That morning, after
fajr prayers, she felt a little uncomfortable. The heaviness of her belly had truly become burdensome; she no longer scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees, but rather would position herself in the middle of the floor, using the wet
memsaha to wipe the circumference of floor around her, then would wait for the freshly mopped area to dry before sliding herself to an unwiped space. Their kitchen was small--this process only took a quarter of an hour.
She bathed all of the boys each morning, regardless of the weather outside. Her mother had always told her that clean babies are the ones who sleep contently all morning long, so that the women can busy themselves with cleaning the home. Some mornings she would rub all of their stomachs with olive oil after bathing them, and would line them up in the bed, instructing them to take a nice long rest. Most of the time they complied.
Their house was simple: one sitting area, one bedroom, and a small kitchen. The toilet was outdoors and was utilized only when the need arose. She had always prided herself on being able to hold her
wu'du from after
fajr until
'asr prayers. That morning, however, was different. She felt a pressure and growing uneasiness. Sharp pains radiated down her left side when she tried to move too quickly or when she tried to keep from going outside to the bathroom. She felt her breathing a little labored, and decided that they boys' bath ritual would be skipped this day.
Around eleven a.m., her husband came home. He was taking a break from his morning shift downtown, where he had been directing traffic. He wanted a nice cup of very dark tea and some ka'ak made with dates. She told him that this morning she was feeling quite uncomfortable. He told her that he would be home early for lunch, and he hoped she was cooking something delicious.
"Orange lentils and salad," she thought. The jar where she kept her weekly spending money contained one small shilling.
Orange lentils and salad.
He spoiled the three boys. He loved them in the only way he knew how: spoil them, hush them, occasionally hit them. He wanted a daughter this time.
After he finished his tea, he rose from the floor and told her that he might be a little late--if the baby was coming soon, he wanted to buy some of those cigars to pass out to his friends, and perhaps some chocolate. She eyed the shilling in the jar on the counter by the sugar, and did not know how he would manage to buy anything at all. Secretly she knew that he had ways of making money that was not part of his police officer's salary. She never questioned him.
Several hours passed, and her pains began to sharpen, particularly in her left lower back. She finished her work, sewed three buttons on her husband's uniform, and fed the boys each a small bowl of
muhallabia she had made the night before with fresh goat's milk her sister had brought her. The children played quietly in the room while she lay on her left side, this time fighting back tears from the increasing discomfort in her back. She listened to the
adhan for the
dhuhr prayer as its words resonated, bouncing from her mountain to the ones opposite her. The morning was over; midday was settling in, and she began to bleed.
She stood on her feet and walked slowly to the kitchen. She took an onion and chopped it briskly into her hand with the knife, then dropped the pieces into a large pot with oil. The lentils had already been washed; she added them to the pot and poured water over them, just covering the top. The pain began to heighten, and this time her stomach tightened so that she could hardly catch her breath. Wiping tears away with her left hand, she stirred the pot with her right, adding cumin and salt and black pepper to the mixture. "There will be no time for salad, he will have to make do with bread and radishes," she thought. This time a sharp pain hit her middle with a force so hard that she fell to her knees, and the tears began to flow freely. She pulled herself to the window in the door that connected her entrance way to that of her neighbor, Umm Yousef. In between the pains she found a voice, enough to be heard.
"Umm Yousef, Umm Yousef, get the midwife," she shouted dully.
Immediately she saw her neighbor's door open, and an older woman looked in her direction. "Umm Bakr, Umm Bakr, I will be right back, lie down ya Umm Bakr, lie down."
The water in the lentil pot had begun to boil. She needed to lower the fire under it but could not move an inch; the pains had increased and were coming every few minutes. She told the boys to stay in the other room and keep playing. After five or six more pains had come and gone, Umm Yousef opened the door, accompanied by the midwife. Without hesitation, the midwife placed a hand on her tightened belly and another hand under her
dishdasha, checking for any sign of a crowning head. Umm Yousef gave the laboring mother a piece of cloth and told her to bite on it; it was nearly 'asr time and the husbands would all be coming home for their lunches. No one wanted to hear a woman screaming in agony. That was
'ayb.She agreed. She lifted her head so that her neighbor could tie the cloth tightly around her head. She began to bite down, the cloth already soaked with the unceasing tears. "There is a head," said the midwife, "now push!"
She bore down with her teeth clenching. She felt as if her insides were being ripped apart, but she did not dare make a noise. Another push, fogginess and breathlessness, another push, no rest in between, and finally another. She gasped and gagged from the tightness of the cloth in her mouth, convinced she was suffocating. She felt the room go dark and the voices of Umm Yousef and the midwife became muddled, as if they were speaking under a faucet. The warm flow of liquid ran between her legs, onto her
dishdasha , onto the wafer thin cushion on which she lay. "Ya UmmBakr, ya Umm Bakr," she heard them say. "Ya Umm Bakr, you have a girl, mashaAllah, tabarakAllah, you have a girl ya Umm Bakr."
She felt herself smile, opening her eyes to see the midwife lift a black-haired baby girl to her chest. She touched the baby's hair and listened to her cry out; Umm Yousef carried the infant to the kitchen to clean her from the filth of labor. The midwife mashed down on Umm Bakr's stomach, pushing roughly to make sure nothing had been left inside. She got two clean cloths and wiped up the area on the cushion as best as she could. She gave Umm Bakr a glass of water, and asked to be paid her three dinar fee for delivering the child. Umm Bakr looked at the shilling in the jar, on the counter by the sugar, in the kitchen where Umm Yousef stood, cleaning a screaming baby girl. She would pay her this evening, when Abu Bakr returned from his shift, she promised. The midwife agreed, said, "mabrook," and exited through the thin iron door.
Umm Yousef wrapped up the tiny girl who would be named Jameelah, and handed her to her mother, who took out her breast and tried to feed her. She tried to relax, tried to cradle and suckle the baby for several minutes. But then she remembered the soup.
Umm Bakr passed the baby gently to her neighbor, rose to her feet, walked slowly to the pot on the fire, and gave it one last stir.
Upon finishing his traffic duty and buying cigars, Abu Bakr returned home one hour later, and found waiting for him: hot orange lentil soup and a small plate of radishes.
And a daughter.
We made a big mess. I had two child helpers and one adult helper; when we got to the onions we were all crying big tears. My oldest daughter went and put on goggles, but to protect her innocent onion-induced crying face, I promised her I would not put her picture here. I might put it someplace else, however.
Parsley is a key to heart health. It makes stomach cramps go away. It tastes great and freshens the breath, and if you have any trouble in the pipe areas, it'll clean you out just fine. The only trouble with eating tabouleh in this part of the world is that the parsley must be washed very, very well. I have gotten food poisoning more than once in this fair city from eating unclean tabouleh, or from parsley that was washed with the best of intentions, but was washed with the worst water. Kind of like that Tang you don't want to drink in someone else's home, because you are not sure if they made it with tap water or not. 
