Because Childhood Counts, part One

Farouq the pirate, courtesy of his sister and her Disney camera

Discussion in the car while riding to baseball practice--one of those rare moments when it's just the two of us.


My son: Mama, do you ever write about me on your blog?



Me: Sure, sometimes.



My son: What do you write about?



Me: Mostly the trials and tribulations of being a parent, good times we share, living in Jordan, funny things you might say or do. Stuff like that.



My son: Oh. Do I have a cool name on your blog?



Me: Well, you're called "Farouq."



My son: You use my real name?!



Me: Yes, since my name is "Umm Farouq," I didn't see an issue with it.



My son: Oh (thinking). Couldn't I have a nickname or something?



Me: I guess you could. What would you like me to call you?



My son: How about, The Lone Ranger?


Me: (laughing) The Lone Ranger? What made you come up with that?



My son: Well, this summer PawPaw told me that in his day, the Lone Ranger was to him like Power Rangers or something. It was cool.




Me: Yes, it was cool. It was better than Power Rangers. The only thing that bothered me was that his sidekick was named Tonto, which means stupid in Spanish. I never knew if that was on purpose or if the creators really just thought that was a good Indian name.




My son: It was probably on purpose.


We break into the Lone Ranger theme, which he suprisingly knows; usually I would do it with my hands slapping my lap, but since I am driving, I opt for the vocal "da da dum, da da dum, da da dum, dum, dummm."

When we get out of the car, the Lone Ranger holds my hand, and we walk towards the practice field.

Where is That Extreme Makeover, Home Edition Team When You Need Them?

I am drinking a cup of Torrefazione Italia, Pisa Blend. If your favorite store over there in the US does not sell it, you can find it here. Thank you, dear sister, for sending me some, although when I finish this package (we're half-way through it), it will be another item to put on my list of "Things I Enjoyed in Jordan That I Knew Were Fleeting Pleasures I Won't Enjoy Again For God Knows How Long." On that list are other items, such as the Choc-Full-O-Nuts coffee that C-Town used to sell for 1.95 JD, Malt-O-Meal cereals for just under 2 JD, and about-to-expire taco kits from Safeway for 0.99 JD. Whatever hoarding tendencies I might have really kick in when I see things here that are good bargains I know I won't find again. But, as I said, those opportunities are fleeting.

Yesterday the gypsum man came to visit. He made a gigantic mess all over our house, cutting this stuff and sticking it all over our walls. We are so tired of being in the middle of home improvements (as are you, Um Omar, and I can imagine even more so than we are). It is a general rule that any home improvement in Jordan involves:

1. A near destruction of whichever room is being "improved"--one so devastating that I usually head into another room and fight back some tears, thinking to myself that we made a really big mistake and that this guy/team of guys are really only here for the free falafel sandwiches, why, they're not even workers at all, just hungry dudes up for a good mess-making challenge.

2. Dust fallout comparable to a nuking. I mean, he's working in the living room, but there is dust fallout on my toilet seat, on the other side of the house.

3. A horrifically sloppy trail of mess which you, the homeowner, are required to clean up.

4. Breaking/annihilation of one or more household goods (broom, mop, laundry basket, good rags used for cleaning, etc.) They will not be returned to you in their original state, if, in fact, they are returned at all. Oh, and did I mention, serve them with your worst utensils, or plastic/paper products if you can. I have had tea cups returned to me coated in tar.

5. Your peace of mind will not exist until every last wood chip/cement shard/gypsum chunk is removed from your sight, and you can walk through the house without leaving a gray trail of footprints in each room.

Can anyone add to these?

Here we have our reader additions; thanks, Kinzi and Um Omar!

6. When you finally save enough to get the house repainted, there will be some structural problem which will require the destruction of said paint job.

7. Anything that could possibly break, left within a 20 ft radius of workers, will.

8. It will cost twice as much and take twice as long (but, that is the SAME as the US!)

9. And you can count on making a major befuddle of any of the Arabic that you think is passable in your vocabulary. Believe me they won't understand you.

10. And no man will listen to a woman unless you have some other man to back you up in their presence. You could have just told them what to do and said man will have to come into the room and tell them the same thing to get it to happen.

Blowing off Steam

How does one make a drug addict get a life? Does anyone out there have experience with this?

The answer is, I believe, to stop trying. Let them fall flat on their faces, and I mean completely flat. Could someone back me up here?

Is anyone else out there a magnet for the drug-dependent, super manipulative, pathological liar-types? Is it a sign we wear? Is it a smell we give off? An aura we emit?

Do the professed to be recovering ever truly find recovery?

I certainly hope so.

Somewhere Between Laissez-Faire and Boot Camp

I had this History teacher in high school who loved to say laissez-faire all the time. I believe we originally learned the term in a lesson concerning U.S. foreign policy in Europe in the 19th century. Although I became a History major in college, I did not enjoy U.S. history in the least in high school. Mrs. Green had been teaching it for countless years and did nothing to make her lessons interesting. And her overuse of the term laissez-faire, which she defined as let it be, didn't do much to make me like her. But I never forgot that term, now did I?

I thought about this post the other day while I was frying cauliflower. I often cook up posts in my head while cooking actual food. Let me mention that frying cauliflower is the worst thing you can ever do to it and I do wholeheartedly blame the Arabs for this gross perversion of one of the most nutritious veggies; however, there is something about a deep-fried, dark brown cauliflower floret that cannot be resisted. Anyway, the last few weeks some very dear friends of mine and I have discussed on several occasions our number one topic: the raising of our children. We dive into all sorts of sub-topics when talking about this super broad and ever-complicated matter. Most of the time, at least one of us will break into a cold sweat, or tears, or both. You see, we moms just never stop beating ourselves up about our faults or our tempers or our inabilities to choose our battles with our children wisely. We worry about their happiness, their security, their places in our homes and in the world. We fret over grades, over lost opportunities to bond with them, over the challenges we face trying to be disciplinarians and friends simultaneously. At least one of us moms, at some point, will feel like a complete failure. But getting together and gabbing about these peaks and valleys of parenthood does succeed in helping us to understand that we are not alone, and that these issues transcend religion or race or culture.

In one of our recent chats, a fellow mom told us to do this: Go home and ask each child to describe you (the mom) in three words.

For those of us with pre-schoolers, this can be kind of fun. You never know what a four year-old will say, so mine might say something like "warm," or "jiggly" or "funny." If she's moody, which is a common state of being for her, she might tell me I'm "mean" or "silly." I can roll with the punches when it comes to her. She's small.

It's my older ones who I'm apprehensive about asking to describe me. Three adjectives. When I think of my typical days, I might prepare myself to hear "impatient" or "grumpy" or "frowny." With four very busy kids whose schedules I cannot always keep up with, I might hear "forgetful." On the days when I'm asking them to really step up and help me in the house, "bossy" or "demanding" come to mind. Basically, I'm prepared to hear a lot of negative.

I might, however, be pleasantly surprised. I have not done this exercise in adjectives yet; I am waiting for a really good day.

Another question posed by a fellow mom to ask our kids was, "When you come home from school in the afternoon, how do you want to see me?" This particular mom had already asked her four boys this question, and the answers varied. Some said they wanted to see mom putting lunch on the table, others said they wanted to find her smiling, sitting, and relaxed. My son, I know, wants to see me in the house. Because of work in the past or different commitments, my son came home from school to find someone in the home to greet him besides his mother, more times than I would like to mention. He hated it, and he let me know, and I was thankful that he did. I make it a point to be here when he walks in.

My parenting philosophy, I find, is evolving and revolving. Some of the things that worked for my friends and their children will not work with mine. For right now, I raise my kids with a policy that falls somewhere between let it be and boot camp. Middle ground is shaky at best. But I am ever thankful for having these other moms to bounce these ideas around with, to provide solidarity and solace, and to praise me for a job well done, even if the kids could tend to disagree.

Buenas Noticias

Well, after reading Kinzi's post today, I thought I had better share the fact that I also won a prize in Viva's March Madness Giveaway. Hurrah!

I won a spa treatment from Kinda, which includes a full body massage, manicure, pedicure, and a fancy term for pulling out my underarm hair--a term which escapes me now, especially since I am from those ladies who just use a razor. All of this, plus a bag of goodies, including nail polish, which came at a great time. I had promised my four year-old who used to bite her nails down to nubs that if she would stop, I would buy her some nail polish. She stopped, her nails "growed," and nail polish just walked right into our door yesterday, courtesy of Viva.

Today is my son's first Little League practice. He has never pitched a ball or caught one in a glove in his ten years on this earth. We are excited and hope that this is something he will love doing. I am happy about the prospects of introducing good sportsmanship and real teamwork to my son. Little League is not a hot shot free-for-all-kick-you-in-the-teeth to make it to the goal, unsupervised, unguided series of soccer games. While he has learned much from the school of hard knocks/soccer at school genre (i.e., survival), we are pleased he will be entering a new realm of physical activity. I am, once again, going to be a Diamond Girl.

Agenda

This would be known as a time of "dipping" if my blog were a bell curve, charting my posts. I have lots to say but no impetus to do so.

So, for these few days, I'm working on:

1. Cleaning the house and de-junking.
2. Sprucing up my mom-in-law's apartment.
3. Listening to my kids when they need to talk to me.
4. Getting back on Lester, the treadmill, who has been dusty and lonely for more than three weeks.
5. Weeding the yard and planting things that make me feel peaceful.
6. Finding a school for my oldest for next year, or deciding to leave her where she is.
7. Reading my required reading for my bi-weekly lesson, as well as picking up where I left off on my leisure reading materials.
8. Baking the perfect oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie.
9. Getting those Get Well cards to my Aunt finally mailed to her. (easier said than done)

I think that's enough gerunds for today. Ing mode is good.

Yum, Yum

I can rest easily now, knowing that Safeway carries camel meat. The next time I BBQ, watch out, kiddies! We're having camel burgers.

On cheering the elderly

For someone who does not boast great prowess in the area of interior design, I am having a lot of fun with this site.

They (above link) make the best paint in the Middle East.

On a whim the other day I decided to buy some super bright paints to cheer up my mother-in-law's living room/dining room. Her apartment is very small but also kind of depressing. Unfortunately there are several smokers living in the house, and the walls have taken on that yellow ick. I bought a light apple green for her living room and a pale yellow for her dining room. When I arrived on Friday afternoon for my weekly visit, my brother-in-law had already painted the living room green. The house had begun to take on another personality. But now she will need new curtains and a rug to match. Thus is the problem with home improvements; when one area is finished, the domino effect is sure to transpire. You can't have bright new cheerfully painted walls with a dingy carpet and sun-faded curtains, now can you?

She is nearing 80 years of age. We are not sure exactly when she was born, but her marriage certificate reads that she was 23 years of age when she married in 1952. (a veritable old maid!) While our relationship has not always been the smoothest of smooth, I have grown to understand her. I can read her face like a map. I know when she is disappointed or scared or frustrated. Her life has been one of neglect, losses, and several tragedies thrown in. She has not, however, forgotten how to smile.

Some might say that bothering to make over her house is a waste of time or money. I say, let her be happy in her home. As long as I can help make that happen, I will, inshaAllah. She has come a long way since living in the 'cave' in the Valley of the Blacksmith.

I'm off to look at curtains.

Today

My Adopted Watan

Today is Blog About Jordan Day. Here is my say.

I remember landing at the airport in June of 2000. I remember riding in the caravan of people I had only spoken to on the telephone but had never seen in person. I was naive and full of excitement, and it was all good. I remember we had left a very humid and sticky Birmingham behind, and had been transported to the magnificently cool and breezy Jordanian summer night. I remember sitting on my sister-in-law's balcony with tears in my eyes, gazing out over the green-lit masajid that dotted the scenery as far as my eyes could see.

So much has changed since my first visit in 2000, and since moving here in 2002. But it is not the availability of brown sugar in the supermarkets or the arrival of a French-owned hypermarket or the fact that I can now get high speed DSL that make me want to stick around. Nor is it (anymore) the burning need for my children to learn their father's native tongue. We speak the Arabic, we make the chocolate chip cookies, we surf the net. We can do this anywhere.

What keeps me here is hope. I feel like this place is one of the last strongholds of hope in this region. The people are amazingly tolerant, resilient, and yes, many are introspective. People here want change. Goodness can be found around every corner. When I do venture out of my house, for each and every frustration I might experience, there is an equal amount of respect and courtesy and decency to match. There can be balance here, but one must seek it. Balancing one's life in Jordan is not an easy task, but those of us who persevere--man, the fruits of our struggles are everywhere.

When those old ladies pat me with their hands that have become crooked from all of the squash they've hollowed out, saying mashaAllah alayki ya habibti; when the taxi driver refuses to take money from me because I am an American Muslim and he is happy to see me (but I always pay him); when the dukkaneh clerk lets me walk out of his store with 10 JD's worth of merchandise because I really did forget my wallet and he knows I will be back to pay him; when I sit with amazing sisters I have come to know in this city, the ones who truly hold me up; when neighbors I have not seen for months suddenly show up at my door with gifts from their travels; when my mother-in-law awakes from a surgical procedure that had her scared to pieces, and the first face she sees is mine.

Where diesel fumes and inflation cannot keep hope suppressed; where my name on my identification is mine, my father's, and a grandfather I never knew. This place of red tape and a maddening lack of infrastructure is the same place where Prophet Musa and John the Baptist and countless other men of God walked and breathed and prayed. Where bougainvilleas sprout and cannot be stopped, and thus are called crazy, crazy flowers. Where your host will feed you until you cannot breathe, then feed you some more.

It's all Jordan, my adopted watan. Here we remain.

This Song's for You

Visitor came a-callin'
To be read to the tune of Froggy Went a-Courtin'

Visitor came a-callin'
and he did smoke, m-mmm

Visitor came a-callin'
and he did smoke, m-mmm

Visitor came a-callin'
and he did smoke,
Thought my NO SMOKING sign
was just a joke.
M-mmm, m-mmm, m-mmm.

I bought new leather sofas
for the living room, m-mmm

Got new leather sofas
in my living room, m-mmm

These new leather sofas
in my living room
Aren't for your smoky smells
and your ashes of doom.
M-mmm, m-mmm, m-mmm.

Hubby too shy to tell you
please don't smoke, m-mmm.

"He's our guest," he says,
"So you'll have to cope," m-mmm.

Don't tell a guest that they can't
light up in your house
Or they'll think you are weird--
perhaps a louse.
M-mmm, m-mmm, m-mmm.

Next time, dear friend,
please step outside, m-mmm

If you want to come over,
just simply abide, m-mmm.

We like you fine, but it is just not fair
'Cause I like my house
full of purified air.
M-mmm, m-mmm, m-mmm.

Gonna make a bigger sign
for my visitors, m-mmm.

Gonna sit a skull and cross-bones
next to their plates of hors d'oeuvres, m-mmm.

I'll serve you tea and coffee day and night, my friend,
But as for smoking rules, sorry,
I just won't bend.
M-mmm, m-mmm, m-mmm.

On Measuring their Success

Two nights ago I dreamt that my oldest child scored a 90% on the Tawjihi exam. This exam is the one that students take to get out of high school, and in Jordan it basically determines the path one's life will take. At age 17. Two stupid numbers. A test score.

I woke from that dream in kind of a half-jubilant, half-panicked sweat. I was so proud of her, but at the same time, I was thinking, "Ninety? But she cannot study medicine with a 90! What happened?"

Then I needed to slap my face, three times hard--maybe even four times. Good Lord, had I actually (albeit in my dream world) let her go through the Tawjihi stream? Did I honestly lock her in her room until she had memorized 27 volumes of boring text, for months on end, not allowing her to have any semblance of a social life? Did she regurgitate all of that memorized text verbatim, allowing her to be one of the successful (or unsuccessful, depending on her family's perception of success?) Did I deny her a giant boogie-down fiesta and fireworks from the roof tops and trays of kanafeh for all of the neighbors because she, my child prodigy, only managed to squeak by with a 90? What a disappointment she is! Where have I failed as a parent?

If this all sounds ridiculous, it is because...it is. When I was a senior in high school, I was a hard working, studious type. But I also had loads of friends, loads of fun, and could not wait to start my education after high school with a clean slate and fresh attitude. Almost everyone I knew planned to go to college after graduation. My graduating class today boasts doctors, lawyers, politicians, chemical engineers, actors...just about every sort of profession one can imagine.

I remember one of my classmates who was a heavy drinker/pot smoker/general troublemaker in high school, and was prevented from walking across the stage to receive his diploma with the rest of us. He had simply failed too many classes and had to stay behind for summer school. He was not particularly smart (or was he? perhaps he just made bad choices) but was very funny and well-liked. When I went back to Alabama in 2003 for a visit, I saw his face plastered on billboards all over town. He was one of the top real estate agents in the entire state, and I believe he worked for Coldwell Banker and was in the "Million Dollar Club." He had made hundreds of thousands of dollars in a few years' time; he lived in a mansion, had a beautiful family, and was really, really happy. (or so it appeared on the billboard)

Had his high school performance or graduation exit exams been the determining factors in his career opportunities, this guy would have been shoveling dung for a living, not selling million dollar homes.

This is what I love about America. This is what I miss about America. One can sling hash on Tuesday, get a secretarial job on Thursday, and by next Fall be next in line for a managerial position or be offered a spot in a commercial or open his own restaurant or become a...whatever. Anything. It is all within reach. IT IS ALL WITHIN REACH.

How many folks were in classes with me in Grad school who had already retired from their jobs? How many self-made people do you know who possibly began their journeys in college without knowing how to write a proper paragraph or who could barely speak the English language? I know plenty! And they walked across that stage, some of them ten years later, but by God they did it. And they move on, move forward, making successes of their lives and allowing their God-given talents--that might have been laying dormant for years upon years--to be developed and polished and put to good use.

I don't believe in the way these kids have to be boxed in here. I don't believe that a sixteen year-old should choose to study either Sciences or Literature, because life will tell them that they need both. I don't believe these kids yet know what they want to do or even what they are really good at doing. I believe they need to be able to fall on their faces a few times and make some bad choices. I don't believe in scripting my children's entire lives. I don't believe in putting pressures on my kids that I myself would never have been able to bear.

I do believe kids are powerful and resilient and can do more than we give them credit for. I don't, however, believe this is what my children need. When I taught the TOEFL classes, I would always begin my first lesson by taking a poll of my students and asking them, "Who ended up studying what they really wanted to study in University?" Out of sixteen students, maybe two, but usually one, would raise a hand. The blank faces staring at me--sullen, tired faces of young people who wanted to pass an English exam so they could leave this country--spoke volumes. This country is producing droves of graduates who hate what they do, but they do what they do because the test scores determined it all. This is the worst sort of victimization--it chips away at a person and breeds regret and frustration.

This is a pivotal year for me and I have to decide what is best for my kids.

Grazin' in the Grass

So yesterday I got a wild hair and started cleaning out the back 'yard.' I was pulling weeds and trimming rose bushes and cleaning up a bunch of filth that had been deposited by weeks of rain--oh, and a big slushy snowstorm. Spring is around the bend.

Today I woke up with my eye sealed shut with gunk. I apparently got into something out there that my eye and mucous membranes aren't happy about. It happens every year; allergies go with the territory of being a gardener wannabe.

While resting a bit today I just started humming this tune, Grazin' in the Grass. My kids thought I had made it up, thought that mom's Claritin had perhaps kicked into overdrive. So in order to prove to them that I was alright and pretty sane, I did a little search for the tune. Here is a cover band's "old man" version, which I find to be pitifully hilarious. Have a laugh.



And here's the original version, by Friends of Distinction. I love the band's name, and that song sure makes me smile.



Here's to grazing in the green, green grass. Can you dig it?

Viva Helado

My husband used to be a dishwasher at a Mexican restaurant in a small Alabama town. Later, he was promoted to Chip Master. (he fried the chips and kept them in a warmer) While working at el restaurante, Señor Abu Farouq learned all about pico de gallo and salsa picante and my favorite, fried ice cream. I have not thought about fried ice cream in years, until I read this post on Outlines' blog.

I am one of those wives who can get away with making chicken quesadillas or open-faced taco salad for dinner, and serve it to her very Palestinian husband, who will look up at her with a grin. He loves Tex-Mex, Mexican, and what I now have to call "Aramex," (ha!) which are the variations of our favorites, but with little Arabic twists. (zabadi cream instead of sour cream, foul muddamas on the taco salad instead of refried beans, etc.)

Anyway, here's to multicultural food exposure at a young age. And here's a recipe for fried ice cream. Sahtain wa A'afiyah.

Fried Ice Cream Recipe courtesy Emeril Lagasse, 2001 Show: Emeril Live Episode: Ice Cream Rules
1 quart vanilla ice cream 1 cup crushed frosted cornflakes 1 cup sweetened coconut flakes, or 1 cup chopped walnuts, or 1 cup cookie crumbs 2 large eggs 2 tablespoons sugar Vegetable oil, for frying Hot chocolate sauce, optional Whipped cream, optional With an ice cream scoop, form 4 large balls of ice cream. Place on a waxed paper lined sheet and cover with plastic wrap. Freeze for at least 2 hours. In a bowl, combine the cornflake crumbs with either the coconut, walnuts or cookie crumbs (or any combination). Spread the mixture in a shallow dish. Dip the ice cream balls in the crumb mixture and freeze for 30 minutes. In a bowl, beat the eggs and sugar. Dip the coated ice cream balls into the eggs, then roll in the crumb mixture, coating completely. Freeze for 1 hour. (If necessary, or for a thicker crust, roll again in eggs and crumbs until the balls are completely coated.) Heat the oil in a large pot or fryer to 400 degrees F. One at a time, lower the balls into the oil and fry until golden brown, about 30 seconds to 1 minute. Remove from the oil and place in a dessert bowl. Drizzle with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, as desired. Repeat with the remaining ice cream.

On Angst

MashaAllah, thank you for all of your well-wishes. I have a tendency to hit the ground running too often and I typically do not listen to my biological self crying out, telling me to slow down or stop. Lately my better half, also known as my husband, has started to pick up on signals I am subconsciously sending out. This is, perhaps, what happens after sixteen years of marriage: a heightened sense of protecting the one you love from harm so that she can continue to protect and care for the four others who are our main charge in life kicks in. My husband saw me heading for a brick wall this week and made me put on the brakes. Bless him.

My dear friend Umm Abdurrahman dropped off The Kite Runner to me on Wednesday evening. I began reading on Thursday evening and finished last night. I have to say that this book is the first one in years whose characters are plaguing my thoughts, round-the-clock. I cannot get them out of my head and I feel as if I have been on a tumultuous trip to Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Northern California and back. I feel very unsettled after reading this book and I am trying to work out exactly what this feeling's source is. This, coupled with the news from Gaza last night and this morning, this perpetual slaughtering of human life, this remorseless occupation of Iraq and Palestine and Afghanistan and every other place we can conceive of where people who have already been reduced to undignified existences--hell, a fifteen minute drive from my posh little neighborhood will take me to places of poverty and a struggle for daily survival.

Today is a weight of the world mental health day.

Ouch

I'm feeling puny, and my body has requested that I rest. I am listening (for once).

When this super-sized cold sore is gone, I'll be back in business. InshaAllah.