but we can't see it. K nodded, "we need serendipity." I nodded feeling silly and foolish for hopes such as these.

And then it happened. As we went to our car, K paused. A sign. For rent. Quickly I called the number. Aisha?! The person responded incredulously on the other line. A classmate from law school. The flat was immediately available, affordable, steps from everything including my son's favorite park-- and because of the connection with my law school classmate, the landlord agreed to allow us to leave early if we gave her sufficient notice. We signed on the dotted line.

Serendipity yes. But is it more? This is the thought that's been nagging me for some time.

When things go right in my life I'm inclined to thank a Higher being for watching out for me. The house selling, finding a condo, it's Him. It's always been that way. I can look back at the trajectory of my life and I can't see anything good that happened and not see the immense fortitude that, I believe, is not pure happenstance. When things went bad I trusted that same higher power and believed in a purpose, if anything, to make me stronger.

And then I was hit with some missile-like painful moments that spun me into a tailspin and made me question everything-- people handing me prayers to recite and intonations that it was God's will only made things worse. It's been years but I still finding myself crawling out of the hole, trying to grasp back onto the closeness I once felt to my Creator, and to the ability to trust that the universe is unfolding as it should.

The problem is, when I tailspun, my bubble popped. I looked at children suffering, hard-working people homeless, good women in abusive marriages. . . the more globally I looked, the more I had a hard time making sense of it all. Tragedy abounds with such abundance that I don't know how to say, oh thank God I found an apartment while someone is saying goodbye to a mother they knew all of four years.

And yet-- I've found that some of the people who have seen some of the worst things in life are also some of the most spiritual people I've ever encountered. While I cannot make sense of the unfairness that life has given them in debilitating health, or tragic life circumstances the fact is, they are at peace. It emanates from their very core. They, despite everything life has hurled at them, believe in a higher power-- they see blessings in what I see as nothing but bleak depression.

And I realized, I only live in my own body and only know my own circumstances completely. Who am I to say who has been wronged or who has been done right or the blessings they have faced? I'm beginning to understand, that while its natural to wonder why, I don't know anyone else's life circumstances but my own. I cannot question anyone else's understanding or experience or how they made their peace because peeking in through the window I am given, I cannot know the full story. The only story I know, is my own.

Religion has a funny way of giving everyone an opinion on how its supposed to be. Dogma litters every faith as people tell you what it is to be loved by the Supreme Being and try to collect blessings for entrance to paradise like second graders collect stickers for the Friday treasure chest. For so long I let other people's interpretation of my faith and their judgments on how I practiced it distance me from the very thing that centered me all my life.

But now I've realized-- I cannot live my life according to the way others interpret my faith. I cannot wonder why why I have something fall into place for me when it does not fall into place for others. Some of these 'others' abandon a belief in a higher being, some cling tighter than ever to the concept. Why? How can I possibly know. I now realize I cannot stand on a prayer rug filled with anxiety of the state of my toenails or the style of my recitation. I have only my life, and my perspective, and my unique relationship with my Maker. It's a personal one, and when I cup my hands in supplications-- its only One who hears.

I am thankful I finally understand this. I am thankful that I see His mercy on a condo in a walkable city, two butterflies playing amidst a row of sunflowers, and that despite my ever imperfect flaw-filled self, a self that is surely judged by many as not faithful enough, not practicing enough, that its not them who have the final say. I know my faith will ebb and flow, because even Angels ask, I'm just thankful for today, for taking ownership back on my faith and what it means to me.

Curious for your perspectives on faith, religion, and spirituality? How do you reconcile your difficult moments be it with faith, or without? Do you believe their is a purpose to it all?

How to buy a house. Or marry a girl.

2011-11-23T00:56:00.002-05:00

I suppose the best way to classify how K and I met would be through a semi-arranged marriage process [which surprises some who say but you seem so in love?! But we are! Very much so. It's not how I found him. It's that I found him] Our process was so relatively simple I had no idea just how objective, distancing, and calculating the entire process could be until I later saw my friends struggle and listened to many guys discuss their search for a wife and, well, the further I descend into the house buy-sell process the more frightening similarities I see with the mentality behind house-hunting and bride-hunting:

You start with a gussied up picture of potentials with just the right lighting.
Keep in mind: The newer the better. Attractive a must. Take all the time you want! It's a buyer's market. There will always be good deals, the market is on your side.
After going through dozens of potentials via websites and recommendations narrow it down to a few to start off with.
Make the calls, set up appointments. Some may already be off the market which might make you wonder if you missed your chance at the one but its okay because there are so many others.
Make your visits, pay close for your must-haves and for misrepresentation. Don't you hate it when the picture conceals the very defect that would have made it a no deal?
Just because you went and saw one doesn't mean you have to put in an offer! It's a buyer's market! Check out as many as you want! Do you need to follow up if you end up not wanting to make an offer? Ofcourse not! This isn't personal, it's business.
However-- do keep in mind that the higher end you go the more will be expected of you too in terms of financial stability.
Once you've got it down to a few, do some second visits, bring some other folks for some other points of views, pros and cons, this is after all a long-term investment.
Make some offers-- start with the ones that seem most out of your reach-- doesn't hurt to try!
You got an acceptance! You're officially done looking but you won't be off the market until the deal fully closes. It's not over until it's over and you never know when a brand new better one hits the market.

Why yes, I actually am laughing to keep from crying.

[For context if you're new please see: Arranged Marriage 101 and The Desi Marriage Crisis]

The case of the noisy neighbor- by which I mean, me

2011-11-21T00:31:00.000-05:00

Waleed had a rough morning. By which I mean, I had a rough morning as he woke up at 6am screaming and wailing as babies sometimes tend to do. Teething, hunger, its hard to know, but when I went to check on him he was beyond exhausted, so I got him a bottle and settled him in the crib. Ten minutes later and an empty bottle flung across the room, the wails resumed at gusts of ninety miles per hour. Each time I picked him up he immediately passed out in my arms and each time I lay him back down- screams. Finally, I resorted to plan C and set him down in his crib and let him be- usually 5-10 minutes is all it takes and he's usually asleep. As this was not a usual morning, ten minutes later, resigned to a grumpy toddler, I went to get him only to hear:

thump

It was loud but in my groggy state I couldn't decipher where it came from. Living in a space inhabited by many I attributed it to a door slamming in the distance or someone closing the outdoor trashcan a bit too enthusiastically.

Out this evening, I ran into Bob.

Me: Hi Bob!
Bob: Hi. Did you hear me this morning?
Me: No, I don't think so. We might have been out.
Bob: No, you were definitely home.
Me: Then, no. I didn't hear it.
Bob: Oh good. I'm glad you didn't.
Me: Why, what happened?
Bob: I was banging the ceiling because, well, your son, he was crying pretty loud.
Me: Oh.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again, Bob is a nice guy. He really and honestly is. It's just that in the seven years he's lived in his downstairs condo, we're the first folks with a kid to move in. Certainly having the comparison of quieter times of long ago is a valid one to make. But. What can I do?

Bob assured me he's not disturbed on a daily basis, only when its loud noises or when he sometimes refuses bedtime. The crying was only an issue of ceiling-thumping-consequence because his daughter was there and sleeps in the room directly below Waleed's. Bob gave me his daughter's visitation schedule and we exchanged contact information to prevent further communication-via-bangs. But- and Bob understood this during our conversation- while he can let me know its happening- it's not like the TV is on too loud, or our riverdance revival group got a bit too boisterous- this is a baby. It's not like I enjoy hearing my son crying- the goal always is to get him to stop crying.

I minimize our sounds to the best of my ability. I wear slippers. I've bought softer toys. In the mornings we play in his room or the family room leaving the bedroom above where Bob sleeps alone to minimize noise. I take him to the playground for hours each day and we often have errands to run leaving the house vacant plus his naps and sleep total about 13-14 hours a day.

I talked to the landlord and she just laughed saying well that's just par for the course, when I lived there his baby girl cried at all hours of the night driving me absolutely crazy. It happens.

I love the walkability of my new place. I adore the amazing people and the feeling of community. I love not having the burden of home ownership in a place I did not want to live anymore. I love K coming home earlier from work. I love the culture, the eats, and well pretty much everything about where I now live. But sometimes, on days like today, I really miss my house.

And I'll be baking cookies for tender ears tomorrow.

Any advice? While obviously I won't do cry it out anymore [as rare as that was to begin with], I'm trying to figure out how to live here without literally walking on tiptoes and asking my baby to do the same. Most mornings he squeals and plays quite loudly in his crib with his stuffed animals before calling for us to get him. Do I stop this now? How much is one expected to live with? Any advice much appreciated.

Coffee. And the etiquette of 'Excuse Me'

2011-11-19T13:13:00.002-05:00

Waleed and I stopped at my favorite coffee shop in a caffeine-deprived haze this morning to grab a cup of Joe before heading to the ~~Center Of The Universe~~ park. I'm more of a chai drinker as coffee can be very strong for me resulting in uber-giddiness but I was uber-tired and sprung for the full-out caffeine coffee instead of my usual half-caff. At the coffee condiment counter I leaned to get a stirry-thing [It has a name. I'm sure it does. But my post-coffee-caffeine-induced-crash is clouding my brain] just as someone else reached for the same jar.

Excuse me, I said as I took the stirry-thing.

The thirty-something man in the green parka paused looking at me for a good ten seconds [which, count out a ten-second-silent stare. It's long] and then responded: It's fine. I guess. And walked away.

Say What?

It could be argued that green parka-ed individual was also in a similar foggy caffeine-deprived haze and therefore cannot be held responsible for the aforementioned response but it really made me think as my excuse me was not truly a heart-felt request for sincere excusement but more an instinctual response one gives in polite society during moments like this. Instead, he heard my excuse me and then paused to contemplate whether he would in fact, excuse me. It's not like I accidentally stumbled over his cherished pet koala bear or cut in line with five of my closest friends. We reached for the same jar at the same time. A likely common occurrence in the land of coffee shops and stirry-things and certainly nothing that merited a carefully considered offering of forgiveness but instead a quick response along the lines of It's all good or No worries or oh no! excuse me!

And yes, its entirely possible that this post is not actually a post about excuse-me-etiquette but more a cautionary tale of the moments right before a caffeine-induced giddy high transforms into a total-full-on-caffeine-crash resulting in ~~ramblings~~ posts such as these.

In other words, I'll be sticking to chai.

Happy Eighteen Month Birthday

2011-11-15T00:26:00.002-05:00

Dear Waleed,

You are eighteen months old and its been a busy month. So busy in fact, that I only now had a chance to sit down and write this letter to you which is one of my favorite things to do; reflecting on your month and how quickly you are transforming-- faster than I can blink.

We sold our home this month. The home I lived in for nearly eight years, where I saw two lines on the pregnancy test, where I spent days dreaming of what you would look like and who you would be, and where we brought you home from the hospital your eyes just opening to the world. This month we packed our boxes [which you dutifully unpacked whenever we turned our backs] and we moved away from the only place you knew as home. The thing that gets to me is you will remember none of this and yet that house? It was your entire universe. It's where you first smiled, laughed, crawled on the cold tiles and took your first steps on the new hardwoods, its where you learned to climb the stairs and wiggle down like a fish on your stomach. It's the house that made your eyes light up when we returned from a long time away as you opened cupboards and checked behind doors. Your swagger when we returned home made it clear: this was your domain. You loved that house so much-- and you will remember none of it but it's okay. I will remember those moments for the both of us.

I can't be sure how long we'll be in our two bedroom condo but you're loving the new outdoor lifestyle accompanying me each morning to grab a coffee and then heading to what you believe is the Best Park On Earth. It's beginning to get difficult to step out the front door because you immediately begin jumping, pointing and attempting to make a dash for the playground oncoming traffic be damned! When indoors, your favorite new thing is pretending to be us. Never has it been more clear to me how important our job is, to basically teach you what it is to be a person which is evident in the way you imitate nearly everything we do from 'sipping tea' and 'chatting' on the phone or how you attempt to stomp about in our shoes, trying our clothes on, like your baba's sweater which- a bit big right now, but someday soon. Probably way too soon.

We went to San Francisco this month- its my favorite city on earth because of its vibrant personality-filled streets and because it's where some of the most awesome people in the world reside. I've been looking forward to this trip all year and it did not disappoint. We tagged along with your father, his conference just steps from our hotel, and did our best to stay out of his hair until he had a moment's break to meet up and spend some time with us.

We did not do our usual bus/Bart hopping to all the sights and sounds of the city because with a ~~SUV~~ stroller and a toddler who is quite regimented in his naps it was simply not possible. Instead we slowed down. We took in the parks, Yerba Buena Park, KidPower Park [oh so many parks]. We paused. We breathed. It was beautiful. Thank you for stilling my pace, naps and all. For letting me examine the little things and for showing me new ways to love this city I thought I couldnt love any more than I already did.

Hands down the best part of the trip was spending time with my dear friends, Baraka and her sweet family, who were kind enough to even let us tag along with them on Eid when your Abu was in conferences all day, and really, San Francisco this time around was about enjoying the pleasure of their company. And my did you take to your Khala. You bounced around the room squealing and grinning at her the moment you laid eyes on her. Nur is drawn to Nur I suppose. Anytime I spend with your Khala is special but this time, if you can believe it, it was even more special. Her son is exactly two months older than you and seeing you both together? I've said it before but I'll say it again, despite the few false starts, seeing you and beautiful 'Bean' together, sipping tea, conversing and cackling with delight, and at one point, even reading a book together [ofcourse at the end of the trip, its always towards the end] it's watching a miracle in action and all I can think is: Which of His blessings can I deny?[And how badly I want to move to the city of my heart].

On the way home, as we waited on the airport-train to take us to our baggage, I looked up to see a woman smiling nostalgically at you. I have a little boy, she said when our eyes met. Well, he's seventeen now but I remember that age. We chatted about travel with a youngster and she warned me be careful, when they travel a lot as children they'll be gunning to travel all over the world without you when they're older. I shook my head and grinned No, not him, he's never going to want to travel without us by his side. To which the entire bus full of people burst into hearty laughter.

Ouch. And, yes. I know this. I know you will not always cling to me and gamely go wherever we take you. I know each day, each letter I write, takes you one month away from this beautiful connection I share with you-- I am no fool. I know you will grow up. But instead of looking forward, I'm looking at today and living in this moment-- something I could never do until I met you. While you might go paragliding across South America solo one day, for now, thank you for being you; the centering-slowing-pausing-reflecting-mostbeautiful part of our day.

Love,

Your Mama

On power cords and the fine line between You and Me

2011-11-10T16:21:00.006-05:00

Excuse me.
Excuse me.
Excuse me.
Excuse me.

These were the agitated pleas of the homeless man, elderly and stooped in his wheelchair, as he called out to a service man at the park we just walked over to, to take in the weather and a cup of coffee. The service man shook his head and looked away just as an Asian woman meditating moments earlier stood up and walked over. We presumed she approached to help him only to see her yank her purse from a nearby ledge and scurry to meditate at a further part of the park. The man let out a small smile as he watched her leave before calling out again his pleas now more desperate as he begged the service man to notice him.

Can I help you? K asked, standing up and walking over to him.
My wheelchair's almost dead. I need recharge it and I can't reach the power outlet.

I watched as K did the simple act of bending down to plug in the cord.

Thank you, he said his voice shook with emotion. K told him there was no need for any gratitude for the simple act of plugging a cord into an electrical outlet. Thank you he called out to us again as we stood to leave after finishing our drinks. God bless you for helping me.

What's on your mind? I asked K as we left, his expression more solemn than I'm accustomed to.

It's just-- he shook his head. That man had a father. That man is someone's son.

I realize we are all someone's child. And I realize that if I let my heart crack open and bleed like it does right now over moments like this that I will not be able to function in this world full of heartache and sadness as much as its filled with sunflowers and daffodils-- but there are some moments like watching tears of gratitude from a man old enough to be your grandfather because you plugged in a cord-- that make your heart hurt. That make you pull your eighteen month old child close to your chest because that elderly man in this San Francisco park? He was someone's little boy too.

On martyrdom. Parenting. And sleep. Oh yes, always sleep.

2011-11-06T01:06:00.002-04:00

It is rare that I am awake and fully functioning before my son is. He is after all the alarm clock that determines when we begin our days and he too determines the end of our evenings out. I used to look at mothers who rushed home at the stroke of noon to set their children down for naps as a bit much after all, a nap missed here or there, so what? Well, now I guess I'm a bit much myself it seems.

We're in San Francisco. K had a conference and I tagged along to see the sights, sip on masala chai from Samovar but mostly to see my dear friend Baraka. Her son is two months older than mine and seeing them sip 'chai' together or unravel packing paper is like watching a miracle in action. No, wait, it is exactly that- two walking breathing miracles in action and despite the rainy streets my heart is light and full of joy.

But.

Travel to the far side of the moon results in an inevitable shift in his sleep patterns. Like waking him up 45 minutes before he was ready to head to the airport. And keeping him awake so he could sleep properly in his new time zone leading him to stare at us at 6pm as though wondering Who are you and where are my real parents who know better than to keep me up at this ungodly hour! I know its part of life. We're traveling. I know that while he's a bit confused he's going to be okay. I know all this and yet when I see his tired eyes or mews of exhaustion-- I feel like the worst. mother. ever.

On a rational level I know this is nonsense, and yet on the emotional level-- let's just say I've shed more than one tear since arriving because of the heavy burden of guilt I feel for not living up to being the mother I think my son deserves. Trips away from home help me see things I didn't before both in landscape and scenery but also with my own practices and habits that have grown so familiar it takes time away from the routine to properly see what has taken firm root-- like my maternal guilt. I expect perfection and yet I can never be perfect. So instead, I live in the land of guilt- the land of wanting to do everything right- and knowing I never can.

I saw a message in black and white lettering on Baraka's fridge which [I'm paraphrasing. I think] reads: Being a parent does not mean being a martyr. I blinked and stared at that quote. It resonates with me. This guilt. This desire to be perfect-- I am potentially martyring myself with the guilt riddled upon guilt that I am not the perfect mother that this perfect being deserves.

But what is perfect? Is it doing everything right, or doing the best that one can? I'm not sure but I do realize I need to give myself a break and accept that sometimes sleep schedules will be off, and his food won't be entirely fresh and well yes I might forget to bring the hat that he can't yank off his head resulting in the cold that seems to be overtaking him now. But that honestly? I'm doing the best I can. I really am. I'm giving this parenting thing the best shot I possibly can.

I have to believe, that when it all comes down to it, that this is enough.

On squeaky floors and monkey feet

2011-10-31T00:00:00.004-04:00

Me: Hi, I'm Aisha.
Bob: Hi, I'm Bob. I live right below you.
Me: Oh! I've been meaning to chat with you. We have a toddler and he likes to run and--
Bob: I know.
Me: I'm so sorry. It's really rough to get him to be still. He's used to having his run of an entire house.
Bob: Rugs can muffle some noise. Do you guys plan to get a rug?
Me: Um, yeah, we have two.
Bob: Oh.
Me: Well, hopefully you work a 9-5 and he sleeps around 7 so it shouldn't be too bad.
Bob: I work from home.
Me: Oh.

Bob's a nice guy. Don't stop him from running around, he urged I've got plenty of white noise to fill the air. He has a daughter and understands toddlers do as as they wish and usually they wish to run and toss things. The heavier the better. Despite his kind reassurances, if you know me, you know, I do feel badly that each step on our creaky floor boards is reflected below and that each run, skip and hop from our precocious toddler, registers far higher on the richter scale. White noise notwithstanding the floor boards are creaky. Very very creaky.

I do my best to head out as much as we can. Each morning after he wakes, we eat breakfast, and head to the park for a few hours [which as far as he's concerned is the epicenter of the Universe] and then its time to go home, snack, and nap for a few hours only to head out once more to run errands or explore our new hood. The weather's been good and the sights are still exciting so this isn't an issue at all.

But.

I don't want to be uncomfortable in my own home. And as much as I am making the most of my outdoor space, I do sort of miss those quiet moments where he ran about with his 'vacuum cleaner' and pretty much did his own thing while I could sit down and get some writing done or read a book peacefully. I want to keep the downstairs neighbor from being driven to making voodoo dolls of us but I also want to feel at ease in my own home. While I don't want him stomping about and throwing bowling balls at the ground, I don't want to stifle his curiosity and the rambunctiousness that is part of who he is. I'd also like to not feel guilty for living in my home.

And while I can take measures to stifle my own sounds:

I'm not sure what I can do to stifle his.

I know this isn't forever [and on the bright side, this does help us rule out condo-living as a permanent situation] but I don't want to rush house-hunting simply because I worry each day we live here we're driving our downstairs neighbor closer to the brink of noise-induced insanity.

Ever lived on an upper-level and found successful ways to curb the noise? Do slippers really help tone down any noise or am I just walking around in monkey feet for no reason? Any advice, tips, ideas [or commiseration] much appreciated!!

Closings, Close Quarters and other random thoughts.

2011-10-26T00:16:00.000-04:00

On Monday we closed on our house. I expected our last weekend to be filled with bittersweet nostalgic reminiscing [of which I'm an olympic champion] but this did not happen as our buyers kept us on the edge of our seat so much so that had BRAVO known they'd have offered full reality TV rights to the whole debacle. Until late afternoon Monday we did not know with full certainty if we would close.

But we did. We closed. Yes it took an entire day. Yes it was one of the top ten most stressful moments of my life. But its done. It's now insh'Allah behind me.

It's a strange free-wheeling free-floating anti-gravity sort of feeling to no longer be chained to a home and to not feel the burden of trees to trim or heaters to service. I feel like I can go anywhere. We could move to a suburb. Stay in the city. Move to San Francisco. Alaska. Fiji. Really, anything could happen. And while home ownership has its benefits [privacy for starters], I feel liberated.

The liberation comes with a 1940's condo in the heart of the city overlooking a courtyard with a fantastic old tree which fascinates Waleed as he watches the squirrels jump from branch to branch from our living room window. Liberation is also 897 square feet. It's not the physical space that's tough to adjust to, its the lack of storage space. We gave away quite literally half of our belongings. And stored nearly everything else. We brought as much as could fit in our cars and yet its difficult since space is just so sparse. I'm reading up on tiny living and though its a challenge, its not permanent so it does not feel frustrating- instead it feels like a sort of adventure.

The storage issue is only second though to the fact that we reside on the second floor of a condo in which the floor boards creak. A lot. I worry about the downstairs neighbor, a kind piano teacher, who must be wondering why we brought our three show-ponies into the condo with us as what else could account for the hopping, skipping, and galloping noises to be heard overhead? Either Waleed's louder here, or because of the living space, I notice more. I want to be a good neighbor, but I fear creaky floor boards and fiesty toddlers make a difficult combination for peace and quiet downstairs.

Hopefully he's not too bothered as we're hardly home. Unlike suburb living in which cars are critical, here, we walk. Today I walked to the bookstore, the library, the fro-yo shop and the doctor office down the street. I walked to the park. To dinner. I walked until my feet hurt and yet I didn't want to stop walking. There was too much to explore. To much to see. Too much I missed all these years. Time I can't get back.

And the people? They smile. They say hello. At the park someone asked how old my son was. She said he was cute. We made small talk. Later as the sun began to dip we sat at the steps of our condo as a lady paused laughing at Waleed's complete jaw dropped expression at the white puppy she was walking. Want to pet him? she asked. You have to understand, this never happened where I lived. I know this is not everyone's experience and I can only wonder if perhaps I was just the wrong color and by default most likely the wrong faith as well that I mostly felt invisible. Whatever the reasons, how nice this change is. I feels like I've come out of an abusive relationship and think every other guy will be the same. Except this new guy? He buys me flowers. He opens doors for me. I'm starting to like this new guy. I'm beginning to think he might be the one.

People ask me why I'm doing this all so backwards. Have no kids and own in the suburbs. Have kids and rent in the close quarters of the city. Honestly? The urgency hit because of our child. K's commute? 15 minutes as opposed to 60. The saved time is more precious than any interest bearing account. I don't want a large home for him that floats on an island alone. I want what I've always wanted: For his home to extend beyond the four corners of his walls. Will this place ultimately provide that? Can't say for certain yet but so far its promising. So far its worth finding out.

Hello. Goodbye. Thoughts on turning a chapter.

2011-10-20T00:35:00.002-04:00

We put our house on the market three months ago, never thinking it would really sell. The market! It's awful! We heard nightly on the news in ominous tones. We did some research. They're right. Each year we wanted to move and each year these dire warnings held us back. Finally we went with the motto that guides me in most of my life if you try you're not guarunteed to succeed but if you don't try you're guarunteed to fail and decided to see what would happen. The worst case scenario? We stayed right where we were. With a roof over our head, food to eat, and clothes to wear. Not so bad in the global scheme of things. Our sign broke the first week. We never put it back up. That's how little we thought our chances were for actually moving our property.

Until someone called. And came twice. I baked cookies. Swept and mopped. And waited.

Can you move out in thirty days? They asked.

Sure, I responded.

Okay.

Wait. What?

It's easy to promise things when you don't actually think anything is going to happen, but I am now on the other end making good on a promise I didn't think I'd be asked to keep. With days left to go we just today leased a place in the heart of the city's most charming section and are packing an entire house and doing all that's involved in moving out of a house I lived in for 7.5 years.

I love my house. The mexican tiles. The chestnut hardwoods we installed just this Spring. It was warm. It was comfortable. But it was so far away from the city. Burdening us with long commutes and distance from the rich culture and vibrant walkable communities I've longed for ever since I experienced it on the streets of Brazil. I don't love living in the South. I wondered, if I lived closer to Atlanta's pulsing heart, would I be happier with my adopted city?

Since life is of finite quantity, we decided not to wait any longer to try and find out.

Though we made this decision carefully, considering it from all angles, now that what we hoped for is here I wonder: how do I say goodbye to my house? This is where I cooked meals for family and friends, where we kicked back and smoked sheesha into the late hours of the night lounging on floor cushions, eating far too many brownies, and contemplating the meaning of life [Though I think those sorts of moments are the meaning of life]. This is where I brought my son home from the hospital and watched him smile, laugh, crawl and take his first steps. That hill out back? It's my hill. The walk-in closet? It's mine.

But it's not. Not for long anyways. Once we sign the papers, to so much as tiptoe without consent on the grass we laid down as sod with our own bare hands will [technically] constitute trespass. That's weird to wrap my mind around. To want something, to be so thankful and joyful about it-- and yet to feel tears of the sad sort spill down your face just the same.

Change is never easy for me, even when the change promises good things like a toddler park down the street, and a Pilates studio, co-op garden, weekly local farmer markets, coffee, the post office, library, cafes and book shops and well pretty much everything just steps away from my front door. And the neighbors? I heard they stop and say hello.

It's what I've always wanted.

And while I feel a cornucopia of emotions-- its mostly happy. Mostly hopeful.

We're moving Sunday. Closing Monday.

And we're downsizing from 2400 square feet to approximately 800.

Close quarters? Um. Yeah. Kind of.[More on that later]. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers [since nothing is certain until it is] as we inch closer to the end of an era stepping foot into what is entirely unknown but filled with glimmers of hope for goodness to come.

Because beggars can be choosers. Apparently.

2011-10-19T00:06:00.000-04:00

Homeless lady with baby outside Target today:

Bobina: Please. We are so hungry. We have nothing. Please help us.
Me: I'm sorry I have no cash but I just bought some baby food, here I'll give you some.
Bobina: What kind of baby food?
Me: Let me see. Earth's Best strawberry oatmeal, chunky orchard fruit, and split pea soup.
Bobina: Anything else?
Me: Um. No.
Bobina: pause. You know, she's not really that hungry. But thank you.

This is is far from the first time this has happened so I'm beginning to wonder: Is it me? Am I missing out on some Miss Manners rules of etiquette in proffering items to the homeless? Because honestly, I'm befuddled.

Aisha, the stressed out jitterbug

2011-10-17T00:53:00.000-04:00

To make a long story short: I'm feeling a bit stressed out lately [Long story coming as soon as I can find time to sit here and write about all of it] and when one thing after another piles up I tend to resemble a jittery person who may or may not have had ten cups of tea [which I have] and though I can tell myself that it's all going to work out [because no matter what, it will] and everyone I love tells me this too [because short of life or death matters nothing is as difficult as it seems present matter included] I still feel like a puppy with enthusiastic tendencies who hasn't had a walk in like a month. So why do I share this? Because I want your advice: What do you do to handle your stressful moments? What are your go-to relaxation tools and techniques that time and again work for you beyond anything else? Or tell me a joke. That might work too.

Happy Seventeen Month Birthday

2011-10-13T00:54:00.000-04:00

Dear Waleed,

Just last Friday you turned seventeen months old. You climb chairs and jump onto the breakfast table stomping about making my morning tea distinctly less peaceful and though you have a new found affinity for nachos, you still only have six teeth. This was a whirlwind month with hardly a weekend spent home with trips to see grandparents [both sets], your mamus, your cousins, and khalas.

It's dizzying to keep track of all your changes while trying to keep track of which flight we're taking and where. And speaking of flying? After each flight someone inevitably approached us to tell us your child is a darling on the plane, so quiet and happy. To which all I have to say is while we did our best to maintain your shiny image of model-flying-child, the jumping on our knees, head bumps, and diaper explosions that made us go through every last outfit change until you were down to diapers [on a flight without a changing table] to greet your family post-flight? You and I both know how the flights really were and-- you owe me.

Still, the flights were worth it, like our trip to your Mamus. I felt struck again with how quickly you change. Just this past February you were afraid of sand and horrified at the sight of the limitless expanse of ocean before you and now? You took to the warm Miami water like a fish and played in the sand for hours examining the grains of sand as though within them lay the answer to every question you ever had.

We attended your Mamu Showieb's wedding in Baltimore this month and stayed with your Mamu Hasan and Mami Christina. Years ago, your uncles made my visits interesting by stealing my journals to recite aloud as I chased them through the house or imposing boys only clubs complete with signs, chairs and sheets to protect their exclusive VIP status. It was hard to imagine we could ever be friends-- and yet we are now-- and you? You became friends slowly, cautiously, with your own cousins. At first I worried about renewing the cycle of childhood angst when I saw distress over toys shared and playpens used for purposes some were not accustomed to but the camaraderie grew until it broke into an all out running-chasing frenzy in the empty prayer halls of your uncle's wedding. Maryland summers spent with my cousins are among my most cherished childhood memories. You had a blast with your cousins and I hope it will be the first of many weekends to come.

This month I read babies believe themselves one with their mother. Only with the onset of language do they realize they own a distinct and independent space. I sense we're on the brink of this realization but right now? You point at your reflection in the mirror and grin mama. Soon this will change, just like everything else seems to be changing these days. One day you will realize your fully separate self.

This realization that you are on the brink of a distinct sense of self, the development of your id and ego and all that comes with it just a breath away, made me think of a conversation I had this month. A friend dealing with a broken relationship asked me when will my wounds heal to which I almost responded time heals all wounds except I felt struck by how smugly self-assured these words were. To simply let time do the work of healing wounded relationships with those we love is to believe we are immortal, and that we have an eternity of tomorrows. This isn't true Waleed. You are young and are loved by so many, but love is a precious commodity and to spurn loved ones is to spurn the greatest gift we are given. Time may heal wounds, but time is not guaranteed. Don't leave time to heal your hurt feelings with those you love. Drop the ego because before the face of love, ego for the sake of pride alone has no place. It's the single most important thing I learned when I became your mother.

Love,

Your Mama

Those days you really wish someone stole your wallet

2011-10-11T00:53:00.001-04:00

Me: Excuse me. Has anyone turned in a black wristlet and purple phone?
Clerk: Did you lose your wallet?
Me: I had it on the top of my car while I loaded my groceries and when I looked up it was gone.
Clerk: Are you sure you had it on top of your car?
Me: Yes, I put it there to free my hands. I distinctly remember it. Then I closed the door. And it was gone.
Clerk: Did you check your car thoroughly?
Me: Ofcourse I did!! I checked the trunk, my diaper bag, everything!
Clerk: Maybe you can double check, just to absolutely rule it out.
Me: No. I distinctly remember putting it on the roof of my car and now its not there.
Clerk: Yeah well, you wouldn't believe how often people come here saying they lost their wallet but they never even brought it to the store with them.
Me: WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?! I HAD MY WALLET. I BOUGHT GROCERIES WITH MY WALLET. I'VE LOOKED EVERYWHERE FOR MY WALLET. MY WALLET IS GONE.
Clerk: Okay. Sorry. Fill out your information, if we find it we'll call you.

Forty minutes later after scouring the aisles, parking lot, and under the bottom of my car, I get in and on the bottom of the passenger seat? My wallet, and phone.

I take some comfort in the memory of a moment years ago when I insisted to mall security that I knew I parked my car by Dillard's and yes I am quite sure and no I didn't forget and park elsewhere how rude and why aren't you filing a stolen car report the perps might be in Alabama by now only to pull up in the mall security golf cart to the Macy's- and see my car. Yes, my memory sucks-- but it appears to be a constant thing staying steadily bad over time. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this on a [sadly] regular basis.

Unplugging: lessons from failure

2011-10-07T00:40:00.000-04:00

Sometimes its good to be bored my father said to me when I complained as a child of endless summers of nothing to do and the television quota met for the day. I didn't realize it at the time but the musicals, skits, and stories written to allay the idleness were the most beneficial things I could have done for myself. I needed those quiet moments of nothing to reflect and grow creatively. Steve Jobs, may he rest in peace, despite being the man who brought us the ipod, smart phone, computers and all the other means to perennially distract ourselves credited his creativity to boredom:

I’m a big believer in boredom. Boredom allows one to indulge in curiosity and out of curiosity comes everything. All the [technology] stuff is wonderful, but having nothing to do can be wonderful, too.

Last week I wrote about my desire to unplug. Though I failed at my mission to kick the internet out of my life for a week as planned, I did learn a great deal, including just how seamlessly it has woven itself into the fabric of my life and how difficult it has become in this day-and-age to be bored. I listen to NPR streaming as I do morning chores. I read blogs on my smartphone as I put Waleed to sleep. Small things I never noticed until I tried stopping. Meth addicts might have handled their withdrawal with better dignity than me.

As much as I wanted to share how unplugging changed my life and I now sit by a zen garden each morning whilst doing yoga- I can't. The good thing though is I did learn about my habits. I became aware of how much I use the internet and in learning this I can learn to tone back. In particular I learned that:

(1) Facebook is a time-suck. It's purported benefit of connecting you with others is mitigated by the fact that if you're not connecting any other way, what relationship are you nurturing? The new format, the way it throws everyone's business in my face on a nonstop stream makes me feel sick. I was off FB for a week. I don't miss it. My posts auto-post to my account, but I'm debating deactivating and being done with the whole thing, especially after Ruby pointed out FB is quite the "Big Brother" I can't help but wonder is having an account worth it?

(2) I know some people thrive on twitter, and social revolutions perhaps stemmed from it but I've never fully understood it and time apart makes it seem even more disconnected to my daily life. The more I'm on twitter the more it matters, the less I am, the less it does. It feels like high school again. And I don't want to go back to high school. [though this applies to facebook as well I guess] and [does anyone else have these weird nightmares where they dream they found out they actually didn't graduate high school because they missed one credit and have to go back and start all over again? Just me? Mkay] And while I know twitter is beneficial for many, for me its more time-wasting than time-enhancing.

(3) Julia said it best, moderation is key when it comes to smart phones usage and connectivity in general. How insulting to those in the flesh before me if I'm clicking my phone responding to e-mails, texts, and reading updates effectively dismissing the value of those before me? How distracting a life to live doing three things at once? Now, while I enjoy my NPR as I do dishes, I put my phone away for meals. While I read blogs while waiting at a doctor's office, I close the laptop when I'm not using it to simply surf mindlessly.

While I plan to completely unplug at some point, at least for now, all or nothing doesn't work. But maybe with moderation, I might find a way to actually succeed in the long-term. The key with wanting to stop, is not to prove that I can, for the simple sake of a self-challenge- but to allow my brain some room to breathe, to think, and to create. And to teach my son to the same. He's growing up faster than I can blink, and no screen is beautiful enough to miss a moment of bearing witness to the person he is becoming. I hope when it comes time to give him his internet quota for the day, like my father and my TV quota, I will tell him to do as I do, and not just as I say. If that's not motivation to moderate, not sure what is.

Note to future self: thoughts on sleepless nights

2011-10-05T10:25:00.001-04:00

There was a time, approximately one year, I spent more time awake at night than asleep. Where we rushed upstairs every ten minutes post-baby-bedtime to address tears and recriminations. Where I thought it just would never ever get better and against my better judgment began purchasing books upon books on baby sleep and felt worse than ever about my parenting skills which these books informed me were intrinsically tied with my child's sleep and the lack thereof. I finally resigned myself to a lifetime of wakings imagining my college-age son demanding a hug at 3am and told myself you know what? That's okay. And then-- it stopped. One day like a light switch, he turned off at 7:30pm and woke up exactly twelve hours later. A fluke we first thought. But no, it's continued this way with nary an interruption for the past four months. Until last night.

Last night at 4am we heard shrieks and instead of nudging the other we both sprang up and raced to his crib. He clung to me, his heart racing and then, after examining my face in the still of the night, kissed me and rested his head on my shoulder, the tension leaving his body until he was limp in my arms, fast asleep once more.

And I found as I rested my cheek against his fine baby hair and felt his arms wrapped around my neck, his head heavy on my shoulder-- I couldn't put him back down. He's almost halfway to two. Less a baby with each passing day. Man I'm going to miss him. The sleep deprivation. The toys that stick under my feet. The food tossed to the other end of the room. I'm going to miss it all. My cousin commented on what a good sleeper my son was while we were staying with him this past weekend. I had to smile as I realized he is a good sleeper. Now. Sometimes its hard to imagine it was any other way.

This is a note to my future self, should I be blessed enough to find myself with another little one someday, who also requires extensive night wakings and rockings, that this too shall pass, and that one day I'll have a night like last night where I'm awake at 4am actually feeling blessed for night wakings such as these.

It's a small world after all

2011-10-04T10:18:00.002-04:00

At an out of town Baltimore area post-wedding hangout, talking to the lovely bride. . .

Me: I'm a lawyer but I'm home with my son now. I love it, plus I get to work on my writing.
Bride: Oh you write?
Me: Yes, multicultural fiction. Hopefully to one day be a published author.
Bride: Wait, what? Pause as she stares at me. Begin wondering if she finds publishing dreams akin to discussing the secret spiritual lives of koala bears.
Me: Yeah well, I wrote this book and I. . . Aw man, she must think I'm being pretentious like I'm a hoity toity?! Aisha why can't you just shut up and compliment people's dresses, and leave it at that?
Bride: Your name is Aisha?
Me: Um, yes.
Bride: Aisha Iqbal?
Me: Well, yeah, kind of. . .
Bride: I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
Me: Well we did just meet. . .
Bride: I READ YOUR BLOG!

If that isn't cool-- I'm not sure what is! [And incase you read my last post-- yes didn't do so well on abstaining from the internet for a week-- a post in my defense coming shortly]

Unplugging [with updates along the way]

2011-09-28T00:13:00.003-04:00

I remember when my elementary school library acquired a white fuzzy squeaky mouse the likes of Cinderella fairy tales. At least that's what we thought when we heard of the mouse for the computer in the library. What sort of mouse? We wondered. Some kind of souped up robot-mouse? Do we shout out what we wish to type and it hops as instructed on the keypad?

We've come a long way from hypothetical robot-mice, pay per minute dial-up, and you've got mail! The computer and corresponding internet has gone from a novelty to a medium we cannot live without.

Or can we?

Everywhere I go, parks, doctor's offices, restaurants, in line at the store, I see people poring over their smartphones, staring at an iPad and wonder what important work they're doing with furrowed brows and a look of complete absorption. Inevitably its Facebook. Or twitter. And lately- those people? Are me [Although-- thank you new FB for making my head hurt, I've logged in only once since]. I've known life without complete internet dependency and see the difference it's made in my life. I read less. I write less. When the phone bings, I check it. Almost immediately. I read blogs, check e-mails, but sometimes one link leads to another and I've spent an hour I could have worked on a short story or read a book just surfing-- and while that can be useful, most times its not especially when its time spent immersed in social media-- I mean, did I really need to spend twenty minutes looking at pictures of a facebook 'friend's' parent's cousin's best friend's in laws' thirtieth wedding anniversary? There are benefits to the instant gratification the internet provides, but there are drawbacks. I'm thankful I don't tie my self-worth to my on-line life- but facebook, twitter, they can have damning consequences and we can forget that life is lived on the dirt we stand on, the people having dinner across from us, not the 'friends' we accumulate and count and tally. If we're on-line too long, too frequently, checking on every bing, and ping like the classic Pavlov's Dog- we have the potential to lose sight of that- and that? That's frightening.

Three months ago we cut our cable. I anticipated methadone shots to deal with the withdrawals of the steady background noise of TV during the quiet moments my son was asleep or otherwise engaged- but nothing. I still watched TV via discs since I'm not anti-TV, but the background chatter vanished. Once it was gone I realized I didn't need it at all.

Do I need the internet? Will I jitter without it? I want to know. I want to see how my life will improve [or not] if I cut it out. I want to know what it's like without instant gratification at the touch of my fingertips. I want to rid myself of the potential descent into a life in which the internet controls me, and not the other way around.

So for one week, I'm unplugging. Not entirely. As nice as it would be to be all or nothing, I'm in the middle of a few high-priority situations which require access to the internet. So the plan is simple: For one week: disable my phone notifications, check and reply to e-mails/blog comments, twice a day [morning and night] and nothing else. It's just a week. But I'm curious. Will I learn to enjoy the pleasure of my company, read books, play with my son more? Or will I huddle in a corner with the shakes. [Methadone is not a cure-all after all.] In any case will update a week from today [or sooner if I fail spectacularly-- which, I might].

Wish me luck! Ever unplugged? Ever consider unplugging? Curious for thoughts on this!

Day One: Well, so much for sticking to my rule for twice a day internet. While I've stayed away from facebook, twitter, and web-hopping, I've definitely checked my e-mail about five times. Still. Better than nothing. But not better than the plan. Will aim for stronger willpower tomorrow!

Day Two: Does it get worse before it gets better? That phone of mine is the hardest thing because a simple click and I check in on my e-mail-- and yes I've even clicked on a few links and read them. A lot lower than normal internet usage but not the unplugging I wanted. The thing is, w/out notifications I just check it more to see if I missed anything. Very counter productive! And while someone reading might laugh at me, try to be w/out interent for one day- completely- and see how you feel. You don't realize how completely dependent you've grown on the medium until you try to quit it. It's honestly scary. This weekend is super busy and I wont be near a computer so as long as I can tame my e-mail checking abilities on my smart-phone Seriously wanted to regale you with stories of internet-free zen-bliss. Seriously disappointed :(

Rest In Peace Troy Davis

2011-09-22T00:03:00.001-04:00

Troy Davis was killed today. Just a few short words from a few judges decided a man's permanent fate despite the serious doubts about his guilt. He could be my brother, my father, my husband-- my son. When will stories like this be 'once upon a time' and not here, now, in my own backyard? A painful reminder for me to do my part.

Rest in Peace Troy Davis. I hope you find it in the elusive hereafter. God knows you didn't find it here

Notes on the journey through language

2011-09-21T00:01:00.003-04:00

It seems my son is learning Urdu. He claps to thali bajao, points to his kaan [ears] baal [hair], closes doors, turns off lights, all with Urdu commands. It seems things are moving well on the path to bilingualism but considering he's primarily nonverbal, and raising a kid is a work in progress its hard to know when I can declare victory. When he's 2? 5? 35? I know many of you reading are planning to teach [or are teaching] a second language so I thought I'd share what I'm doing now incase its helpful.

1. Focused Language. I have to be realistic. I speak to K, my friends, my brothers, in English. To try otherwise is forced. Regardless of how fluent Waleed becomes, English will be his stronger language because English is my stronger language [unless he chooses to pursue Urdu studies when he grows up, and then I can perhaps learn from him]. Instead of forcing a 100% Urdu-environment I simply speak English to him when its inconvenient not to and otherwise, I speak exclusively in Urdu. Our time at home, is 90% Urdu. It's not always easy but the more I do it, the more natural it gets.

2. Engaging fluent speakers. If I want to teach him fluent Urdu- I need to hone my own skills.When I encounter fluent Urdu-speakers, we usually resort to speaking in English and its hard to mess with the status quo. I'm afraid I'll mess up, that they'll laugh at me, but I'm doing my best to overcome this and try my best to convince native-speakers to engage me in an Urdu-language conversation.

3. Reading stories. In both languages. I read English-language stories to Waleed in Urdu, while K reads the same stories in English. In this way he gets the the rhyme, meter and prose of how the book was intended, and the urdu-version as well.

4. Making an alphabet book. Most alphabet books give letters that correspond with pictures for that letter [duh]. And as awesome as 'A is for apple' alphabet books are, I'm making my own Urdu-English hybrid alphabet picture book where A is for atta [flour] and B is for bandar [monkey]. Imperfect but as perfect as it can get at this point.

While, I'll definitely add to this list as I go along, the ultimate question is: will these measures work? I don't know. It's entirely possible five years hence, he'll be speaking with a southern accent and think Urdu is the funny way mama speaks when she doesn't want him to understand her.

Some think its great I'm trying to impart language. Some make fun of me. Some point out Urdu isn't exactly Mandarin. It's spoken by some but not all that important in the grander scheme. But it is. If I spoke Arabic, Finnish, Swahili, I would do all in my power to impart these too. As beautiful and rich as English is, if I can give my son the ability to speak another language, he'll have another angle from which to view the world. I know its not important for everyone, and I respect that, but for me? It's very important. It doesn't mean I won't fail. I might. Spectacularly. But if he doesn't learn what was in my capacity to give him and what I want so passionately for him, I will see it for what it is without rationalization of any sort-- my failure. I guess I'll just try the best that I can.

No pressure or anything.

Any tips or ideas on teaching language to your kids?

Three Beautiful Things Thursday- And I'm featured on BlogHer!

2011-09-15T21:34:00.005-04:00

One. I'm featured on BlogHer! For this post! Which is well, all kinds of cool! If you're visiting via BlogHer- hi! Make yourself at home and don't be a stranger now, ya hear? [And for those of you who already read via readers, google-friend connect, etc thank you!]

Two. Incase it wasn't obvious- I hate football. The guy I live with? Loves football. My dream is to sprawl on the lawn reading books with Waleed under the autumn breeze. His dream is for Waleed to be sitting next to him on a baby computer mulling over baby-fantasy-football trade offers. And while K insists football love is a nature versus nurture thing and well, being his son, he's likely genetically programmed to heart football, photographic evidence which recently came into my posession appear to paint a different picture:

Yeah, nature my . . . ardvark! Honestly though? I might despise football, but this father-son sporting? I love it. I love my kid's inclination towards athleticism and my husband's desire to draw it out. Besides, books or football, it's still a bit early to figure out which one he'll like more. Right?

[football 'surveillance' pictures courtesy of our good friend and awesome photographer AbidK]

Three. I have mixed views about living in the South and though I've lived more south than this [Miami is quite south after all] Miami isn't The South. While the South has its perks like ridiculously tasty sweet tea and the ability to say y'all without anyone batting an eye, I long for the all out awesomeness that is San Francisco, the quiet culture of Asheville, or the sheer beauty of Boulder. I forget sometimes that I can recreate that here, like in Decatur, an intown enclave of family-friendly and uber-granola folks which is basically right up my alley. This past Saturday I took Waleed to a playgroup at toy park [I was super excited about this as I envisioned hunkering lego structures and intricate sand castles. It turned out to be just a park- with toys- but toys geared towards kids his age]. He loved it. And I loved watching him and interacting with the other mothers, some who were simply walking around who I had never met, but were open to friendly conversation- and then having lunch across the street in the open air in the company of good friends. It was normal. It was ordinary. It was perfect.

Just today I took my son to yet another park, this one closer to home, one too big for him, where the sun was too hot and the parents kept their eyes fixed pointedly away from one another, and I couldn't help but remember my Saturday at toy park. Books I read advise me that I'll meet other like minded mamas at parks- and yet out in the burbs this has yet to happen, ten minutes at toy park and I felt completely at home with people I only met for the first time. While I admit a part of me wonders if its less that the suburbs are inherently isolating or more that I'm simply the wrong color, that's neither here nor there. The vibe is just different, it just is. At least I have a car. And it can take me to toy park where I can see my son's smile as he marches about happiest in the company of others and where I can have lunch with good friends who carve out time to spend with us. Those 90 minute drives are worth days like this.


um, waiter- you forgot my order [thanks for the great pic Cylinda!]

Bloggy recognition, father-son sporting, and the memory of a beautiful Saturday afternoon. A beautiful Thursday indeed. Hope you had a beautiful day.

Aisha and Bob- and so much left unsaid

2011-09-12T00:47:00.002-04:00

Have you ever engaged in a conversation with a perfectly pleasant person who says the most perfectly confounding things that you're just not even sure how to respond to? In the classic film You've Got Mail, Meg Ryan's character says what happens to me. . . is that I get tongue-tied and my mind goes blank. Then, I spend all night tossing and turning trying to figure out what I should have said. Yeah, that about sums me up entirely, including this conversation with 'Bob':

Bob: Hi. I'm Bob.

Me: Nice to meet you. I'm Aisha.

Bob: Oh man. I gotta tell you. I love Indian Food! And Vindaloo? It rocks.

Never had vindaloo. Not from India. But glad to hear of your devotion to Indian food.

Me: Oh, that's nice.

Bob: I've always wanted to go to India and visit an ashram and learn yoga. You must do great yoga.

My wii instructor finds my yoga skills average. India does seem beautiful. Thanks for sharing this random tidbit about you. I hope you realize your dreams of yogi zen.

Me: Well, my ancestry is Pakistani. I'm not sure if they do a lot of yoga or have any ash-

Bob: Pakistan! I had a friend from Pakistan when I was a kid! In Vancouver. Her name was Sara. . . Khan was the last name, I think. Do you know her?

Sara Khan. From Vancouver. Ofcourse. Why wouldn't I?

Me: I don't think so.

Bob: Pakistanis like chai. You must love chai.

Sigh.

Me: I do.

Bob: I ate at a Pakistani restaurant in San Francisco. You guys make the best chai.

Me: Well. . . thanks!

Bob: Have you had the chai-tea from Starbucks? It's the best.

Oi.

Bob: But seriously. . . I'm sorry about your loss a few years back.

Me: What loss?

Bob: Benazir Bhutto. Her passing must have been difficult.

Contrary to popular media perception, she was not beloved and adored by all- myself included. I felt sad for the brutal death of a human being however no different than any other life taken unjustly.

Me: Um yeah I managed.

Bob: Are you on facebook? I'll totally look you up so we can link up. I don't think I have any Pakistani friends on there.

And now, reason 1,000,201 to deactivate my FB account once and for all.

Me: Yeah, that would be. . . fun.

Not fun being boiled down into a stereotype- especially when, in matters of chai-drinking, I so fit the bill.

This blog post was featured on BlogHer- if you're visiting via BlogHer- hi! Thanks for visiting and if you like what you read please do subscribe or connect, don't be a stranger now ya hear? :)

Happy Sixteen Month Birthday

2011-09-08T22:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Waleed,

Yesterday you turned sixteen months old. You say uh oh when you drop things and cover your ears with your hands, mischievously, as if by plugging your ears you silence the world for us all. But there is little silence in your company these days. I now feel the full comfort of your companionship in the way you share your [quite vocal] input as we shop for groceries, and grab a 'phone' to join in when I'm chatting with a friend [the blue tooth weirds you out though- you stare at me with concern like I'm talking to the voices in my head- which I guess I am?] You're less a baby and more a child with each passing day. I thought I might mourn this state of transition but how can I when we're so busy having fun? From your love of marching around in your monkey hat to the way you fall on me laughing each morning- you're just so much fun.

This month playing with toys while Mama had toast and tea for breakfast became totally passe. Instead, one morning, you guided me to your seat and requested to join me in this morning ritual. Now, most days, we take tea and toast together [though your tea is, um, water] and chat about life, and while I'm not entirely sure what we're talking about- this is not unlike many conversations I've had. Your naps are now singular, but blessedly long enough to let me fit in yoga and lunch- and now when you wake? You no longer burst into tears, hysterical until you see my face- instead you call out for me and play with your toys knowing full well I'll come get you- and when I do- your grin- that wattage could light Turner Field.

But my favorite development this month? You love books. I admit I worried books just wouldn't be your thing despite assurances from others that not all babies are bookworms straight out of the womb. Until now you couldn't be bothered. There were antennas to bend, toilet paper to unroll, and other Very Important Business. This month you've climbed into my lap each day and for thirty minutes we've read together, your mind-body-soul fully engaged. Are You My Mother? Pelle's Suit. These were stories my parents read to me. Reading them to you? Special doesn't begin to cover it. Your favorite stories are Little Kitten, and Hurry, Hurry. Anytime a duck graces any page you squeal ducky and lean in to kiss the page. And while a playground beats book learning any day of the week- if you could live in a playground you just might- I'm simply thankful you finally appreciate books.

Your nana and nani came to visit the weekend following Eid- I'd like to think they came to celebrate my birthday- but I know better- they take those sixteen hour round trip drives for 48 hours of the pleasure of your company. You spent the long weekend clinging to them or showing off all the marvelous things you do like push a laundry basket around the house like a shopping cart, or turning a coffee table into an obstacle course. When it was time for them to leave, you watched them perched on my hip with an expression of confusion- and then I saw the realization pass over your face as the car pulled away- they were leaving- and for the first time ever, you wept. So did I. At your age all my relatives lived an ocean away- to see your comfortable, familiar interactions with your extended family makes me realize how much I missed and makes me so grateful that you never will.

You're lucky to be surrounded by so much love Waleed. Life is full of people. Some we are tied to be by blood. Some we run into on the streets and chat with in passing, some become our friends, while some remain strangers and nothing more. Sometimes the tie of these relationships feels comforting like a child's security blanket- other time it feels suffocating like a noose around your neck. Hold on to the relationships that help you grow, release the ones that taint your heart like black ink. The ones who love you will always love you unconditionally- the ones who love you will never make you feel small or unworthy because you are neither of these things. You are Waleed-- my son. A living, walking, breathing, blessing. Never forget this singular truth.

Love,

Your Mama

Wordless Wednesday-- I see fall

2011-09-07T00:07:00.001-04:00

The air is chillier lending increased pleasure in ones chai and wonder in my son's eyes as he watches a flurry of gold leaves flutter to the ground. Its also the beginning of football season. A reminder I guess that one must take the good with the bad. Still, fall is here. And its perfect enough-- football notwithstanding. [Disclaimer: While I hate football and am fairly certain if hell is personalized my version would involve ESPN NFL highlights on a loop- I'm able to separate my hate for football and my love for the people who, for reasons that elude me, love it]

[My first attempt at Wordless Wednesday though I guess brevity will be the goal as wordlessness is beyond me. Honestly, do y'all enjoy reading WW on blogs or find it annoying? If its a snoozefest I'll ditch it as a regular thing.]

On nursing and putting away the rose-colored glasses

2011-09-06T00:52:00.000-04:00

Friend: When did you wean your son?
Me: Last week.
Friend: What?! He's almost 16 months old!
Me: It was so convenient it was hard to let it go.
Friend: Convenient? It seems inconvenient to breastfeed.
Me: No, its simple, no bottles to wash, no formula to buy.
Friend: So you enjoyed the experience
Me: I loved it. It wasn't a problem.

I walked away from the conversation feeling uneasy. While I'm looking forward to drinking ten cups of coffee back-to-back with wild abandon [if I wanted to] and sharing the nighttime routine with K, nursing was a special bond and its end is bittersweet. Nursing was also much simpler than preparing bottles at 6:00am so why does it feel weird to say nursing was simple, and convenient?

Oh yeah, because it wasn't.

Those first few months of motherhood nursing was so difficult bottles of formula waltzed through my fractured dreams like the hippos of Mickey Mouse's Fantasia. The daily samples of formula piling up in the pantry didn't help my resolve either. It's only thanks to a good lactation consultant, a supportive non-judgmental husband and family that I made it through. Over time it got easier, convenient, wonderful- but not for a while.

There are many heated debates on the topic of nursing. Those that judge who don't. Those that judge who do. Though we are in a very pro-breastfeeding era there are those who argue that to nurse your child past one year of age is not just unnecessary, you're a bad mother for doing so, with the author of the book I linked to actually stating that perhaps a mother who nurses past 12 months just doesn't want to make an extra effort to figure out how else to bond with her child. Yes, really. Waleed's own doctor said its up to you but followed up with words that indicated she too thought the idea preposterous scoffing at self-weaning by saying a kid will never self-wean; at some point a parent must parent.

Maybe this is why I reacted so cheerfully to my friend's astonishment that I still nursed my son. If I smiled and said it was easy, I would not be judged. But it wasn't easy at first and those early months I thought myself a lochness monster for finding what I was told was the natural order of things, more difficult than running ten miles on stilts. My astonished friend is not yet a mother and I'd hate for her to look back at our conversation one day and think Aisha said it was easy and worry-free but this is hard. What's wrong with me?

As woman we should support each other, hold one another up, but instead so often, we judge and bring each other down be it over nursing, the choice to work or stay home, sleep routines, etc. My instincts are to smile and say all is well, because its a knee-jerk reaction akin to responding great! when asked how its going, even if its really going the complete opposite. But I can't do that. I can't remove my honest experience with a knee-jerk feel-good response. To do so would be to potentially hurt another person struggling through what I did and to make them feel alone when they are not.

Nursing was great. Nursing was hard as hell. I wrote this post so I won't forget.

Why I will no longer borrow children's books from the library

2011-09-02T16:54:00.008-04:00

Because when you walk in on this. . .

it makes you question a lot of things.

And while everyone is so very confused and bewildered as to how this could have happened . . .

Well, this is strange!

Let's just say, I have my suspicions.

mama, isn't this what they'd call, garnish?

You can't help but wonder as you walk in on a shoe-banana-book sandwich that a) it is the way of children and b) what do other kids do with their library books? And while perhaps it builds immunities its also just . . . yeah. So as not to inflict on others the remnants of such savory concoctions as my budding chef puts together, I'll be buying my baby's books for a little while to come. [for the record this was not a library book based meal]

There were Eids before you.

2011-08-31T00:00:00.000-04:00

There were Eids before you.

But-- what was it like to not give you your morning bath? Watch you race from room to room in your Eid clothes? Pray salaat with you quietly by my side? Your adopted auntie in our adopted city smiled as she handed you your Eidi. We're going to watch them grow up together, she said so simply but so profoundly that it stopped me mid-step- because just like that they will do just that- grow up. What was it like before I watched you watch children with curious reserve who appear today, an ocean apart in age, but who in a few short years, I pray, will be your dearest friends?

Sometimes I question the power of prayer and I wonder-- is anyone listening? And then- there are these moments of startling clarity. . .

. . . when I look up at the people who inhabit my life each day so seamlessly I can fail to see the magnitude of the blessing I've been given.

But I see it today. Every prayer that means anything is reflected in the people I love. When I look at your father and you, Waleed, I realize every dream I had came true. Thank you for new kinds of Eids. The ones that give me joy beyond measure by the simple presence of the lightness of your being.

Eid Mubarak to you and yours

Confessions of a cook. If that's what I am.

2011-08-26T00:36:00.001-04:00

Before I got married, I seldom cooked. By which I mean, I occasionally boiled water. Living in Lansing my first year of marriage, away from family, cooking became a matter of survival [there are only so many times you can eat take-out] so I promptly learned all the desi dishes my mother made. I made them from scratch since Shan wasn't available where I lived [Shan's a good [though high-sodium] hand-holder for learning new recipes]. I shocked both my family and myself with the things I learned, Shami Kabob, aloo gobi, chicken kardhai, plau. All from the basic ingredients in my cupboard.

Sometimes I made other things too. And by make I mean, I picked up a frozen packet of teriyaki chicken, defrosted it, served it with a salad and felt pride at the meal I made. In this spirit I served apple cobbler, blueberry pies, cheesecake, all from mix and match and coat and serve, and took credit because I opened the box. I assembled the ingredients. I cooked! [In my defense, my cooking resume just six months earlier involved burnt eggs and boiled water].

I soon broke free of frozen meals but the break from my long standing dependence on packaged food came by accident. I promised breakfast pancakes to visiting friends and that morning woke to discover an empty box of Bisquick. Panicked, I searched the internet for options. Pancakes came in a box because making them from scratch had to be difficult. Except, I learned, it isn't. Flour, milk, eggs, sugar. Really, that's about it. I was astonished. Not only was the result easy, cheaper, and healthier with less preservatives and additives- it tasted fabulous! And it made me wonder: if pancakes are this easy what about other things? Are they similarly uncomplicated?

Yes. Hashbrowns. Mashed potatoes. Cranberry sauce, and stuffing. One after the other, easy, and according to K, tasty. And those that were not easy, that perhaps took a bit more time, I found a particular pride in making that was different than tossing frozen fries on a baking tray. I found the ability to grow creative with my cooking, trying my own touches, my own twists. And the feeling of watching your loved ones enjoy what you made, what you really made? It was indescribable. If its tastier, and cheaper, to make it from scratch, why, I wondered, did I feel so intimidated for so long, questioning my ability to even try?

The food industry, I am now learning. I'm reading Something From The Oven, a look into the evolution of American cooking from the 60's to today and exactly how influential the food industry was in pushing our dependence on boxes, mixes, and freezers. Magazine editors, television chefs, the shapers of our foodie culture were given a lot of incentives by the food industry to popularize cooking via box. A box of bisquick is a lot more profitable than selling flour. Society at large resisted at first, but ultimately, succumbed, leading to me, a reasonably educated person, absolutely intimidated by the prospect of pancakes.

I guess now I could say, take that food industry! I make my own food now thankyouverymuch! I am free! Except, I'm not. That is what this book made me see. Yes I make Pad Thai, but I use peanut butter as a base. I don't crush the peanuts myself. I use Kikkoman soy sauce instead of boiling soy beans [if that is how soy sauce is infact made]. I make Thai Red Curry, but the Red? It's from a paste I got in a jar from the store and the coconut milk came from a can, not an actual coconut I chopped and boiled.

So then, did I really cook these meals? Can I truly claim credit?

As Eid approaches I've been planning what desserts to make and was debating between a heath bar trifle or chocolate eclairs. They get rave reviews and I was super excited to make them. Except, both are really box creations. Different boxes, but still- boxes The trifle involves boxed cake. Frozen whipped cream. Dried pudding. Heath bars. It was then I realized, as much as I try to wean myself from processed basics for my cooking, when it comes to desserts, I'm a Betty Crocker poster child. And this made me feel sick.

I'm not making it I told K. I can't make it. It's not me. It's just boxes. But- as much as I want to make it from scratch I feel overwhelmed by the work required to authentically create each part. I'll bake cookies from scratch I told K but he was having none of it. He loves it and assured me that if I'm truly opposed to making box-based items he'll eat my share himself. He's selfless like that. So I'll make it. But can I really take credit for it?

But how far does one go in the quest for authentic cooking? I've never milked a cow for my day's milk, nor would I want to. Nor do I foresee myself purchasing my own wheat to make my own pasta. It could be I'm overthinking this. [Who? Me?] It's just that I love cooking. I take absolute pleasure in the act. But feeling like a fraud, sucks.

Image Source Here

How he slept. And I didn't.

2011-08-24T09:42:00.001-04:00

6:45: What's the time? He's still asleep?! Sweeeeet! Roll over go back to sleep.
6:55: But that's weird. He always gets up at 6:45. Check to make sure he's breathing. He is. Back to bed.
7:10: Seriously? Not even for a bottle!? Dont be crazy Aisha. He's sleeping in. Do the same!
7:15: Fever. Must be. Check forehead. Normal. Don't question good fortune, get some shut eye now!
7:30: No point in trying to fall asleep, he'll be up any minute now.
7:45: He'll be up any minute now.
8:00: He'll be up any minute now.
8:15: He'll be up any minute now.
8:45: He's up. See. I knew it.

When I went into his room to get him, he looked at me, pointed, and laughed. He's frankly been in the best mood ever. So I'm fairly certain he did it on purpose. To mess with me. And it worked.

Auntie. Uncle. Mister. Misses. Or, Aisha?

2011-08-23T00:32:00.002-04:00

I'll never forget the first time someone called me auntie. I was 24. She was 12. I was horrified. Auntie, in my opinion, should be reserved for people old enough to be your mother, and unless she came from a very dysfunctional world I was decidedly not an auntie thank you very much.

I'll also never forget the first time someone of diminutive size called me Aisha. A toddler, grinning, waving, calling out Hey Aisha! I about nearly staggered mid-step.

A language is devised from its people, their cultures, and resulting values. There are hundreds of words for snow amongst the Sami [it be cold there]. Desis, perhaps due to our traditional collectivist nature, have an insane amount of words to define our relationships. No relative is called auntie/uncle, its mami [mom's bro's wife], khala [mom's sis], mamu [mom's bro], chacha [dad's bro] and so on. Auntie and Uncle represent the bare bones of respect. Every random desi, stranger and alike, is auntie and uncle if they're our elders. Random desi guy grunting wordlessly as he hands me my satchel of groceries? Uncle. Desi lady I've never seen before in my life confused about what exit on the subway to take? Auntie.

All this to say that the terms auntie and uncle are tattoed into our brains. Which leads to interesting encounters with decidedly non-desi neighbors who pass by, coo at the baby, and to whom we automatically respond say hi to Uncle 'Bob' Waleed!. It happens quite a bit, with Auntie Rachel, Uncle Steve and the like slipping out of our mouths before we can recalculate for a different culture. Which, with good friends, its one thing, Auntie Cylinda, Yen, or Rebecca works perhaps, but random people? I can't help but wonder if they think we're major weirdos who fancy them like family when we don't even know their last names and leads them to pity us for we must be very lonely, friendless souls.

Regardless of cultural norms, calling an elder by their first name, feels wrong. So the plan of the hour? Mister/Mrs/Miss for non-desis, and the traditional auntie/uncle for desis. And hopefully the collateral non-desi "auntie/uncles" along the way will understand. Or invite us to Thanksgiving dinner. Either way. All I can do is balance my worlds as best as I can and impart to my son the fine balance inhabiting two cultures entails.

What about you? How do you plan to have your children address their elders?

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

2011-08-18T21:38:00.006-04:00

One. Playing has ramped up several notches in this household. Peek-a-boo and tickle monster remain popular staples but the repertoire's expanded to hide and seek, toss the ball, and ofcourse pool. He's a regular hustler at pool:

The playing corresponds with his ramped up curiosity of the world around him. No longer content with rifling through the cupboards [though he still hones this skill daily] he wants to do more. Like draw. On my kitchen walls. His increased desire to explore and play led me to worry about how best to meet his developmental needs so I got him legos and a "stick the shape in the right hole- box" [surely there's a simpler name but the box had no clear title for said cube] He politely played with each for approximately five minutes, and then stuck the empty lego box on his head and tromped around the house playing soccer with"shape box"

Someone suggested daycare for the developmental benefits of constant interaction and while a part of me thinks there will be plenty of time for regimented play, the other part of me worries that home with me, he's not getting enough. The other day, too incapacitated to be much of a playmate, I reached new levels of mom-guilt when he bounded up and presented me with a paper cup and an expression that seemed to say Because I have inadequate stimulation you've reduced me to wandering the house with a paper cup for companionship. I grabbed a pen, drew a face on it, turned my voice up a few octaves, and made it a puppet. He has so many toys but I've never seen him so completely filled with joy as he did when playing with our 'puppets' [he made me make one for him too] Silly yes, but nonsense? No. There's benefit in creativity and stretching the imagination. Plus it was free. This time is fleeting and I know around the bend is a day when rudimentary puppets will not do. Why not focus on the simple pleasures and let the toys, for now, gather dust if they must?

Two. And incase I wasnt aware of how fast time flies, I checked my e-mail today to find an e-mail from a student I taught my first year of teaching. She asked me to review her personal statement for college. For college. I remember her walking into my classroom with a dress and a shy smile. I taught her antonyms and adverbs. College? I remember college. The most difficult part about teaching is knowing you have just that year, and then you must say goodbye. Each year, without fail, when I saw them lined up on the last day of school, ready to leave the nest, I wept. You love them so dearly, you fall into their worlds and their challenges, and then- you let them go. It never got easy. I'm so thankful to keep in touch with some of my students and doubly touched that even now after all these years, I can find a way to help them.

Three. I'm almost done line-editing my second manuscript where I double-check grammar, spelling, and tone. In revisions past I printed out all 250+ pages because staring into the bright light of the computer can get tiring for hours on end. This time? I e-mailed it to my kindle. Reading it on there in 'book form' was indescribable. I made my revisions then re-sent it to myself to double check, all without a single tree having to pay the price. Hope is a curious creature. I can't see it, touch it or taste it. But I can feel it. As I read my manuscript on Kindle, I could feel it coursing through my veins. With Borders gone, and publishers biting their nails, I don't know what the future holds, but I can tell you that this moment of sitting down with a cup of tea to read a book, my book? One of the most beautiful feelings ever.

The best part of writing these Thursday posts is the sifting. Sifting through all the beautiful things there are. Sometimes its easy to lose sight and it's my responsibility not to. Hope you had a beautiful Thursday too.

It should take a village. But I guess a babysitter will do.

2011-08-16T15:51:00.002-04:00

The weekend before Ramadan my parents were in town. Taking advantage of an opportunity rarer than lunar eclipses, we put the babe to bed and snuck out to our first movie in years. We saw Crazy Stupid Love but quite frankly would've watched Zoo Keeper if it was the only available movie playing. [Though I did feel a bit like Encino Man when I balked at the ticket prices- $22 for two movie tickets? I could just buy the DVD for that much!] Still, it was the price for an outing- and it was awesome to get to do it knowing he was safe and sound asleep at home.

We need to do this more often, we agreed as we drove home. Some fresh night air and time out without worrying about diaper bags and booster seats- every couple needs that once in a while. That night I e-mailed my parent listserv, a completely awesome support group through K's work that gives me advice on all things parenting, for advice on how to procure babysitters, costs, and recommendations for any in our area. I got great responses with tons of advice and some recommendations for baby sitters.

But then I got one e-mail that made me pause. That hasn't left me yet: I don't get it. How about your friends or family? You can always ask someone to watch him and then return the favor when they want to go out sans kid? That's the best way to do it, you save money, build community. Don't you have anyone?

No, I don't.

I have friends. Friends I love. Friends who would happily babysit. But many either have kids beyond the babysitting ages, or don't have kids yet, or live too far away. And I don't feel comfortable asking anyone hey can you give up a Saturday night to watch our kid so we can get dinner even though the favor can't be returned? I can't do that.

This morning I woke up under the weather. It started off mild enough, K went to work, and as soon as breakfast finished, I felt so nauseous I was incapacitated. Like, on-the-couch-hugging-a-bucket incapacitated. Except, I can't afford to be this sick when I have a toddler to look after. One whose needs do not abate simply because I can't physically get up. I never felt so alone. It took every ounce of strength to force myself off the couch, to feed him a snack, prep his bottle, and give him a nap before collapsing into bed. Luckily, the one hour nap helped. I woke up feeling better. Not so great that I planned to do a scrub down of our house just yet, but good enough to provide basic attention to my son without feeling like I would literally not make it through the day.

In the books set back in the day in the US, or other cultures abroad, I read about parents sending their kids to the neighbors when they were sick or had a doctor's appointment. For me, parenting is done in an island, an enclosed vacuum of space. And it shouldn't be this way. Research shows time and again that children need community, that the more loved ones who interact in helping raise your child, the better the child is for it. I'm lucky to have family in driving range who he gets to see and chat with on Skype, and who if I needed would take time off work and make the drive up to be here for me. [My sweet youngest brother, who stayed with me for nearly three weeks when my son was born to help around the house is proof positive of this] I see my blessings and recognize them. Still, I wonder what it would be like to have someone just down the street. I wonder what it would be like to have my brothers or parents in the same city. I wonder what it would be like to have community.

In the meantime, I guess a babysitter will do.

Can you relate? Do you have a strong community that you can turn to when the going gets tough or you just want to go out or like me, are you turning to babysitting?

Fifty Book Challenge #14-21

2011-08-15T00:46:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I've updated on my 50 book challenge for the year. I used to post my book reviews on my review site. There are hundreds of books there broken down by category. This year I reviewed books #1-9 here, and books #10-13 here. In years past I read 100 books and promptly burned out. Fifty is a much more doable goal but considering its mid-August I'm very behind. Still, its more about the journey than the destination- and it is possible to reach my goal- maybe? [Do board books count? I think they should?]

A Fine Balance. Many of you recommended this book over the years but its purported heaviness both emotionally and physically [page-wise] deterred me for years. Luckily, a friend sent me this as a gift. [And as far as gifts go, books are ten notches above Godiva chocolate since they don't cause weight gain and last a lifetime if you don't have a son who sometimes fancies himself a goat]. This is now one of my favorite books. Painful. Haunting. But beautiful. While it covers the lives of four ordinary people whose lives are turned upside down due to the 'Emergency' in India during Indira Gandhi's rule, it speaks to so much more than that. It's fiction, but its also true. The caste system. The poverty. It's all real. I'm certain there are people who have lived lives like these and that is what haunts me most. There are a few books one reads that can deeply affect your worldview- and while how exactly this book did that deserves a post in and of itself, suffice to say, this is easily one of those books for me.

What is the What. This is a fictional account of the trials of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. I suspect the fabulous Dave Eggers chose to fictionalize it so he didn't have to face the issues many people who write memoirs encounter [Mortenson, Frey] where you are called to task should you choose to smudge a detail for dramatic effect. This is a powerful, haunting tale of Valentino Achek and what happened to him in Sudan [as relayed to Dave Eggers, I suppose]. I don't like the flashback method of storytelling- it draws me out of the story and that was my biggest struggle with the method of writing. Still, this is an important story. Gut wrenching with little silver lining to conclude with. A good read. Just difficult.

Room. I'm not sure why I wanted to read a story told from the point of view of a five-year-old boy born and raised in captivity in a shack with his kidnapped mother. But this book was a fascinating read from a very different point of view. Surprisingly the book wasn't as despairing as I thought it would be since for the young boy, his life imprisoned in the shack is the only life he's ever known. His mother has done her best to protect him and while its a tough read, its heart-warming too as it speaks to the strength and resilience of a child's spirit. The writing is effortless, and it's not as depressing as one might think.

Suicide by Sugar. Excellent book about the cultural revolution post WWII and the role fashionista koala bears played in its unraveling. [No, not really. Just checking to see if anyone is reading this far down the list]. It's a book about sugar and how its about as bad as crack for us. This book is also a good example of why Kindle is about as bad as crack for me as I normally never would have bought this book but for my lack of impulse control when it comes to all things book. If you think sugar is fun then this book will enlighten you otherwise. I however having already been enlightened on the dangers of sugar didn't find anything new inside. I bought it hoping it would live up to its promise of giving advice on kicking the sugar habit. In this area, I found the book lacking.

Brain Rules. A book via Kindle I'm glad I bought about how a kid's brain works and how to best help them grow to their optimal ability. As with most parenting books I definitely spent a good portion of it feeling like the worst. mother. ever. like when I read that we should be speaking 2100 words/hour to our kids for optimal IQ. I tried this for a few days and let me tell you chatting maniacally with a toddler who can't speak, I am cutting a salad! Oh wow tomatoes! Now I'm changing your diaper! Here is the soap! is exhausting. [are any of you doing this? Please give me advice on how to chatter on for hours in one-sided conversations- I do my best but not sure if I succeed]. Still, communicating is important and this book helped me get lots of research based tips and advice. [I also have now purchased The Idle Parent: Why Laid-Back Parents Raise Happier and Healthier Kids Kid for a different perspective].

Rock, Paper, Tiger. Oh Kindle, you led me astray. Tantalized by a thriller set in China I clicked purchase. Sigh. If you like the writing style of Girl With The Dragon Tattoo [more specifically, book Two in the series] then you might love this book. I don't, so I didn't. The title is pretty cool though, so there's that.

Mrs. Kimble. I thought at Sam's Club- a store for bulk buying- I'd be safe from the siren call of book buying. I was wrong. I've been sad about the closing of Borders, but moments like Thursday when I saw this book, liked the title and the cover and the price and impulsively purchased it, makes me realize what an incredible loss it is to lose brick and mortar bookstores the gateway to chance upon a book. This is a book about a man and his three wives [though not all at the same time] and how he deceived them all. Loved the writing and the story kept me going, but while enjoyable there were so many plot holes it was disappointing. The book appeared designed to be a character driven novel and for that it simply fell short. Mr. Kimble is just not fleshed out and appears a robot, not a real person, a sociopath at best, but the author insists he is not, that he is an ordinary man. Which, if you read the book, is difficult to see. It was a good read, but it could have been so much more.

Corduroy Mansions. I adore Alexander McCall Smith's books. It's a cup of tea on a cold rainy day. A pleasure from start to finish. As with all McCall-Smith books, not much happens. We glimpse normal people doing normal things. Yes there are mysteries and drama and suspense but not 'jumping over cliffs' type. I don't know if McCall sees it this way, but for me his books are about the quiet dignity of everyday ordinary life. His characters are normal people living normal lives but he describes it all so beautifully and shows us that there is so much pleasure in the simple act of boiling a cup of water for tea, or shopping for dinner, cooking a meal. After reading his books I often find myself seeing the beauty in all the little things and the inherent dignity and integrity we are capable of possessing. After reading his book, even mixing pancake batter feels special- because it is. All the little things, a conversation with a friend, a drive to the library, a meal with a loved one- those are things most lives are made of and we're so lucky to get to live it. McCall Smith honors it beautifully.

Currently reading 32 Candles, and considering retackling the Harry Potter Series resting on my bookshelf. I never actually read them from first to last straight through. Ever done it? I'm thinking it might be fun to try.

Hope you found this helpful. Read anything good lately?

Whole Foods, Paula Abdul, and Ramadan **[UPDATED]

2011-08-10T23:30:00.004-04:00

When I was a kid I had a huge poster of Paula Abdul on my bedroom wall. I also had a picture of her on the back of my door, in my trapper keeper, and owned every tape she ever recorded [Though not a very discerning fan to be clear since for years I thought her song 'Rush Rush' was in fact titled 'Mush Mush' about a snow-dog race in Alaska]. It was less about the music and more about the last name- Abdul. A Muslim last name. I analyzed her clothing, her accent, pored over interviews in Tiger Beat trying to figure out where she was from. Morocco? Turkey? [I quite frankly still don't know since by the time the internet was ever present I lost interest].

I admired this woman because her last name was similar to names I knew in the small circle of my life. And considering back in my day there were hardly any South Asian or Muslim people on the large or small screen, or anywhere really- I longed for a face to identify with. In school we celebrated Hanukkah, Christmas, and later Kwanzaa, but where was Eid? It wasn't. I felt I practiced a secret faith, that I belonged to an invisible minority- where were we when I turned on the TV? [You know, normal versions of 'me' not mustachioed bandits or terr.orists in action films] And while now, for the life of me, I can't understand why it was so important to me to have a person who reflected me on television or in any media, period, I do remember how earnestly I longed for it. I imagine children today are no different in this regard.

My son is growing up in a different world. Aziz Ansari, Dave Chapelle, Talib Kweli, Mindy Kaling, Kal Penn, Russel Peters, are just a handful of famous faces who in some way, resemble him. He also is born into a world where Eid Stamps are a given. Seems silly but such an important and hard-earned milestone that did not come easy. It's a whole new world from the one I grew up in and I'm glad for it. [though let's be honest, he will not be watching any Aziz, Chapelle or Kweli material for some time to come].

When I see dates at Sam's Club and Krogers, not just any dates, but Mejdool dates just in time for Ramadan, I don't take its presence lightly. Seeing variations of my face or race reflected in the media, seeing something as small as dates, to me they are a silent acknowledgment to Ramadan and on a bigger scale an acknowledgment of me: you're a part of the fabric of this society, we see you, we recognize you.

Which is why when Whole Foods decided to explicitly state in internal e-mails that we should not highlight Ramadan in signage in our stores as that could be considered 'Celebrating or promoting' Ramadan, it felt like a punch to the gut.

Whole Foods, in years past, sold items from Muslim distributors during Ramadan. They advertised this with small crescent and star logos above the items, just as they have passover signs over relevant products, just as they celebrate many other holidays. Apparently some people didn't like this, and shared their bigotry with Whole Foods which made them decide to remove any mention of Ramadan from their stores this year. A Q&A for store clerks explicitly covered the issue as well: Is Whole Food Market hosting a campaign to celebrate Ramadan? No. Whole Foods Market is not promoting Ramadan.

To be clear, I don't expect grocery stores or malls to have Ramadan banners or any sort of accommodation for this time. It's a corporate world and its up to the corporation who they acknowledge. But. Its one thing for a company to simply not consider Ramadan for it to be just an afterthought. It's another to make it a store policy not to acknowledge it because some bigots told you not to, especially when you did so in the past.

When I see Asif Mandvi, or Moz Jobrani, and their mainstream success, I see an implicit message that says you exist. And when I hear about Whole Foods taking affirmative steps to make sure that they in no way, shape, or form acknowledge Ramadan, I see an explicit message that says: but we really wish you didn't.

And while I'm not outraged, shocked, or devastated, and nor am I planning to boycott or toss [cage-free] eggs at their store fronts, this news story saddened me. And I'd be lying if I didn't say, I'm a little hurt, and most certainly disappointed.

UPDATED TO ADD: Since I know Whole Foods has issued statements denying any of this and saying they are still running promotions for Ramadan based items, I went to Whole Foods today. I asked them for their Ramadan related items, the seasonal items. They stared at me like I was asking to locate the aisle for skewered koala bears. Five sales clerks later, Customer Service said that while they have some Saffron related products they aren't carrying anything different than they ordinarily would and were definitely not doing anything related to Ramadan. Riddle me that Whole Foods?

Happy Fifteen Month Birthday

2011-08-09T21:34:00.002-04:00

Dear Waleed,

On Sunday you turned fifteen months old and I'm fairly certain you swallowed some magic beans because you're growing faster than I can keep track of. You are a world class babbler and your communication skills are growing by the day. Doggie. Ducky. Mama. Baba. Nana. This. That. [And when you see flowers you point and call them mama- ~melt~] You close doors when I ask, hand me hangers to help with laundry, and clap if you want more food. And speaking of food? You love my cooking. You are not one for polite gestures. You hate cauliflower and let me know by chucking it across the room, so when I bring you a bowl of Pad Thai, and you clap upon seeing it and then attack it and demand more- I know you mean it. And while I love it if anyone loves my cooking, seeing you enjoy what I made, real food beyond mashed apples and bananas, the sort of food that will be your standard fare in our home- its one of the best feelings in the world.

Your smile takes a close second though. Since the day you were born, you look dead center in the camera and pose. Now, you've taken it up a notch for reasons I don't quite understand. There's the 'Rico Suave' look:

how you doin?

And the recent one, where you scrunch your nose, eyes and face which I can only interpret as mama thinks koala bears are all kinds of cute so I will try to look like one:

Seriously. Every picture. And while I love all your smiles because I love everything about you, my favorite photos are when you're smiling your real smile, the one you flash us when you don't know a camera is around:

But let's talk about the other stuff, you know, the discipline stuff. You are a good baby, inquisitive, curious, and always exploring, but seldom naughty for the sake of naughtiness. But when you need some reminding like 'no we do not put fingers in sockets' or 'please don't bend the cabinet door backwards so it splinters off' you look at me, take in my stern expression, and- laugh, as though to say cute mom, really cute, and go on your way. As a former teacher, I just had to look at my classroom with the look and a hush overtook the room. Now, that same look sends you into fits of giggles. I don't get it. But your Abu? The one who is by far the more easy-going parent you possess? If he so much as looks at you and says don't do that in the gentlest of voices, you are a heaping mess of tears. Since usually it's me and you, I need to find some way to get your attention. Luckily nana and nani [unwittingly] got you a time-out chair and as you can tell its working spectacularly:

~~koala~~ ~~bear~~ Waleed in time-out

But the best part this month? Now that you're [almost] fully weaned, your Abu is in charge of your sleep routine. We were supposed to alternate every other day, but he loves it so much he's done it every night since he could. He says he missed out on over a year of sleep moments and he doesn't want to miss one more. He says putting you to sleep centers and soothes him. You're lucky to have him kiddo.

I know the months bring with them a newer, bigger you. I know you will change, because change you must- but whatever you do, my one bit of advice is: fight to keep that sense of wonder that you possess most sincerely today. The way your eyes light up with unrestrained joy at all the new things life has to offer, the way you wake up each morning joyful, excited to tackle the day? Please never lose that.Money, degrees, making honor roll are well and good, but this state of being, of enjoying the sheer act of existence? It's priceless. Please guard that part of you with all you have.

Love,

Your Mama

Substantive Blogger Award

2011-08-03T00:24:00.004-04:00

Sunny nominated me for an award! I'm honored since she's one of my favorite bloggers!

To accept I share seven random things about me and pass the award to seven others! I'm fairly random by default so without further ado:

1. I enjoy loading the dishwasher. I love arranging the plates and glasses just right and settling in on the sofa with a cup of tea and a book as the machine hums away doing all the dirty work steps away cleansing everything within, but-

2. I hate unloading the dishwasher as I am not the most agile person and have dropped one too many items causing one too many injuries to my person. It also gets complicated when you have a fourteen-month-old child who insists on helping, especially with the knives- he really wants to help me with the knives.

3. Similarly, I love loading the washing machine- sorting whites and colors- and pouring the detergent into the machine- but. . .

4. I hate. despise. abhor. to the greatest extent one can, putting away the laundry. Not because I break towels- its just boring. Though less so now that I have a child who likes to help me with the sorting [but mostly the unsorting] and occasionally tries to climb into the dryer and shut the door behind him [is he trying to tell me I don't give him enough alone time?] He keeps even the most boring tasks, interesting.

5. I'm a thrifty shopper. I buy jeans on sale. Target is my friend. But- I have one weakness: purses. Have abstained for years- and with a diaper bag currently in use most times I haven't given it much thought. Except I saw my friend's Luis Vuitton "never full" bag which is all kinds of awesome- and its not badly priced for a Vuitton bag- except it's a Luis Vuitton bag so that doesn't mean I'm going to find it on the clearance section at Ross. And while these things logically make sense, when I think of that purse, my heart skips a beat and I catch myself almost daydreaming about what it might be like to toss in a change of baby-clothes, my wallet, and cavort about town with said accessory. I would never get one ofcourse since it's an obscene amount of money for me but- its pretty. All this to say, I have major bag issues.

6. My favorite movie is Office Space. My favorite comedy show, The Office. Now on a Parks-N-Recreation kick thanks to Netflix. For someone who does not actually work in an office I quite enjoy my work place comedies.

7. I find it rather ironic that I was nominated for a 'substantive blog' award spent it discussing things of relatively no substance whatsoever. At least its random.

And now, for those I'm passing this on to: Cecily, Stacey, Katery, Kmina, Susan, Panda, Azmina, Leigh Ann, Deathstar44, Julia, C, and Yen! Fantastic ladies who write about all sorts of different topics from motherhood to writing to all things food and all things random, but who I read and love just the same because I truly enjoy what they have to say and how they say it.

And since I've shared some of my favorite bloggers [though not nearly all as my google reader's 100+ subscriptions attest to] do share- who is your favorite blogger? Always looking to add more!

Thoughts on Ramadan

2011-08-01T00:01:00.001-04:00

Today is the first day of Ramadan which for me represents a spiritual reset- a cleansing to help me focus and reflect on life, faith and to try to be a better person. This month also represents an unwavering belief in hope for the human condition- that we can both be better and do better if we put aside the petty day-to-day and focus on the things that matter. Our faith, our family, and our community.

Like any aspirational ideal this is not always the case. Family is far, and though I love my friends as sincerely as one can the community at large is distant from where I stand for reasons too complicated to venture into here. My complex relationship to my Maker- the questions that ebb and flow- remain, well, complex. And fasting? The act of not eating or drinking from sun up to sun down? To be perfectly honest, its hard. Just as difficult as it is indescribably beautiful to feel the first drops of water rush down your throat and travel through your body- something you have to experience to appreciate in all its beauty.

Life doesn't become roses and daffodils this month. But I guess that's the point. Life is not easy or perfect. But it is also to a great extent, what we make of it. Tonight I feel blessed to have another year to try to be a better person and make the most of what I've been given. This month will not erase my worries but it will help me refocus and strive to see them in new ways because "with all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world."

Ramadan Kareem to you and yours.

Thoughts on Home

2011-07-27T00:04:00.001-04:00

Like most neighborhoods these days my neighborhood is in a state of flux. Foreclosures pepper the neighborhood like pockmarks. It's strange to walk by a house its lawn once littered with hula hoops and bicycles, now vacant- coated in newspapers baking under the summer sun. My neighborhood like many others- a slowly transforming ghost town between the interlude of abandonment and new buyers scooping up the desperate deals banks are now willing to make.

I've written before of my acute homesickness for Pakistan, a place I've never lived in but whose DNA courses through me thousands of miles away. Salwar kamiz line my guest closet. I speak the language. My manuscripts evoke its dusty streets and groves of kinu. And yet the last time I visited, I was nine. It's strange, this longing for a place I've never lived in, called a bedroom my own, or used as a return address on an envelope. And yet, when I think of Pakistan, I think of home. My grandfather's home where I know I could sit at the doorstep and be recognized by passerbys because I have my mother's eyes, my father's stance. Where they might smile and greet me instead of the blank stares I am accustomed to by neighbors I have lived alongside for nearly eight years; learned indifference. Where home is not a thing you buy and sell to find stainless steel appliances and bigger better cabinets but the land my great-great-grandfather saved to purchase, which my great-grandfather tilled- which my grandfather expanded upon- which enabled my father to pursue an education in a career that led him to the United States changing the trajectory of all future generations, providing me with a life I could never have known otherwise. Every immigrant takes a leap of faith and incredible bravery to leave all they know behind and create a life from something wholly unfamiliar and new. I know this is not unique to those who transfer countries as my friends who have left the American cities of their childhood can attest to, the small towns where generations of family still live, have lived, for as long as anyone can remember, trading gossip over front-stoop rocking chairs, and where they can still return today, familiar faces in the eyes of those they pass by on the street. Loss and gain, hand in hand.

As I watch television shows predicated on the wonder of American mobility, the ability to house flip-hop-abandon-escape I see the freedom gained in being rootless. And yet with everything we gain, there is something we lose. As I look out my window and see the ever-changing landscape, the increasing anonymity and emotional distance from our neighbors despite homes stuck closer together than ever before, I wonder what its like to live in a place where home is not just your marble fireplace and tiled bathroom, but instead extends far beyond the walls of your home, where it encompasses not just where you live but who you are. I could just be dreaming, perhaps places like this simply don't exist anymore, anywhere, perhaps these are just imaginings more closely aligned to mythology and fairy tales than reality, and perhaps we are all better off in this transient new world- but still, today as I paused to glance at an empty home once inhabited by hope and love- its neglect now clear by the weeds growing through the cracks in the driveway- I just wonder what home once was- and what that must have been like.

Aisha, the book buyer- and Kindle.

2011-07-25T00:41:00.000-04:00

Me: I decided I want to get a kindle
K: You don't want to do that.
Me: Yes, I do. I think it's time. I'm going to order it now.
K: No. Seriously. Don't.
Me: What? No? I want one. Why would you say no? That is so-
K: Sigh. I got you one. As a gift. It's getting here tomorrow.

D'oh.

I still can't believe it. Me. Aisha. Got a Kindle.

That's great, you might be thinking. You're a regular revolutionary pioneer to get one of those newfangled devices! I hear they might someday be the new thing.

Yes- they've been around for a while. They've been around so long now they're beating print sales, collapsing publishing houses and book stores, and for the longest time I wanted no part of it. I wanted my hands free of the carnage. And then I got one.

Years back my brother Ali considered getting me one but when he broached the topic I stared at him in horror like he suggested koala bears were the uncutest breed of bear ever and the subject was quickly dropped. When Kashif casually brought it up [unbeknown to me to test out the gift giving possibility a few months ago] I again raised a suspicious eyebrow and said absolutely not- except this time my refusal was tempered with, well, maybe? Friends had them, swore by them. And I admit I got curious. Plus, to understand the beast, you must operate the beast, no?

I've had the Kindle for a few days now and I have to admit: I love it. I love the ease of portability and the ink-like readability. I love being able to highlight and write notes in it [which I do not do much on actual books- I hate messing up good books with scrawl]. I also realized upon getting the kindle, that my kindle purchases are not ruining the publishing industry. In a given year I buy five books. This weekend, I purchased ten. So many that my credit card company froze my account and their fraud prevention unit called me about suspicious abnormal activity. I bought so many books my credit card company worried. My purchases did not replace print sales, they simply were extra sales to the sale pot of book companies that would never have otherwise happened. My desire for instant gratification and lack of impulse control when it comes to all things books is what Kindle is designed to coax out.

There is no way I will purchase e-books exclusively going forward. I love lending books to friends and family. I love browsing book stores and borrowing books from family and friends [and the library, my bestest friend ever] and there is something special about turning actual pages and building ones personal library collection.

But I no longer feel guilty for embracing the new wave of the future of reading- it is not an either or- its both- and its pretty awesome.

Do you have an e-reader? Considering getting one? Curious for your thoughts on this topic!

Random thoughts of the mallish sort

2011-07-20T10:11:00.001-04:00

I go to the mall religiously. Once a year. Maybe. My frequency might increase now that I've discovered one with a soft-play area perfect for Waleed to go nuts in. While I love playgrounds he is a little young for any sort of independent play there as they involve climbing stairs with large gaps and other challenges requiring hand-held monitoring which is just fine but the soft-play area in the mall is completely hands-free, he can climb on foam-like trucks and scamper through plastic tunnels and he can fall, fall, fall, literally flat on his face and hop up grinning because the floor- it too is soft. And while the attorney in me is wondering at how the mall justifies the potential liability of hundreds of falling kids each week, I am quite appreciative they have it, a place for him to play age-appropriately and for me to sit back and watch him attack things that are not my leather couch.

Except that thirty minutes into playing, he suddenly stopped playing, stared up at the Dillard's in the distance, his jaw dropped in full astonishment like he had at last spotted the promised land and without even a moment's warning broke into a full-blown waddling sprint towards it paying no mind to other shoppers or the rickety train carrying children driven by a teenage conductor heading straight for him [Granted it was a good three stores away but the sight of their oncoming collision course as theoretical as it may have been, still gives me chills]. It took me a full thirty seconds to tackle him, and while the sandals were admittedly at remarkably good deals, it still didn't merit a Filenes running of the bride reenactment.

Ofcourse it made me re-question my stance on the leash. The one dressed up like monkeys or bunnies [and once I saw a child on an actual leash made for dogs not gussied up with any fuzzy creature]. Pre-parenthood I admit it, when I saw parents trotting their children with these leashes I judged them. But now, while I'm still not at a place where I think he needs a leash since he sits just fine in a stroller or the Ergo I do get it- funny the parenthood thing, one has the most opinions on the matter right before they actually are parents.

It appears he was hungry [and since most of our trips are to grocery stores, perhaps his hungry belly simply saw a store and thought therein must lie food]. I sat across from the Go.diva Shop in the mall to feed him and as I saw the trickle of people [by which I mean one person in thirty minutes who stopped in and purchased a truffle.] I wondered- how do they stay in business in the malls? As I stared at the lacksadaisacal store employees I couldn't help think of Breaking Bad and Los Pollos Hermanos and while I know the elite chocolatier chain sells just chocolates I couldn't help think what a nifty money laundering operation it could be should they be one. Which they're not. Ofcourse. But. It speaks to how amazing that show is and how thoroughly it messes with your head. [If you don't watch Breaking Bad and this paragraph made entirely no sense, you really should catch up- its awesome]

Leashing, laundering, and Dillard's. I told you it was random. Thoughts? Any randomness floating your boat today?

The curious case of the waking in the nighttime: SOLVED

2011-07-18T18:23:00.002-04:00

At least for now. [Knock on wood. Throw salt over shoulder. [insert superstition of choice like evil-eye amulet of Istanbul my son was by strange coincidence playing with at the writing of this post, designed to ward off bad vibes that could undo the good that has been done in this slumbering household- and while I'm not the superstitious sort, in matters of sleep I'd believe in vegan vampires if they cured sleep deprivation- which I don't believe they do- insomniacs they are, or so I hear]

But I digress. How did I get from multiple wakings per night for nearly a month to a baby in bed around 7:30 bleating nary a peep until 6:30am for three nights and counting? You guys. Katery in particular, who suggested nighttime diapers. Though delivered diapers are advantageous in their cheaper prices and convenient arrival one misses out on seeing other options lining the shelves and I never realized that overnight diapers actually existed [since diapers are generally worn at all times including overnight]. As soon as she mentioned it I grabbed my keys popped him in his car seat and headed to Publix, prices be damned- if extra padded diapers meant extra sleep then that is what I was going to do now and not a minute later!

And it worked. Three nights and counting, he sleeps through the night with nary a leak or a peep. Wet diapers. That was the issue. Poor kid. If you told me pre-kid I'd celebrate waking with the roosters I'd likely have stared at you like you had peach seeds glued to your head for purely aesthetic reasons [though I have a hard time figuring out any legitimate reason for glued peach seeds even aesthetic ones- though who am I to judge]. But now? Give me 6+ consecutive hours of sleep and I'm about as thrilled as it gets. I could in actuality get much more sleep, twelve hours of straight sleep if I desired, I just have a hard time sleeping on time because the night time hours are my time to read, watch TV, or work on my writing. As much as I know I should sleep earlier to take advantage of the possibility of a true full night's rest- I am reluctant to part with my 'me' time. Still, he is sleeping, and I have the option for hitting the hay at 10pm and getting eight hours if I desired- and that's pretty indescribably sweet.

I love blogging for many reasons but chief among them is the amazing support network that helps me see things in entirely new ways. Sadia's sage advice, to accept the sleep deprivation- embrace it- because its the reality of parenting youngsters really gave me an aha moment because while he slept these past three nights, teething, nightmares, growth spurts are all on the horizon ready to snatch away said sleep at a moment's notice- perhaps if we don't view ourselves as failures for sleep or the lack thereof, we can just fall into and enjoy this time better. Plus as Julia Monroe Martin pointed out, sleep never returns the way it once did even when they're grown its just in different car-driving hanging out at a party sort of way. The perspective helps. I knew I was handing over a large chunk of my life to my child when I had him, and it appears I'll also be handing over a large chunk of my sleep- but I'm beginning to stop fighting it and appreciate the moments that I do sleep and accept the moments that I don't.

But. In case you are not yet reaching zen-like acceptance about your own kid's all-night partying, check out this completely awesome audio-book narrated by Samuel L. Jackson called 'Go the F* to Sleep" [I am in awe of Mr. Jackson's ability to transform profanity into pure poetry in Pulp Fiction- and love his twist on the universal sleep situation here]:

The story of a cow. milk. and sleep.**

2011-07-14T00:22:00.001-04:00

Once upon a time there was a new mother who gained a beautiful darling little boy and lost the ability to sleep. When will I sleep again? She asked her friends, those with a few children each, and whom she therefore regarded as the experts on all things baby. Soon they promised. Wait until he's on rice cereal, and when this didn't work, try more weighty solids, bananas, fish, or chicken will keep his belly full until morning but when this too failed, they all promised one thing: When he's done weaning he'll sleep through the night, most definitely. Most certainly. Are you sure? the new mother whispered through a yawn. Oh yes, they said, at least, that's how it was for our kids. And the new mother smiled as her eyes shut and her nose dipped into the tea cup because while we all believe our children to be absolutely one-of-a-kind unique we listen to the stories of those who have been in the trenches with the hopes that in this one particular area your child will color inside the lines and follow in the paths of children before him and sleep, sleep, sleep.

The weaning process has begun and we're down to one morning session plus the wakings that occur through the night. While he is content now with the bottle and I could wean him completely if I wanted, the honest answer is I don't want to stumble down the stairs and clear the gate at the bottom to make his bottle- nursing is just easier and helps lull him to sleep for a little while longer in the mornings when my perky bunny is up at 6:30 ready to attend to his business meetings and return the important phone calls from Tokyo requiring prompt attention [why else would anyone in their right mind wake so early?] It's not the most comfortable sleep but gives me a chance to gather my bearings and wipe off the cobwebs on my sleepy brain [as many as can be dusted- some are permanently stuck I'm afraid, it appears drugs are not the only thing that kill brain cells- sleep deprivation may have lasting effects too.] Waleed's doctor told me not to introduce a bottle once he was past one year of age, but its the only way he'll drink his milk and oblige me to sleep for his naps and at night and I'd rather he get milk than no milk at all. As much as I expected to feel my heart break in pieces to wean him, its been gradual and that has helped all parties involved both physically and emotionally. Plus there are definitely benefits to having back one's body such as the ability to guilt-free drink a cup of coffee again and letting K take over bedtime, something he's longed to do but. . .

I was also hoping for sleep. And so far cow milk is not offering the promised panacea. He naps like an angel but his night sleep is not long and uninterrupted. He still wakes twice a night and he wants to imbibe something before he returns to sleep. I tentatively tried cry-it-out a few nights but it appears he's developed endurance and can go for much longer than I have the willpower to bear. So I change his diaper and I nurse him to sleep. Even two minutes of nursing will suffice, but nursing I must do if I hope for sleep to return. Twice a night. Every night. I don't know if he's hungry or rising from habit or if its teething or if he's waking from dreams [which apparently begin bothering them around now] or a plethora of other reasons, but despite the full-fat organic cow milk, he's still waking. I weaned him. I've arrived at the promised land. Where's my promise?

Still, he's worth it. The soft curls, the smile the size of Nebraska. I'll do it for him. I'll have plenty of time when he's grown and not quite so desperately in need of me, to get all the sleep I need. I will miss these sleep-deprived days. Right?

Any advice on the matter of sleep [and the lack thereof] much appreciated!

**and ofcourse last night? he slept all night! It's like he reads these posts! But- his diaper was soaked through- I suspect this might be more the reason of his wakings than any other. . . if anyone has any advice [bigger diapers?] I'd love to know. . . hate depriving him of his feed before night since I think he needs it.

2011-07-11T00:29:00.002-04:00

How to be a supportive husband to a dieting wife:

Me: Hey, since you're out how about Chinese take-out? I could do Mongolian Beef.
K: But you're on a healthy eating streak and you've been doing so good, are you sure?
Me: I know, but I just woke up this morning craving it. The way they saute the onions and mushrooms, and the flavors, spicy and sweet at the same time. Just this once maybe?
K: Yeah, but there's always a 'just this once', don't do it, fight the urge.
Me: Sigh. You're right. I don't want to mess up all my hard work.
K: I'm driving past a Chick-Fil-A should I pick up your favorite salad?
Me: That sounds awesome. Thanks so much. You talked me off a chopstick cliff.
K: Not a problem, I know you can do it.

How not to be a supportive husband to a dieting wife:

Me: What are you going to get? The sandwich? Nuggets?
K: I was thinking about getting the Mongolian Beef from the Chinese place down the street.
Me: What?
K: Your description has me craving it now too.
Me: Um, are you really seriously going to get the Mongolian beef and eat it for dinner while I sit across from you eating a salad with no dressing?
K: Wait, do you think I shouldn't? I won't if you don't want me to.

Marital Public Service Announcement #1: If she responds no its fine, get the Mongolian beef, I don't mind. It's not fine. She minds.

He changes diapers, loads the dishwasher and buys me flowers just because but it appears that mind reading still eludes him completely.

Happy Fourteen Month Birthday

2011-07-07T00:58:00.001-04:00

Dear Waleed,

Today you are fourteen months old. We missed recording month thirteen because we were in Orlando. Your nana was in the hospital and in the rush to get down in time for his surgery we didn't think about taking the camera. I worried about taking care of you during such a stressful time but I needn't have worried since you thought the ICU waiting room was a veritable jungle gym. And with watching you run up and down the corridor, or tenderly holding your Pooh Bear and whispering sweet nothings to it, it was you who took care of us, taking our focus off our anxiety because when you're staring at us with a four tooth grin [oh yes, the teeth are finally here!] its kind of impossible to do anything but smile back. You bonded with everyone those nearly three weeks and when we left you missed them terribly. It made me sad to see you longing for the companionship of a home filled with people who doted on you but I alternately felt grateful that there is such a home for you to go to where you are greeted with love everywhere you turn, a place to miss as intensely as you did.

So much happened these past two months. You go up the stairs. And belly flop down. You love the stairs, its as though you and the stairs are opposing magnetic poles because you can't stop yourself from hiking up and down without pause until we pop the gate on. [Is mountain climbing in your future? As your mother I both support it and implore you to please never think of such dangerous hobbies.] You loved taking things out of boxes, cabinets, drawers, and now? You love putting them back in. You open doors if the handle is long enough, shut any door you get your hands on, and turn lights on and off if in the arms of someone standing too close to a switch. You no longer nap in your swing, taking all naps in the crib, and the swaddler too is officially history [no, that's not a tear- just had a thing in my eye]. You also went on your first merry-go-round clinging to the bar as the horse went up and down- and in that moment as I saw your grin I wasn't sure if this was life or if I was dreaming because moments this beautiful just couldn't be real.

You also love Elmo. Especially Elmo's Four Ducks. I used to despise Elmo. I felt he was all that had gone wrong with Sesame Street, but now? He melts my heart. We no longer have TV but we watch this song each morning on-line and your face breaks into a grin and you look at me like are you for real? This amazing song again? My life rocks! Each and every time.

You talk more now, trying out different vowels and consonants, you wave your arms and implore though we're not entirely sure what you're saying most of the time. Still, slowly, we're figuring it out. You say momma, bye-bye, duck, and you point at everything and say that. You bellow the K sound desi-ishtyle but we don't know for certain what it means, your father's name? Kya? Khana? The jury's out on that. My favorite is when you say daddy. You say it like you grew up in an English-Medium prep school in Pakistan or are trying out for a role in a 1960's Bollywood film. In our attempt to impart language it appears we might just be imparting the accent?

But let's not forget your hair. Your hair, the very focused subject of conversation amongst strangers and family with passerbys stopping to admire the wild spirals that spring forth defining your personality and family [some at least] shaking their heads and proffering scissors to snip them back just a little. I knew with both of your parents sporting heads of curls that you would be no different but I had not anticipated for a minute how much I would love those curls, how they are so silky soft and frame your face your boyish face with a softness that makes my heart skip a beat. And yes, I admit I have fun with it too, and I sincerely think you won't mind yourself in my hair band [the three seconds you allowed it on your hair] since I can tell you have your father's sense of humor and easy going nature.

Your Khala Aamina came to visit during these past two months, with her new husband. She came a year ago when you were three weeks old and the two of you spent most of her stay one year ago stuck together like velcro, you slept on her, snuggled on her, and pretty much didn't leave her arms unless I needed to feed you [because yeah she changed your diapers too!]. You've changed a lot since then, no longer a quiet little lump of baby but an active boy who can't sit quite still ever. So it was the strangest thing that this time, when you saw her, and she picked you up, a strange expression passed over your face and then you simply fell into her arms. And you stayed there just like you did that time last year. When you weren't clinging to her like a koala bear on a bamboo shoot, you were racing around the room laughing and clapping and beaming at her, so much so you that you slammed headfirst into a wooden toy [we purchased for its safe corners] and gave yourself a cut right down your forehead [It healed fast, and a bite of ice cream erased the tears like magic]. The relationship you two has doesn't cease to amaze me. I honestly think children recognize the people who truly love them and they respond to that love, you saw your Khala's pure love for you and you melted into that love.

I wish I could surround you with that kind of love at all times but life is full of all types of people and as much as I want to protect you from the bitter and petty ones I won't always be able to. Just know that the people you need to focus on are the ones who see the light in your eyes and see the beautiful person you are. As A Woman My Age so beautifully put it, because you are: You are worthy. You are the treasure.

Love,

Your Mama

Redefining Bliss

2011-07-05T00:07:00.001-04:00

Bliss used to be hikes along lava cliffs

or exploring a hidden alley in a small Spanish town

or watching the perfect sunrise from atop an ancient volcano

Tonight is my nine year wedding anniversary and as I lay my son to bed thunder crackling outside my window, chai brewing, sheesha smoke spiraling while Ray Lamontagne croons his haunting lyrics in the background the murkiness of the past few weeks recedes and clarity springs forth: life is full of stumbling blocks and uncertainty but nine years and counting, K's been here to catch me should I fall. And I have. And he has. While the source of my worries still linger like steam on a summer night, I realize the futility of this emotion- worry is just a noose of my own making- it's suffocating grip, a choice. Life can sometimes be a bumpy journey but worry? It solves nothing, but confuses and complicates everything. Tonight I let go of my worries, I look at what I have and realize that prayers are sometimes already answered- we just have to be still enough- and trust enough to see. Tonight I'm not hiking a volcano, or swimming in a lagoon, I'm in PJ's eating FroYo about to watch a Breaking Bad marathon. Nothing in its substance has changed, but my attitude has shifted, and tonight? I'm happy. Bliss redefined, down to its purest form. Cheesiness I embrace thee: Happy Anniversary K, thank you for being you and for loving me, supporting me, and believing in me every step of the way.

Aint it about time you realize, its not worth keepin score, you win some, you lose some and you let it go. What's the use of stacking on every failure another stone, Til you find you've spent your whole damn life building walls, lonely and old before your time. It took so long to see, the truth was all around me. . . It's not living that you're doing if it feels like dying. - Ray Lamontagne

Thoughts on cupped hands

2011-06-29T00:14:00.000-04:00

Sometimes when it rains, it pours. I'm not referring to torrential thunderstorms with spastic lightening. Just rain. And lately? Its been figuratively pouring. The most awesome thing about life is that anything can happen, the most frustrating and anxiety-inducing thing about life is that anything can happen. I write lists, and cross them off. I organize my calendar. I clean my kitchen each evening before bed. All to give a sense of order and control over my day. But sometimes you get handed so many unknowns that the forest and the trees begin to meld together and you feel like you're staring into a hologram with a mounting anxiety that there's no image beneath the surface.

It's a silly story but true. In fifth grade walking to school I thought about prayer and faith and felt slightly doubtful. God, I prayed as I walked, if you exist, for real-you will make my teacher absent for a whole week. I felt fairly confident this would not happen as my teacher reminded us at every opportunity about her perfect attendance record, how she had only taken two days off in ten years. I went to class, sat at my desk, and then, my teacher cleared her throat and told us she was taking the next week off. She told us why but I don't remember the reasons, I just remember sitting at my desk, my mouth parted in shock as everyone high fived and grinned at one another. A miracle, I thought. God, you really answered my prayer. Yes, it sounds silly, but for so many years that moment buoyed me when the waters were rocky, did my prayer cause it? Did I get inspired to pray for a thing that would happen anyways? I didn't know but the fact that it happened before my eyes gave me certainty in a being greater than us, and of prayers, that they are answered. I loved the feeling of inner peace and certainty I had- someone was listening, someone was answering, a big warm hug from above.

As the years passed, as I see things go wrong for people, terribly wrong, so wrong there are no words to express, you feel hollow and wonder about the power of prayer- because surely these devout people prayed, prayed with everything in their hearts- for a thing- that did not happen. And while I do not doubt the veracity of my fifth grade memory, when I cup my hands to pray, to ask for help to ease my uncertainty, I feel a wall stands before me. I try- and I am unable to. What gives me the right? When babies lose mothers and mothers lose babies despite prayers and pleas, should I ask for anything with the hope to receive? I see my cupped hands and feel like a spoiled child asking for more when their belly is quite full enough.

I miss whispering my worries in prayers. Without prayer I hold my worries alone and they simply pile upon one another until I feel I might stumble beneath their weight. And worries do not make the future any more certain- it just takes away ever so much from the present before us. How do you cope with periods of vast uncertainty? How do you pray for things when you are not sure that you have any right to be heard, when you see others with more pressing causes whose requests from this mere, human's perception, seem to go unanswered? Apologies for vagueness, all is well in every way that counts, just trying to grasp a concept that is anything but solid to master.

Other Mothers

2011-06-24T14:53:00.002-04:00

It's been a while since I last took Waleed to storytime. I need to take him. But its during his nap time. But he needs social interaction. Bad mom if I do, bad mom if I don't, I changed his clothes put on his shoes strapped him in the car seat and headed to the library. As I opened his door to get him out of the car I looked at his feet. No shoes. He kicked them off before we got out of the house I realized. Fumbling through the diaper bag hoping in that moment for a magic pair of extra shoes I realized I also forgot his sippy cup filled with ice-cold water on the breakfast table. As the sun beamed down on us, I imagined myself bringing my barefoot baby into story time, the looks of disdain of the other mothers at because

other mothers strap on shoes with socks to boot
other mothers have extra sippy cups just incase one is lost along the way
other mothers never bring the wipes and forget the diapers
other mothers always smile. keep spotless homes. point out everything in the grocery aisles. and wipe the applesauce from their child's cheek before guests arrive.
other mothers are better mothers than I'll ever be.

I heard a car door slam. A mother in a yellow sundress plucked her chubby baby girl in pink from the back of her sleek black car and strolled her towards the library. As she walked past us I saw Waleed stare at them with a wide-eyed grin and suddenly illogical as it was I thought, he recognizes this other mother. He knows. I'm not like her at all.

In that moment I felt tempted, so tempted, to close the door, get in the car and drive home.

Instead, we went to the library. We sat in the middle row and as I sat him in my lap I looked over at another child walking about barefoot. And another. And then yet another. Some mothers proferring sippy cups, some with slim purses that seemed to hold nothing. I suddenly feel lighter.

Maneuvering through the library aisles after, I paused behind a woman blocking the aisle with her stroller. She glanced to see me waiting and blushed, I am so sorry she said as she moved to the side. No problem I said as I walked past her. Her little boy, a child of three, gap toothed with straight blond hair flushed at this. Don't say that! don't say sorry! he yelled. It's rude not to say sorry when you've done something wrong, his mother said in a soothing voice. The boy stared at her for a moment his mouth parted, and then puffed up his chest, crossed his arms and screamed so loud not a person in the library could have misunderstood YOU ARE RUDE TO ME AND YOU NEVER SAY SORRY! WHY YOU SAY SORRY TO OTHER PEOPLE ONLY?

All heads turned towards them. I saw her through the corner of my eye, frozen in place by her son's words. She glanced at me for a moment, and then quietly strolled her son away. And I realized, in that moment, as she saw me with my own toddler who at that moment was browsing a board book while I looked at books for myself- I became the other mother.

It used to be that I felt my self-esteem drop three notches staring at the photo-shopped celebs hawking new diet solutions at the check-out aisle, now its other mothers be it through bubbly updates of motherhood bliss on facebook, or the mother singing like she's Mary Poppins to her darling child in the grocery aisle [yes, really]. The look on this mother's face as she quietly left the library told me I'm not the only one who does this. As women, we do this. We judge ourselves more harshly than anyone else ever could. There are always going to be other mothers. Me? I'm his mother. Imperfect, learning as I go, flawed at best. But I love him. I'd walk on hot coals for him. Juggle them too if necessary. I will never reach the standard of the other mother, but I don't know if any mother ever can. I just hope when he's fully grown, he will look past the things I did wrong, and remember the one thing I did right, which is love him with everything that I am.

Fifty Book Challenge #10-13

2011-06-23T00:49:00.001-04:00

Light and fluffy. Definitely not heavy. For obvious reasons that is what I wanted in my books while in Florida. I'm so glad I dove in and searched for such books because after a very long reading slump where I actually began wondering if I'd ever read regularly again, the state of inertia is finally over. I challenged myself to read fifty books this year- and considering I'm at book #14 at the moment I don't know if this mid-summer reading-burst will help me reach my goal but there's something to be said for trying. I used to post my book reviews on my review site. There are hundreds of books there broken down by category. This year I decided to update my 50 book challenge book reviews on my writing site and while I had been doing it, the truth is it's a lot of work to upkeep and update multiple blogs. As much as I love the concept of separate blogs for separate facets of me, its not possible to do each one justice given the fact that time- it be limited.

In any case, without further ado, the books:

The Heights. I could tell you this story is about a couple with two small boys living in a sought-after part of NYC and how their quiet normal lives are turned upside down by the arrival of a new neighbor. I could, but the plot is really besides the point. The point of this book is the effortless prose and the well-rendered characters, the type that will stick with you long after you are finished reading. It's a light read to be certain, but its done well. I didn't like how the author ended the story but I still love the book and will definitely be keeping my eye out for other books he's written.

Spoiled. I love the Fug Girls. When I heard they wrote a YA book I definitely planned to get it from the library but when I read a starred review on NPR hailing it as light and well-written I bought it right away. If books could be cotton candy, Spoiled would fit the bill. Two long lost sisters reunite, one a down-to-earth midwestern girl who only recently learned she's the daughter of a celebrity, the other a spoiled LA chick who is jealous at this newfound sister entering her life and taking from her precious time with her father. It's completely predictabe down to the last page, but I knew that going into it. I just wanted a new fresh funny take on a very tired story plot. While it was good enough, the name-dropping of actors and dress designers and purses was way too much and distracting me from getting on with the story. I expected pop culture references and designer labels, its the Fug Girls! but it was excessive and got in the way of the story. The pop culture references ensure this will be a book that will not make sense to a future generation, but for this one, its good enough, and it was the first book I managed to finish in months- so that's saying something.

Still Missing. I saw this book on the 'new to paperback' section of B&N. I simply meant to browse it to see if I should add it to my library queue. My normal rule for buying books is a) only if I liked it after reading at the library, or b) if its just not available at the library, or c) if I want to support the author because I know or like them. I guess I can now add d) I can't put this book down and now the B&N employees are staring at me leading me to wonder if reading books cover-to-cover while in a bookstore constitutes shoplifting. So I bought it. The story is narrated by the protagonist during her therapy sessions where she recounts a kidnapping and the effects that did not end with her freedom. This book is super-suspenseful but also a no need to dive into reserve brain cells type of book. Things start with a wham and don't slow down until the last page. I don't love the writing style- the author's voice seeped through too much- but this book was about the story not the writing. If you've ever accidentally channel surfed yourself into a Lifetime movie you couldn't stop watching [you know, the one where the woman marries this awesome guy but then he turns out to harbor a really dark secret and is actually a jerk? Yeah, that one!] then you will love this book. Not a contender for the National Book Award- but entertaining and interesting.

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. It's strange to keep saying I normally go to the library and then review all books that I purchased, including this one. In my defense, it was a particularly mundane day and when I saw this book at Target while shopping for diapers and paper napkins I just wanted something cool to dive into when I got home. Plus a friend said she loved it. And it was 20% off. If you like Jane Austen you might like this. It's well-written, poignant and funny, and explores a topic I don't normally read about in modern literature- the concept of growing older told with a sharp eye on the reality without consuming us in its desolation. It is also a love story between a Pakistani woman and a British army Major in a world where such a thing is unheard of. I think the author overdid it a bit with descriptions in the beginning and so it took me months to get past the first fifty pages, but once I reached page 100 it was downhill reading from there. Definitely one I'll re-read again.

Good books make my day, so thankful to have finally found some, currently inhaling What is the What loaned from a friend and double-checking my library catalog because fifty book challenges means one cannot purchase each book one reads- well one could I guess- but one would not be financially wise in doing so. One thinks.

Hope you found this helpful! What good books have you read lately?

Random thoughts. Because organized ones require sleep.

2011-06-20T00:49:00.005-04:00

1. Before becoming parents K and I were super excited about the whole 'kids under two fly free' rule on airlines. We're going to travel like crazy until he's two we said. There is a good reason flights for children under two are free. Because no one in their right mind should be traveling on the regular with a child under two, and airlines are banking you won't be making a habit of it once you've tried it once, particularly alone. I have no redeeming words to say about my flight home from Florida except to say that if you feel time just goes too fast with your child, get on a plane for a one hour flight and watch the seconds turn to hours. I will save you the gory details that required two outfit changes [both him, and me] plus a seat cover change and my hair coated in apple sauce [not the best look when greeting ones husband standing with balloons and flowers at the gate] but a brief PSA: when you have a child of the toddling sort, never ever take a window seat particularly one wedged in a three seater row with two sleeping passengers next to you. Always take the aisle seat. Always. And Waleed? You owe me.

2. Though I had access to television [including BRAVO!] and internet while staying at my parent's place, the desire to use either was limited at best. At first it was simply too hectic with trips to and from the hospital, and all the other things to take care of when a family is in crisis, but once things settled down it just felt nicer to unwind with conversation and a cup of chai instead of with a screen. In the evenings once people went to sleep I found myself reading and ended up reading four books during my time there. Disconnecting from screens of all sorts I also felt more connected with Waleed than I thought possible. While I always play with him and engage with him, there is something to be said for the quick e-mail one checks or replies to in the middle of a feeding. Disconnecting felt freeing. I felt more peaceful, more in tune to my thoughts and feelings than I have in a long long time. Must remember to unplug more often. [Said while blogging, I realize]

3. Now that I'm home I have time to pick out the winners of the give-away I had running in May. Debating posting a blog about it [since who but those who won will be interested in reading it] but in any case will pick by the end of the week and send e-mails out to all those who won by this Friday.

4. My agent gave me feedback on my manuscript a while back and while I agreed with her advice I felt at a loss on what to do about it. Each day for the past month I sat at the computer dumbstruck as to how to proceed. Nothing felt right. I would write pages, and wish for words on actual paper to feel the satisfying crunch of said paper as I crumbled the detested words and flung them into a trashcan [hitting delete, no matter how forcefully, is just not as satisfying]. During my time in Florida the last thing on my mind was my book since more pressing matters were obviously at hand. So it figures that it was then, as I drove to run an errand my mind running over grocery lists and Target tasks that my protagonist spoke to me as though from out of the blue [inspiration it seems, always does strike, like lightening]. Through no effort on my own, she came to me, shared her life so clearly I could see it unfold before my eyes and I realized ofcourse! How could it have ended any other way? I had no pen or paper on me and all too aware of my swiss cheese memory of late I turned to my cell phone and dictated it into my text message voice activated system and sent myself approximately 20 texts with the ending. While there is something to be said for the hard work and effort that goes into writing, those brief moments where you are just struck with vision and the words flow like water are the magical moments you live for.

5. And smartphones, it appears, while possessing the undoubted flaw of making one overly plugged in, are helpful when inspired without writing utensils it seems.

6. As I sit down to put the final polishing on my manuscript, I realize there are benefits of being at this in between stage. The world and its possibilities are limitless. No one has said no yet. Everyone might say yes. Each book we read, whether its one we savor and read again on stormy days, or one we skim and toss back in the library return bin were borne of blood, sweat and tears. [Generally speaking, I don't know Snooki's writing process] Yet when we set about to write as an unknown we toil on our own dime and our reserves of hope. Sometimes I read blog posts and articles of how dire things are in publishing and get disheartened. But- just the other day as I browsed a bookstore I found three paperbacks written by debut novelists, well received and well ranked on the best seller lists. A reminder that dire does not mean impossible. That while I am not guaranteed to succeed, I am guaranteed to fail if I don't try at all. I came across an old post I wrote in 2007 before I had a finished manuscript and an agent who believed in me, before I really put pen to paper. The same fears? Ever present today. If we lived our lives not doing because we were afraid- what a different life we'd live. A firm reminder to me to not worry about the future but to focus on now, the business of getting this writing done and making sure all that I have control over I do to the best of my abilities; once I've done all I can, what will be will be.

Keep walking. Though there's no place to get to. Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings. Move within but don't move the way that fear makes you move" Rumi

The fact that he won't eat. And I no longer sleep.

2011-06-14T09:38:00.004-04:00

When Waleed was little [as opposed to the college professor he is now] he ate anything. Fettuccine. Stir Fry. Fish. And like a fish he wouldn't stop eating though given his high activity level his constant eating resulted in very little upward incline on the weight charts. Now, while he still eats anything from paper to pad thai [I'm fairly certain he's part goat], two to three bites in he waves his hand, annoyed, indicating he's done which isn't possible since he last ate four hours earlier and played more vigorously than even a certain Miami Heat basketball player [who really could have made more free throws on game six]. After that much activity, how can a few bites fill him up?

I'm told not to push it. Let him stop eating when he wants, after all, children never 'starve themselves to death'; when he's hungry he'll eat. Yes. I believe in my son's survival instinct. However. I take issue with the 'when he's hungry he'll eat' because while he does eat, since lately he wont eat during the day he is now hungry at approximately 1am, 4am, 5am. [And last night, up on the hour every hour] His survival instinct is interfering with my sleep instinct.

It's possible the waking is unrelated. He is [finally] getting teeth [four at once!] plus I read kids at this age can wake because they begin actively dreaming now and wake up screaming when they find themselves in a dark room when seconds earlier they were prancing around grabbing bunnies and running head first down the stairs [which is what I imagine is the stuff baby dreams are made of] but regardless, even if he was sleeping through the night, he needs to eat- I think?

The experts say you shouldn't teach your kid to clear their plate. It can lead to long-term eating and obesity issues. Yes. But. How do I make sure he's getting his nutrition when my kid is eating three bites per meal? Back home I'll just slog out the refusal getting a bite here and there be it through 'airplane' mode [as in make high pitched sounds to make him gape at me like I've officially lost it giving me the mouth opening large enough to stick a spoonful of food in]. Usually we make it to the end of the bowl in this way at home, but here amongst grandparents, he's somehow aware of his many sympathizers so puts on grand displays of protests which on the bright side leave me fairly confident he'll be thanking me for an Academy Award someday.

To be fair he does usually eat one meal a day with vigor, and he loves snacks like apple sauce and string cheese, its just that the chomping emptying the fridge baby of months past is no more despite the variety of foods I try offering him. Maybe this is just the new normal. Except, the hourly wakings is not sustainable. I woke this morning put two tea bags in a mug and stuck it in the microwave. Without water. The brain cells that I was slowly regenerating seem to be jumping ship once more. Sleep- it was nice while it lasted.

Can you relate? What are you doing, or plan to do, or have done to handle this eating or non-eating issue?

Stumbling blocks on the journey to language

2011-06-13T00:04:00.001-04:00

Like many parents I have lofty goals for my child. I want him to be good-hearted, happy, joyous, and free. And to one day buy his mother a waterfront condo overlooking the mountains of Kauai. [Waleed, if you're reading this years hence, just kidding. Really. Unless you want to. I mean, I wouldn't say no.] One of my deepest wishes however is to give my child the gift of being multilingual. I'm still in Florida and the effect of hearing Urdu and Punjabi day in and day out [I am accepting my child's Urdu will be a Punjabi-Urdu Hybrid- I'm okay with hybrid, its better than none at all] is immeasurably beneficial as I hear him trying out sounds and vowels not typical of English but in the tongue I wish to impart.

As much as I'm not a big fan of TV, my mom, who scoops up Waleed when he rises at 6:30am perky as a bunny on red bull, loves starting the morning with him watching a recorded Urdu drama on PTV each morning. [And extra sleep versus making sure little guy doesn't get TV exposure? Sleep is a selfish beast. And it wins each time].

Their daily ritual made me wonder about the benefits of watching some Urdu-language shows so I sat down at my increasingly rare moment at the computer to see what youtube had to offer in the way of Urdu language cartoons. Most were downright odd like a seemingly possessed girl singing urdu poems or this Tom and Jerry dubbed Punjabi 'song' but then I saw this, a properly rendered cartoon described as a story about a bird and crow with a lesson to boot! [In Hindi- but close enough] So I plucked my son in my lap, turned up the volume to watch this:

It's a tale about a crow. His house crumbles in a storm. Amidst thundering rain he knocks at his neighbor bird's door, begging for help. In a minute she says with one excuse after another. All while crow shivers and ducks lightening. Finally, she lets him in and orders him to babysit while she bathes. He does. But he's hungry. So he eats some kheer cooking on the stove. The bird sees him eat it. She gets mad. She pulls out a burning log. And burns his tail off. The moral of the story: Don't eat other people's food. I am not kidding, that's the lesson. While I know my son will experience the harshness this world has to offer, teaching him via cartoon that most people are only looking out for themselves and don't enjoy sharing and that its a dogeatdogeatworld are not exactly lessons I want to impart just yet.

My dad and I spent a good ten minutes tonight laughing [against doctor's orders- whoops] at this old school Cookie Monster sketch asking for a box of cookies at a library [back when Cookie Monster as opposed to carrots ate, well, cookies] and as I looked through more such videos [way more than a grown person without a child in their lap has any business watching with rapt attention] I felt downright nostalgic for the shows of my youth and wished so much my son could perhaps watch some good high quality similar stuff in Urdu with lessons not quite as traumatic as 'don't knock on a neighbor's door when you lose your house in a storm- they got better things to do'. In Hindi or Urdu, they must be out there. Just need to find it. In the meantime? PTV at grandma's house where pretty pasty ladies in dramatic falsettos swoon over marriage proposals will just have to do.

What creative methods are you using/plan to use/have used on the path to impart language to your child?

Random thoughts from the waiting room

2011-06-06T00:24:00.001-04:00

1. Food is a funny thing. It doesn't matter and it does. You must eat but the last thing on your mind is chopping onions and mixing yogurt. And yet- there is only so much Panera and Pizza Hut one can eat. [Is it possible to get sick of Panera? Never thought it could happen, but I'm reaching the tipping point]. When I used to make meals for friends going through a crisis I thought it was more for me than them- me doing something, anything, to help in a small way. Now I realize how valuable such assistance is. It's just one less thing for someone to think about. And I'm bringing by food tonight is better than If you want me to bring food don't hesitate to ask. Because people hesitate. People won't ask.

2. Though my mother has made enough food to feed a small nation I found myself in the grocery store today purchasing fixings for fajitas. Where will we fit all these things my mother asked watching me unload peppers, onions, salsa and sour cream. I don't know. I just know that when my aunt had open heart surgery I made fajitas. And she liked it. And she got better. And while I know fajitas are not good luck charms in any culture or faith- similar circumstances seemed to merit similar food so I went with my go-to food for open heart surgery [And its a little sad to have a 'go-to' food for open heart surgery].

3. When I passed the bar exam I sent my dad this mug. Considered taking it with me to the hospital to put amongst the flowers, balloons and get well cards:

Except I worried his doctors might not find it quite as amusing.

4. My car side mirrors got busted a few years back and I've since mastered the art of a good over the shoulder glance. My father is unimpressed with my mastery and has for years admonished me at each opportunity to get my mirrors fixed. The morning after surgery I sat down across from him, held his hand and leaned in as he moved his mouth to speak, I've spoken with your mother and your brothers will be taking your car to my mechanic to get the mirrors fixed- no questions or debate. When these are your father's first words after surgery you know that a) he's going to be okay and b) saying no is not an option. Check. Mate.

5. And the kind of dad whose first thought after a triple bypass surgery is this is the perfect opportunity to convince my daughter to get her car mirrors fixed- is the kind of father you know you are damn lucky to have in your life. The only way to repay him is to be the best parent to my son that I can possibly be.

About sunshowers after storms: what happened

2011-06-01T16:18:00.000-04:00

My father had a heart attack Saturday evening- its mild my family assured me [as much of an assurance as anyone can give when the words heart attack are involved]. He'll be fine, the doctors said. He exercises daily, watches his diet and the initial tests prove promising. Except the initial tests were wrong. He wasn't fine. So not fine that the doctors showing the video of the blockages explained my father's well being as occupying the realm of miracles and fortunate happenstance. The initial insistence of there's no need to come fell to the wayside. We packed our things that evening to drive the eight hours to my parent's home hoping to get there in time for his open heart triple bypass surgery.

There's a Rumi poem I read in college and while I no longer can recall it verbatim, its essence has always remained in my heart: One fine day Prophet Muhammad steps out from his prayers and as he moves to put on his shoes a bird swoops in, snatching the shoe away. Overturning the shoe from the sky, a snake falls out. The bird that first appeared to insult the Prophet infact saved his life; the truth of the initial moment not evident until later.

In much the same way, the heart attack which at first appeared to be a devastating blow, in fact turned out to be a polite tap tap to look behind the curtain and see a staggering amount of blockages that were it not for the mild heart attack would never have been detected- until- well- I don't want to think about it.

He's still in the ICU. He's not officially out of the clear but the darkness that settled over my heart is lifting as I see him open his eyes, then speak, then sit, then stand. I apologize for the vagueness of my last post- somehow giving what was happening words made it seem more frightening- more real; but I wanted to tell you that your comments? They were like a hug, a shoulder squeeze a reminder that even in my darkest hour I wasn't alone. The fact that you reached out means more than you know. Its in your most difficult moments you see who truly cares, and it is in these difficult moments support of any sort is needed the most. Thank you.

Sometimes I get very bogged down when I consider the power of prayer. Why do some get answered and others denied. I cup my hands in supplication and wonder how to begin asking when so many others ask for the same and do not receive. While I still struggle with these questions I can no less pray for his recovery as I can choose not to breathe. Please keep us in your prayers, your support means more than you know- may things only get better here on out.

[I also apologize about the delay of the blogging give-away, I'm not in a place to mail things out but hopefully in a few weeks time I will get to that. Apologies once more.]

When words are futile

2011-05-30T00:38:00.002-04:00

He's not pointing. Or saying words.

Like other kids.

And you say it doesn't affect you. That all children learn and grow at their own pace. But somewhere deep inside: you wonder: why not? And just like that, with those two words, the small pebbles of worry seep into your skin like fine grains of sand rubbing your insides raw.

Then, today. When you get a phone call- the kind of call that makes you sink to the floor. That makes you forget where you are, or what you are, all labels teacher, lawyer, writer, stripped away until you stare at the bare bones of what a person is, a mother, a wife, a child. You are always your parent's child.

And you hear the soft padded footsteps of chubby feet and look up to see your son walking towards you. He pauses a brief moment. Examines your tear-soaked face with a concern he cannot articulate but is expressed on his small chubby face. And you feel him wrap his baby arms around you before pulling back to wipe away each tear as it trails down your face.

And in that moment you forget the pointing. And the words not yet spoken, because all you see is love; pure unadulterated love that words can never properly express. And you want nothing more than for this little being with the toothless smile to never ever receive a phone call that speaks of anything but sunshine, daffodils and daisies while knowing that's just not possible.

A parent's love is unlike any other love, my father said to me years ago. As I watched my son's sleeping figure tonight, I thought of my own parents decades ago watching over me. Love takes many different forms but a parent's love occupies an island all its own.

If your eyes read across these words, if you are the praying sort, please keep my family in your prayers. All is well. Please God, let it remain so.

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

2011-05-26T00:09:00.000-04:00

One. Waleed is on the mend and the weather was just right so I stuck him in the Ergo and headed out with my new bluetooth clipped on [which is great! I no longer hang up on people with my cheek! And! I feel very important and chic like I'm discussing Very Important Matters even though its usually a 'what do you want to eat for dinner? I don't know what do you want to eat for dinner. I don't know what do you. . . and so on and so forth]. One great thing about my neighborhood is the children, all races and ethnicity, get along spectacularly. Where most neighborhood streets are empty of children, indoors watching television or otherwise sedentarily engaged, here they're out interacting with one another. Every evening I look out the window and feel like I'm looking in on a UN headquarters meeting [if it involved hopscotch, jump roping, and playing sports- which lets be honest, we can't be sure doesn't take place at actual UN headquarters]. White, Black, Latino, Korean, Pakistani, Indian, all playing together. Today on my walk I saw two kids dribbling a basketball walking a few paces ahead of me. I've lived in this neighborhood seven years and I've watched them grow from four-year-olds grinning with more gaps than teeth to now, on the cusp of adolescence, rivaling me in height. I smiled today as I saw them whispering to one another, looking up at the sky and grinning as they pointed at birds flying overhead in perfect formation on this lazy summer evening. I felt about as wholesome as one can. Then one of the boys pointed to the sky once more and the other pulled out a black gun and began shooting in earnest. A BB gun. At birds. Well, it was a great feel-good moment until then.

Two. My games with Waleed are slowly evolving from simply peek-a-boo to now hide the pen, spoon or any other object at hand. I love placing it under a leg or under a sheet of paper and watching him investigate and squeal upon discovering it once more. So ofcourse he decided to amp up the fun and hide my keys and credit-cards. It's a shame that having the memory of a guppy fish and the verbal abilities of one too, he never got around to letting me know where he put them and I haven't been able to find them since. I called Am Ex to get a new card, they're always good about it and I love that they do so with nary a lecture on being more responsible [which I do think they'd be entitled to at this point as I've misplaced the card many a time and long before I could blame it on a baby]. But, their eagerness does make me wonder.

Me: My son hid my credit card and I can't find it. Can I get a new one?
AmEx: Sure. We can overnight it!
Me: Thanks, you guys did that once for me in Brazil but you don't have to do that now I'm not going out anytime soon.
AmEx: No really! we can overnight it!
Me: It's okay. Thank you though.
AmEx: But it would be our pleasure to do it.
Me: Yeah, I know but. .
AmEx: Don't you want your card?
Me: Um, yeah
AmEx: So there's no harm right?
Me:. . . right. . .
AmEx: It'll be there tomorrow! Free of charge!

When a credit card company is beside themselves to send you the credit card ASAP it makes you question your spending habits- and while I'm fairly certain I don't use my cards that much I'll be double checking going forward for sure. Glad for having a credit card once more and a bit more thoughtfulness as I try figuring out why I'm AmEx's BFF.

Three. Years ago I had a close friend I cared about very much. I can tell you my reasons but they really don't matter anymore, the truth is, I made a mistake and I broke a promise to her. I was 20 years old- but I knew better. And while I learned an important lesson from it, it cost me a good friendship- and lessons as valuable as they are- are never worth the cost of a good friendship. Years later through facebook and this blog we reconnected and I was thankful the hurt of years past had faded but the fondness of the friendship we shared remained. Last week I got a book in the mail for my seven year blogoversary. It was from her. A Fine Balance. A book she [and many of you] have highly recommended but I've shied away from because its a chunky novel and I know the library renewals would run out before I managed to finish it. Now I have no more excuses [except that K picked up the book to browse through but then never really put it back down because he can't stop reading it. It's fine. I can wait.] I am so thankful for how much I've grown in the span of time since my mistake but oh so thankful that some friendships get a second chance.

So in sum: neighborhood children who see no color, credit-cards expressed overnight, a new book to dive into and a friendship reclaimed- do Thursdays get better than this? Hope you have a great Thursday too.

Six to Twelve Months Baby Products: The Yay and Nay

2011-05-23T00:39:00.005-04:00

Last time I wrote about my favorite and least favorite baby products many of you were kind enough to let me know you appreciated those posts. I heart feedback so thought I'd write one more review on products that I liked [and didn't] in the hopes that its helpful. I'm not being paid for any of this, just sharing my thoughts in the hopes its helpful for you [though should a company perchance wish to send me a crate full of organic puffs- I would not say no]. If you find this helpful I'll do my best to do a 12-18 month post!

Nay: Johnsons and Johnsons Baby Products. I never intended to really care all that much how I bathed or lotioned my kid. I mean, I buy generic soap and my skin is fine? Plus I got tons of gifts of bath products and they all were of the generic variety and I figured good enough for me good enough for my kid. I was wrong. All baby skin is surely different. Your kid may have the sturdy stuff impervious to any product or perfume, but my little guy's skin reacted very badly. My doctor suggested we switch to fragrance free and even that didn't work- we ultimately switched to natural lines with minimal chemicals and it was only then that we began to see a difference, though the true difference didn't transform his skin until. . .

Yay: Babyganics Eczema Cream. I'm not sure if Waleed had eczema or not but the skin thing was becoming very problematic and an increasing issue the more he crawled. I tried it all: lotions, olive oil, almond oil, vaseline, hydrocortisol nothing worked until I bought this- it literally transformed his skin from rough and patchy in spots to sweet baby smooth in a matter of hours and we have never had skin issues again. I'm fairly certain this stuff is made of magic.

Nay: Plastic bowls. They line the shelves of grocery stores and baby stores, each with images of a baby plucking an animal cracker with a large grin while the mother gazes on adoringly so I dutifully purchased a pack, filled it with the requisite cheerios and at our next restaurant put it before him and watched as he promptly took the bowl and began practicing for his future ultimate frisbee championship ring [if rings are infact bestowed on frisbee champs, which they should]. Needless to say, mortifying. And no amount of 'don't do that please' works- that bowl is meant to be flung. Maybe when he's older the plastic bowl will work, and maybe your child will be a bit more sensible with their bowls, but for us, it was a massive FAIL.

Yay: Booster Seat. I never got a high-chair [though we went back-and-forth debating it as if the fate of the world rested on this matter alone] and instead bought a booster seat. He's used it since he was six months old and I love it. It saves space, easy to take off when a guest needs an extra chair, and we take it with us to restaurants so he can eat off the tray instead of a bowl. We just purchased this 'Tiny Diner' suction tray you can also use on the go and folds neatly into a purse. Love it also! The booster seat gets an edge over the 'Tiny Diner' for me since with the seat has a tray which helps contain him more. If you have a more sensible child who would never dream of trying to nose dive from a wooden high-chair then the 'Tiny Diner' could be all you need.

Nay: Earth's Best Teething Biscuits. I love Earth's Best for their jarred baby food. Waleed eats way less pureed babyfood now that he's one-year-old but when I didn't have time to make my own food I always went with Earth's Best. When I saw their teething biscuits- I naturally swooped them up and well, if you want your kid covered in a beige colored goop from hand to arm to hair to face to clothes then this is your biscuit. It was hideous; dunk-and scrub- in-the-tub-for-twenty-minutes hideous. If you have a child that will lift and nibble politely on one end of the biscuit, not putting it down, lifting from the other end, and then the other, then maybe this biscuit will work for you.

Yay: Organic Puffs. I try to do my best to minimize Waleed's consumption of processed foods and while these Organic Puffs are certainly processed since I'm not yet aware of "Baby Puff" trees or bushes, the ingredient list is much shorter with words much easier to pronounce than any of its competitors. They melt in your mouth, and if his jumps, shrieks and claps at the site of the yellow bottle are any indication, they taste pretty good too.

Nay. SUV stroller. Or, Travel Systems, as they are traditionally called. Now I know that some of you wear by these and that's fine for me the sheer poundage made my back ache looking at them as they average out at about 23-28 pounds of pure stroller weight! We used a snap-n-go with his infant car seat and we are thankful we spared our backs the hassle.

Yay. Umbrella Stroller. Because we babywear him a lot, we hadn't had the need to upgrade strollers until now. As opposed to 23 pound strollers, ours is 11 pounds, folds up and can fit into a travel bag you can carry on your shoulder [not sure why anyone would want to carry it on their stroller but the lady on the cover box looks thrilled about doing so]. I don't know if the one we got is the best stroller, but it was affordable and had good reviews.

Agree? Disagree? What are your favorite baby products six-to-twelve months? [And if you have any advice on awesome baby products for toddlerhood and would like to save my pocketbook I will be forever grateful!]

Vaccines, dehydration and "just a coincidence"

2011-05-18T00:05:00.000-04:00

Friday was shot day at the pediatrician's office [the same appointment wherein we learned we are failing spectacularly as parents due to the fact that our little one doesn't point]. I hate shot day for all the reasons every mother hates shot day but this past Friday my stomach hurt a little extra when I learned he would have not one, not two but FOUR stabs to the leg. He normally gets a high fever and some other random assortment of scary side-effects after his shots [the vast majority of which I am assured by medical professionals are completely unrelated to the shots- just a coincidence. each. and. every. time.] so with four shots I braced myself for a difficult weekend ahead.

Except he seemed fine. The next day we began the morning with a lovely play-date with Murgdan and Gabriel [And while our kids did play, they mostly played around each other with bursts of accidental encounters including a brief but vigorous argument for the remote control- Gabriel won], and ended it with a third viewing of Inception. A good day. Huh. I thought. No fever. Maybe his bad reaction to vaccines is over.

I was wrong.

That night, I checked in on a sweaty, feverish baby battling, to put it delicately, a horrendous stomach bug. The next day he refused to eat or drink, instead resting in our arms whimpering. The nurse hotline advised me on warning signs and what to do. When I voiced concerns that it was vaccine-related she dismissed it immediately. No way. Just a coincidence.

The next day, when he began stumbling, I rushed him to the doctor. Within the course of 48 hours he went from 20.8 pounds to 19.5 on the brink of hospitals and IVs. Again, I was informed its not the vaccines. No way. Just a coincidence.

This coincidence stance frustrates me. I understand him getting sick one time unrelated to the vaccines, but each and every time? A stomach bug? Nausea? Rash? Don't get me wrong- I think vaccines are important. I'm all for them. Do I love that you have to pierce skin to administer them? No. But until they develop the technology to administer said vaccines through baked goods, this is the way its done. I don't like it, but I get it. What I don't understand: Why do we have to administer so many damn vaccines at once? Why can't we spread them out over the course of weeks or months? I am thankful that as scary as his sickness-post-vaccines tend to be, he does get better, but why is there this emphatic dismissal of my concerns when I tell them that he gets sick each and every time from vaccines- and an insistence that its unrelated purely coincidental? Side-effects can be funny things. You wouldn't think one could be allergic to breastfeeding? But you can. Why is it outside the realm of possibilities that vaccines running through a tiny body might produce a side-effect in a particular child?

Slowly the clouds are parting. Today he ate a tablespoon of yogurt and a small bowl of rice; its better than yesterday and I hope tomorrow will be better than today. I'm thankful he avoided the hospital thanks to my doctor's idea to feed him gatorade via syringe bit-by-bit for two hours until he finally had a wet diaper. Really, I'm grateful. But the thought of his fifteen month ~~wellness visit~~ shot appointment is making me feel sick. When he was born, I was sick and while they told me there were fairly certain he was okay, they did a ridiculous amount of tests involving needles to ~~protect their liability~~ make sure. A kind nurse suggested quietly that I refuse the Hep A vaccine at the hospital since Waleed had clearly been through enough in his short life and I could get it done later. No one at the hospital so much as blinked when I refused it, but my doctor's office? They have a notice on their website that if you don't want to go with the traditional vaccine schedule you're welcome to go elsewhere. In fact, every doctor's office within a fifteen minute drive of me does not tolerate alternate vaccine schedules. Like I said, the one time I tentatively brought it up, you'd think I told them I hunt koala bears for a living.

Maybe his sickness post-vaccines is related. Maybe it's not. Today, one grandmother theorized this could be due to the blueberries I fed him, while another thought it might be because we didn't feed him enough rice. Everyone wants a reason- a why. Maybe that's me- a mother wanting to lay blame at someone's door, to find a reason- in this case, vaccines.

How did you handle, are handling, or plan to handle vaccines? Any insight on this topic appreciated.

Things I will miss when you're grown

2011-05-17T00:22:00.003-04:00

1. The way your chubby toes flatten against the tiles when I set you down.
2. The feel of your soft curls as you rest your head in the hollow of my shoulder.
3. Your smiles in general.
4. Your toothless grins in particular.
5. The way you delight in peek-a-boo with your father, eyes wide, arms and legs kicking in unison- literally happy from head to toe.
6. How you lift your food pinched between your thumb and finger, like a baby monkey.
7. The way you breathlessly whisper bye-bye with a solemn flap of your hand.
8. And stare at us when you're annoyed, eyebrows raised, a twelve month old teenager.
9. The pout of your lips as they pucker up when you, well, pout.
10. Those soft baby cheeks, that silky hair, that button nose, these tiny fingers, and toes.

The way you howl in the dead of night, misery unparalleled- until I picked you up and in an instant there is silence- your head against my shoulder, your body limp with relief because all is once against right with the world. This ability to wholly transform your world from darkness to lightness and joy with a simple embrace? That? That is what I will miss most.

The doctor's visit and the fact that he won't point.

2011-05-13T22:06:00.000-04:00

Save the one time the doctor mistook my son for a perfectly cute little girl, doctor's visits are [thankfully] uneventful and I'm never anything but utterly grateful for the quick casual check marks by the nurse as she asks about bowel movements, sleep schedules, feedings, and sends us on our way without pause.

Today was the first pause.

Doctor: We need to discuss the pointing matter.
Me: What pointing matter?
Doctor: You told the nurse he doesn't point to what he needs.
Me: Well, no. . .
Doctor: He should be pointing. That's how language is developed. How does he let you know he's hungry? He doesn't point to the high chair?
Me: No, he gets fussy, I look at the clock and see its been a while since the last meal and take him to the high chair, he gets happy and I feed him.
Doctor: You're anticipating his every need so he has no need to point and request.
Me: Hm. I have seen other kids his age that point at different things. . .
Doctor: Yep, its because their parents are modeling it for them.

And so proceeded a lesson in teaching him how to point and a stern reprimand to monitor carefully and bring him in if it doesn't improve. To be clear, she's a great doctor. We don't agree on everything [she's more parent-centered when it comes to sleep schedules and weaning while I strive to be more kid-centered] but I respect her opinion. And normally whenever I go in, freaked out about a tooth that hasn't emerged, or a finger that looks swollen, she waves it away, tells me I'm doing great and sends me on my way. So coming from her, this concern about this milestone he is not reaching and the fact that it's my fault? As much as she kindly couched it with we just are very tuned into his needs, and he's clearly a happy baby, well it made us feel like the worst. parents. ever.

He gets all his needs met, without being forced to point, she said. Put away all his toys, containers, boxes, anything he might amuse himself with and then he'll have no choice but to point for what he wants. Except he doesn't work that way. If he has nothing to play with, he'll look out the window and squeal at joggers passing by, a bird, or a butterfly. He'll dance. He'll tap against the fridge. This kid? He really doesn't get bored.

It's not like he doesn't communicate. A grunted bang on the table at dinner lets us know pay attention to me! Hands raised, pick me up. Sleepy- eyes rubbed. A stern no- a pout a whine and obedience. My point is- we get him. And- he seems to get us.

But he's not pointing and since I want to give my kid the moon and the stars if he wants them, the fact that he can't point to request said solar-system goodies because I failed to teach him. . . well, it just sucks.

So now K and I are in the process of pointing ourselves silly. All day. At home. At Zaxbys. At Target. Chicken! Shopping Cart! Eyes! Smile! Voice! Fingers! Water! [And all those years I looked with annoyance at the super-perky parents talking in high pitched voices? I live in a house. It is clearly made of glass]. I'd do anything for my son, so I can certainly point myself into an arthritic finger for him if need be- I just hope our efforts work.

Was pointing made to be the end-all be-all at this stage with your kid? What did you do to help your child point and communicate in general? She suggested reading more to him, but- and I know this will sound odd since I'm the biggest book-worm I know- save his bedtime story, he rarely enjoys sitting down and being read to. Any advice much appreciated.

Blogger and your comments

2011-05-13T16:39:00.001-04:00

48+ hours ago blogger went under and with it took my my monthly update for Waleed [which luckily I saved in time] and ate all comments for that post and 15 comments from my "delurk-n-say hi- blogversary give-away" post. If you entered [or said hi] please double-check its still there! If you wanted to delurk/enter the past 48 hours but couldn't, it should work now. Debating switching to wordpress at the moment which is hard to imagine after seven years here, but maybe its time for a change. We'll see.

Happy Twelve Month Birthday

2011-05-13T16:32:00.000-04:00

Dear Waleed,

On Saturday you turned one year old. When you were born this day felt as remote as people building bungalows on Mars but people must be inspecting granite counter tops and negotiating closing costs on the red planet because its happened. You're one. And you've gone from this:

To this:

You love the outdoors. Your favorite activity is 'helping' us water the grass and by default, watering yourself. Speaking of grass, you no longer fear it. Instead, you express domination over said grass by pulling it out with gusto and flinging it over your head which makes us smile [and cringe because well, we sort of spent a lot of money to lay that grass you're yanking with abandon]. Speaking of dominance your grandmothers sought to dominate the curliness that is your hair. When pleas for a hair cut failed they applied enough gel to straight-spike a horse's mane. The result? 'business' in the front, 'party' in the back.

We celebrated your birthday with a picnic with your grandparents, Mamu Ali, and some of your closest friends. [And by your closest friends I mean people about as old as you who also had no clue where they were or why they were there]. Cutting the cake was fun, opening the gifts sweet, but my favorite part of the day was 7:02pm. Last year that time you were born and I was too weak to hold you. For ten hours I couldn't. Seems like a short span of time, but for you it was a lifetime. My heart literally ached to pull you close to me. I remember watching you swaddled asleep in the bassinet next to me and feeling overwhelmed; already I was failing as a parent. In that moment I feared the year to come. This May, amidst gift bags and wrapping paper, at 7:02pm I scooped you up. I held you. And I kissed you like I wanted to one year ago. Its hard now to remember why I felt so afraid- I had nothing to fear; I've lived a lifetime of joy in these past 365 days.

After smothering kissing you it was time for your favorite part of the day. Each month we've celebrated your birthday with a photo shoot with Mr. Bear and a candled cupcake to mark the passage of time. You could never actually eat the cupcake as it was meant to be decorative- little did I understand that babies don't remain immobile children for long as these sample of months show all too clearly:

Month one: Cupcake? What cupcake? [And yes, sorry kiddo, mama was having a bad fashion sense day- I blame it on sleep deprivation- and yes I blame that on pretty much everything!]

By month five curiosity grew

Month Eight: Curiosity became desire

Month 9: Desire denied = very angry baby

But this month? We did your monthly photo-shoot. We plopped you in your chair, dressed you up in your cupcake eating outfit sent by your sweet Khala, and finally, you ate that cupcake:

and I'm pretty sure it was everything you hoped it would be

Someone said to me, A first birthday celebration is for the parents since a kid has no clue what's going on. That's the equivalent of saying the sun is hot. Ofcourse it is. You might throw this back at me twelve years hence but you didn't ask to be born. I did. I wanted nothing- and I mean nothing- more than to hold you in my arms. Parenting is hard work, there are sleepless nights, poopy explosions career ambiguities and a narrowing of personal time and space but I do this all not because I'm selfless. Quite the opposite. I do it because you are the best part of me. You are the best thing I ever did. In giving I gain. In doing I receive. And no matter what I will always love you. I loved you when you were two lines on a pregnancy test. I loved you when you were a flicker on the ultrasound machine and a four-chambered heart or a kick against my womb. Fly a kite, ride a bike, get straight A's, be the first desi NBA super-star. Or don't. I'll love you either way.

I planned to stop writing you monthly letters now that you're one. I also thought we'd be checking out the housing market on Mars [though that commute. . .] by your first birthday too. These moments when I sit down to reflect on the month past mean a lot to me and now, I'm not sure I want to stop. I hope when you're old enough to read this you enjoy reading them as much as I've loved writing them.

Happy First Birthday my love. I can't wait for all that is to come. What fun we will have, you and I.

Love,

Your Mama

Birthdays, Blogoversaries, give-aways and delurk-n-say-hi?****

2011-05-08T01:08:00.005-04:00

Waleed turned one, we had a picnic, we cut a cake, and it couldn't have been more perfect. A lot more to say but while I let the thoughts marinate, in honor of birthdays, and seven years of blogging fun if you're reading, please say hi! [and anything else you wish to share, like who you are, when you started reading, salmon or halibut? or whatever stream of consciousness strikes you!] Last time I asked y'all to delurk for a blogoversary was five years earlier, and I still remember the awesome comments and how they made me smile. While blogging is about writing, its also about community, and really, that's the true enduring part of it all. If you've been reading, quiet or otherwise, and are interested, I thought it finally time on the downhill slope from Waleed's first birthday, to share my give-away! This is my way of saying thank you for reading. These are not sponsored-gift, they're from me and while I wish I could offer golden tubas, or something equally fancy I'm sharing these things because they mean something to me and make me excited to give with the hopes you'll enjoy receiving them. Plus, with four different gifting opportunities, there will be more odds to win:

One super-sized decorative box of my favorite candies and chocolates ever.
One collected assortment of my favorite candles.
A brand new copy of my favorite book on motherhood ever or my favorite book- not on motherhood- ever- your choice.
$15 Gift Card to Babies R US

To enter: Leave a comment on this post and tell me you want to enter and click follow for my blog on the side-bar! For extra entries: follow my writing blog and/or link back to my blog from your blog sidebar. Let me know in the comments which of these you did so I know how many entries to enter you for. I had initially thought of entries for retweets, etc. but I want to contain entries to people who read, be they longtime or recent readers. And local friends who silently read? It's open to everyone!

Because overseas shipping costs might run me the equivalent of a semester's tuition I'm limiting entry for #1 and #2 to US/Canada, but if you live overseas and Babies-R-Us and/or Amazon ships to you, please let me know and I'll enter you for just the gift-card and/or book drawing! [Pretty sure Amazon ships book almost anywhere unless you live in Antartica. [As an aside, if you're reading from Antartica a) Sorry! and b) Please say hi! How cool to have a reader from Antartica!] If you read but are not one to enter give-aways, say hi anyways because knowing who is reading makes my day :)

**Updated: Many of you have said that its hard to leave a comment, I think google is acting funny with comments, if you try to leave it using the "Name/URL" option, hopefully it will work? Please let me know if you're having issues!
*** UPDATED to add that since its Mem Day weekend and I have family in town- will update the winners on Tuesday!!!

Contest ends midnight EST May 28- seven years from the day I began blogging!

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

2011-05-05T23:31:00.003-04:00

Driving through Andalusia nearly two years ago on a scorching hot summer day we passed a sunflower field eviscerated by the sun; heads down, leaves gone, their little bodies brown instead of the brilliant yellow I love. Every last sunflower dead. Except one. One sunflower in a sea of thousands, alive and bright, its head up and facing the world despite the odds.

The next month two lines told me life might change forever. It was the might of my topsy turvy pregnancy that filled me with worry. I won't pretend I achieved any sort of zen, it was 280 days of worry because nothing is certain until it is. But this picture? The memory of this sunflower, centered me. It gave me a measure of peace. It was my symbol for hope. Each time I saw it I thought of my own little sunflower growing inside me, remembering that with Him all things are possible.

Waleed turns one Saturday. Time no longer meanders as it did when I was pregnant, instead I've boarded a bullet train and it shows no sign of slowing. And this past week I began feeling a bit melancholy until my friend Saba called, asking to meet up before Waleed's birthday. I brought you something, she said when I saw her today, and pulled out a gift-bag. No need for gifts, I began with a smile and a protest until I looked inside:

A dozen hand-made sunflower cupcakes with the ladybugs that land on my son each chance they get. They're for you, she said with a smile. It's mother's day weekend and you're a great mother. I stared at these sunflowers. Here, not to center me. Not to stave off fear. But sunflower cupcakes from a dear friend. I tried to explain to her what this gift meant to me, but the words got stuck in my throat. How can I articulate what it means to look at these sweet sunflowers for a child I called Sunflower until they placed him in my arms? It's when I realized: I've come full circle. My dream came true.

As gifts from friends afar perch themselves on my doorstep and I hold these cupcakes made with love from a dear friend, I feel the melancholy vanish like powder in a stream. My son is growing up yes, but my son is growing up. I'm so lucky to see him bloom before my eyes. [And Saba needs to start a cupcake shop, or a baking blog, don't you agree?]

This was my three beautiful things Thursday but I'm sure you counted well more than three. Hope you had a beautiful Thursday too.

Thoughts on misdirected hate

2011-05-05T00:22:00.001-04:00

This past Sunday was a busy day of painting, shopping, swing-pushing, barbecuing, the company of friends, and Sunday evening, sitting on the couch to catch up on TV which was promptly interrupted by the announcement: Bin Laden is dead and people are cheering on the streets; my initial reaction? Numbness. I thought of the lives lost, both Muslim and non-Muslim. I thought of how 9/11 forever altered the landscape of this country and my life. The hate not confined to distant lands but bubbling up where I lived; bigotry once hidden now gnashing its teeth without apology. As numbness faded, relief settled in as did a sense of justice. But I still didn't want to dance. Even the mother who watches the death row inmate die for killing her child does not grin and throw a ticker-tape parade. Yes, his death prevents future atrocities at his hands but his death does not erase what happened, what can never be undone, and the hate that remains like exposed wires.

The next day friends asked, are you okay? I didn't get it until I turned on the news and found the answer: He was found in Pakistan. They must have known. They' meaning the country and all its hundred million plus inhabitants. Pakistan is our worst enemy a pundit declared. I then understood my friends concerns. Blame Pakistan. Blame its people. Blame me.

Fifth Grade, the Gulf War began and I was bullied for the crime of sharing the same faith as Saddam Hussein. Those were cruel days and I still bear the scars but as an adult I can look back at those narrowed eyes and tell myself they were children, they didn't know better. But now? I see the same vitriol by people fully grown. Narrowed eyes taking in a billion plus people and seeing complicity in all. It's simpler to hate an entire group- blame an entire nation but the truth is not so simple, and to think otherwise is to dehumanize and is dangerous.

Did the Pakistani government know Bin Laden was there? I don't know. Did I? No. I'm a teacher. A lawyer. A writer. A mother. A wife. A sister. A daughter. I am sometimes moody. Often gullible. I love Mad Men. And Sunflowers. I am Muslim. I am not a terrorist and I am not going to explain or apologize for anyone's actions but my own and perhaps that of my child if he knocked over your drink. Sorry about that.

I planned to write a three beautiful things post about my son's first birthday but with fingers pointed at a country of millions who like me, are 99.9% blameless, I feel I have to say something however impotent these words may be. The happenings of the world matter and a man who caused too much pain to too many people and spit upon my faith is gone. This is a good thing; but my life is lived in the little corner of the world I inhabit and I try to inhabit it with integrity trying to be the best friend, sister, mother, wife, daughter I can be. I hope when you see me, that is what you see.

I've never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure- Mark Twain.

For more reading on this topic, please read the lovely posts of Faiqa and Baraka.

Parenting-ish questions as the clock strikes 'one'

2011-05-03T00:00:00.001-04:00

This Saturday my son will be one years old. While I know he'll still be a baby, I find myself cherishing these precious remaining days of official babyhood as though he'll be asking for a car and applying for college come Sunday. I've also realized that with one year comes not all the answers, but instead more questions about the newness of all that is to come [and other random questions that manage to squeeze their way into my stream of consciousness]. I share them here in the hopes that perhaps y'all may have advice. It's been five years since my last random assortment of questions, any advice [and/or commiseration] much appreciated!

1. While I've expanded my cooking range these past few years, outside of daal and a handful of other desi dishes, I don't know any vegetarian main dishes. Waleed eats way more table food lately [despite the fact that he's still toothless] and I want to learn some vegetarian recipes so he doesn't grow up thinking meat is mandatory in main dishes. I just have no clue where to begin. And as a complete novice I don't feel comfortable engaging in andaza se methodology nor picking a random recipe only to put in the effort to find it doesn't taste too good [which we learned the hard way with tofu. We don't like tofu]. Since I know many of you are avid cooks: What's your favorite vegetarian recipe? Could you share? Pretty please?

2. I am a runner. In my head. In truth I'm a hopelessly horrible runner. I can power-walk 5.0 on the treadmill for five miles, but for some reason, jogging at the exact same pace? I'm out of commission in three minutes. In seventh grade, last in the one-mile run, I asked my PE teacher, how can I improve? To which he responded, maybe you just can't. Since then I've wanted to prove him wrong. But haven't. I heard of the couch to 5K program years ago and I begin it faithfully only to give up. It probably doesn't work anyways, I told myself. Except my friend Yen is now a runner thanks to the program. I need to do this. I need to be able to run a mile without ending it like an exceptionally slow turtle. I need to show Waleed that if you stick with something, no matter how hard, its possible to succeed. And I need to prove my PE teacher wrong. In the spirit of believing in myself I've ordered a jogging stroller and plan to beat this obstacle once and for all. Avid runners, advice? Anyone start like me and now runs, no problem? Have any of you run with a jogging stroller? It seems bulky and tough to navigate hills. Tips, advice, much appreciated!

3. Lately Waleed enjoys smacking me. He thinks its the funniest. thing. ever. After a lunch of smiles and babbles as I lean in to give him a kiss- smack. While it doesn't hurt and I know its just him being silly as I look at my soon-to-be budding toddler I wonder when does disciplining begin? We do tell him not to touch things and he mostly listens but we certainly don't do time-out or any other form of repercussions if he decides not to listen. When did you begin disciplining your child? How did you know your child was old enough to? How did you do it?

4. I wrote about how difficult it was in the early weeks for me to nurse so I'm shocked at how difficult a task it seems to stop nursing now. While I always planned to wean him at a year, now that its here, I have no clue how to do it. Nursing is how I put him down for naps, for sleep, and how I coax him into staying in bed with me a little while longer when he's up like a perky bunny at 6:45am. He won't take a bottle, and while he'll drink milk from a sippy cup, it doesn't leave him drowsy. How long did you nurse? How did you break the nurse-to-sleep association? and how on earth did you wean?

5. Speaking of first birthdays, I'm getting him a cake, an outfit, and will take an unseemly amount of photos but I wasn't planning to get him an actual gift-wrapped present until I saw this and really want to get it from him [a more affordable version available at Target]. Do you give gifts for your baby's first birthday, perhaps the only birthday of their lives when they are not demanding such things of you? What did you give your child on their first birthday?

6. His upcoming birthday reminds us of the fact that we have only one more year of free baby flights. Pre-baby K and I delighted in this whole 'fly free til two!' concept until we realized that its not so simple to travel with a baby. We've flown at least five times post-baby and each time makes me vow it will be my last. Still, I miss our vacations, we used to take one big one a year, and I'd really like to try it. Now that he'll be older, perhaps it will be more manageable? Is travel with a toddler easier than with a wee baby? Anyone traveled far with a toddler and find it a relaxing and rejuvenating experience as opposed to one that makes home seem like a paradise oasis? Would you recommend it?