Showing posts with label Mothers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mothers. Show all posts
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Walking for a Cure
My dear friend in Seattle, WA, will walk 60 miles in three days this coming September, to raise money for breast cancer research. Her Aunt passed away last month at the young age of 50; breast cancer was the cause. Please visit her page and donate. Help her reach her goal.
My mother is a breast cancer survivor and has been cancer free for over seven years. She used to go for radiation treatments on her lunch break, then return to work in a busy, high-stress office environment. My mom is sixty-seven years old , but runs an office like a young university graduate. She is a strong, determined woman, who by the will of God discovered she had breast cancer when it was in its early stages.
At age 35, I have already had a base-line mammogram and sonogram, and will continue to do so each year. Not every woman has the means to do this, however; we must make our health care affordable and accessible! We must put ourselves first on our lists.
Go view my buddy's page. Each one of us can contribute to finding a cure for breast cancer--this taker of mothers, wives, and daughters.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Bad for the Eyes, Good for the Thighs
This is a lengthy post and I've written it more for myself, for proof of my sacrificing ways. I might need this later when the kids are older.
This morning my eyes look like little squinty slits.
Yesterday was a prime example of the difficulty one may face when planning for any sort of semi-formal event in Jordan. The forty-five year old brother-in-law who is finally cutting the proverbial apron strings and embarking on a new life as a husband is/was the catalyst for all of yesterday's mayhem.
My search for tasteful clothing to wear to his wedding began two days ago, when I ventured out alone to a smaller mall that is known for having decent prices and a good selection. The first thing I tried on, I thought, "I can make this work. I can live with this," but the price made me choke and gag because the quality was just not there! I left without making any purchases related to my reason for shopping; I did buy an iced coffee for myself and a dozen donuts for my kids.
Yesterday's quest began early. I was at the mall when its doors opened. I found a store that sells only high-end Turkish clothing. The sales gal was very helpful, and I was ecstatic she was not a smoking man. She asked me my size. I told her. She gathered all sorts of outfits that were lovely and tasteful. I tried the first one on. It was not my size. I tried the second; again, not my size. I gave them back to her. She asked again, politely, what my size was. I added four additional numbers to the original size I had told her. (It's alright; I needed a reality check.) She brought my back the same clothing in my 'new' size. The first thing I tried on worked. She was honest. She did not make me feel like an old hag, complimented me on my bleach-stained sports pants she saw hanging on the hook, and asked me if I'd teach her English. She found my Arabic "cute" and "entertaining." I found her helpfulness absolutely priceless. Cha-ching, purchase made. And a fez tip to the Turkish, who know how ladies are built.
I quickly found shoes to match, jumped in the car and stopped by the supermarket. I ran home and put on the beginnings of lunch, ran back out and picked up child #4 from pre-school, then ran back home to check on lunch, then ran back out to pick up child #3 from her school. I drank three glasses of water and waited for the other kids to arrive.
Once lunch was finished and everyone was home, it was time to get ready for baseball practice, where they were having a good-bye gathering for one of the players and his Dad, who is also one of the coaches. Such is the life of embassy employee ex-pat types, who are bound to be re-assigned to new places. I left the Lone Ranger at practice and took the three girls to find shoes for the little ones and an entire outfit for the older one. We lucked out at "Special Italian Shoes," a store whose name always makes me laugh, as if the shoes are somehow learning disabled--either that or the shoes are for learning disabled Italians. The little girls were finished, with outfits completed, since their aunt had already sent them beautiful dresses from America several months back. Way to think ahead, sister!
This left the Lone Ranger and Oldest Daughter. She is in that in-between stage where she is young enough to be called a "girl" but old enough to wear something a bit mature. We walked and walked and walked, roaming in and out of stores carrying the most tasteless clothing. When we did find something suitable, it was either too big or too 'old.' Fruitless.
It was time to pick up Lone Ranger from practice/pizza party sendoff. We found him sweaty and full of pizza. We drove home, dropped off the two girls whose task had been completed, and flew to the nearest mall we had not yet visited. We found Oldest Daughter's ensemble in an American store whose clothing line is well-known and who just so happened to be having a sale, reducing its prices to almost affordable. She looked like a princess and I had to turn away quickly and bite my lip to fight back tears. By this time my bleach-stained sports pants were soaked with sweat, because we had literally been running for hours on end.
Three down, one to go. We meandered from store to store, trying to find a simple outfit for the boy. Everything was either for preschoolers or gelled teenagers, of which my son is neither. Farouq was limping from having pulled a muscle at practice, and he said he'd wear his old jeans to the wedding--he just did not care. I persisted. Finally I found myself drawn to a suit store. I asked the man if he carried suits for boys. He told me he did not, but a neighboring mall did, and he even knew which floor it was on. Thank you, helpful suit store man.
Back in the car, to a different mall. By this time it was already past my kids' bedtime. I was feeling shaky. We rounded the corner of the food court and found the store the man had described. I saw the prices hanging from the suits and was taken aback but I told the man, "We want a suit for my son." We found a beautiful grey one. Shirt, tie, everything. Alterations being done today, will pick up this evening. He looked so handsome standing there in his baseball cap, dirt-stained face, and brand new suit. Again, I fought back tears. The salesman felt sorry for me. I asked him if he had any idea how much money I had shelled out since 10 a.m. that day, just to get myself and four kids ready for a two-and-a-half hour event. He knocked an additional 30 JD off the price.
Today I have the remnants to buy--shoes for the boy, some accessories. Oldest Daughter kept telling me, "Remember, it's for Uncle Akram." But it really isn't. It's for them. Me. Us.
Thighs are aching, eyes are squinty, but we're going to look smashing.
This morning my eyes look like little squinty slits.
Yesterday was a prime example of the difficulty one may face when planning for any sort of semi-formal event in Jordan. The forty-five year old brother-in-law who is finally cutting the proverbial apron strings and embarking on a new life as a husband is/was the catalyst for all of yesterday's mayhem.
My search for tasteful clothing to wear to his wedding began two days ago, when I ventured out alone to a smaller mall that is known for having decent prices and a good selection. The first thing I tried on, I thought, "I can make this work. I can live with this," but the price made me choke and gag because the quality was just not there! I left without making any purchases related to my reason for shopping; I did buy an iced coffee for myself and a dozen donuts for my kids.
Yesterday's quest began early. I was at the mall when its doors opened. I found a store that sells only high-end Turkish clothing. The sales gal was very helpful, and I was ecstatic she was not a smoking man. She asked me my size. I told her. She gathered all sorts of outfits that were lovely and tasteful. I tried the first one on. It was not my size. I tried the second; again, not my size. I gave them back to her. She asked again, politely, what my size was. I added four additional numbers to the original size I had told her. (It's alright; I needed a reality check.) She brought my back the same clothing in my 'new' size. The first thing I tried on worked. She was honest. She did not make me feel like an old hag, complimented me on my bleach-stained sports pants she saw hanging on the hook, and asked me if I'd teach her English. She found my Arabic "cute" and "entertaining." I found her helpfulness absolutely priceless. Cha-ching, purchase made. And a fez tip to the Turkish, who know how ladies are built.
I quickly found shoes to match, jumped in the car and stopped by the supermarket. I ran home and put on the beginnings of lunch, ran back out and picked up child #4 from pre-school, then ran back home to check on lunch, then ran back out to pick up child #3 from her school. I drank three glasses of water and waited for the other kids to arrive.
Once lunch was finished and everyone was home, it was time to get ready for baseball practice, where they were having a good-bye gathering for one of the players and his Dad, who is also one of the coaches. Such is the life of embassy employee ex-pat types, who are bound to be re-assigned to new places. I left the Lone Ranger at practice and took the three girls to find shoes for the little ones and an entire outfit for the older one. We lucked out at "Special Italian Shoes," a store whose name always makes me laugh, as if the shoes are somehow learning disabled--either that or the shoes are for learning disabled Italians. The little girls were finished, with outfits completed, since their aunt had already sent them beautiful dresses from America several months back. Way to think ahead, sister!
This left the Lone Ranger and Oldest Daughter. She is in that in-between stage where she is young enough to be called a "girl" but old enough to wear something a bit mature. We walked and walked and walked, roaming in and out of stores carrying the most tasteless clothing. When we did find something suitable, it was either too big or too 'old.' Fruitless.
It was time to pick up Lone Ranger from practice/pizza party sendoff. We found him sweaty and full of pizza. We drove home, dropped off the two girls whose task had been completed, and flew to the nearest mall we had not yet visited. We found Oldest Daughter's ensemble in an American store whose clothing line is well-known and who just so happened to be having a sale, reducing its prices to almost affordable. She looked like a princess and I had to turn away quickly and bite my lip to fight back tears. By this time my bleach-stained sports pants were soaked with sweat, because we had literally been running for hours on end.
Three down, one to go. We meandered from store to store, trying to find a simple outfit for the boy. Everything was either for preschoolers or gelled teenagers, of which my son is neither. Farouq was limping from having pulled a muscle at practice, and he said he'd wear his old jeans to the wedding--he just did not care. I persisted. Finally I found myself drawn to a suit store. I asked the man if he carried suits for boys. He told me he did not, but a neighboring mall did, and he even knew which floor it was on. Thank you, helpful suit store man.
Back in the car, to a different mall. By this time it was already past my kids' bedtime. I was feeling shaky. We rounded the corner of the food court and found the store the man had described. I saw the prices hanging from the suits and was taken aback but I told the man, "We want a suit for my son." We found a beautiful grey one. Shirt, tie, everything. Alterations being done today, will pick up this evening. He looked so handsome standing there in his baseball cap, dirt-stained face, and brand new suit. Again, I fought back tears. The salesman felt sorry for me. I asked him if he had any idea how much money I had shelled out since 10 a.m. that day, just to get myself and four kids ready for a two-and-a-half hour event. He knocked an additional 30 JD off the price.
Today I have the remnants to buy--shoes for the boy, some accessories. Oldest Daughter kept telling me, "Remember, it's for Uncle Akram." But it really isn't. It's for them. Me. Us.
Thighs are aching, eyes are squinty, but we're going to look smashing.
Monday, March 31, 2008
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.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Push Me-Pull You
Did you ever read the original Dr. Dolittle ? Do you remember that animal, the push-me-pull-you, who had a head at each end of his body? I feel like that creature sometimes, mainly because I often don't know which way I am headed and I feel like the middle of an enormous tug-o-war game.
This week, I was offered a teaching gig at the Jordanian Institute for Diplomacy. While that title may sound oxymoronic, it's a good job that pays well and would not demand *much* time from me.
As much as I wanted to say 'yes,' I had to decline. There is really no place I like better than standing in front of a classroom. But I do know how I become when I'm working. I want to focus most of my attention on my work; I become irritable at home because I have the home responsibilities driving me at full speed ahead in addition to whatever I'm doing outside of the house. I have done it for periods of time during my married/mothering life, and sometimes with less than desirable results, i.e., total burnout. I suppose that what I crave is that mental stimulation, that feeling I get when someone else acknowledges that I am not just a cooker of meals and cleaner of dust bunnies.
I have four children. They need me.
So for now, I just sit back and contemplate that my window of opportunity may be around the corner, as the kids are growing older and I have no plans (Allah knows best) to add to this unit. I sit and pray for a time when I have my chance, when there is a time of ease and I don't feel like a two-headed (or two-butted) animal who cannot identify her direction but who feels a pull of something inside, urging her to take flight.
This week, I was offered a teaching gig at the Jordanian Institute for Diplomacy. While that title may sound oxymoronic, it's a good job that pays well and would not demand *much* time from me.
As much as I wanted to say 'yes,' I had to decline. There is really no place I like better than standing in front of a classroom. But I do know how I become when I'm working. I want to focus most of my attention on my work; I become irritable at home because I have the home responsibilities driving me at full speed ahead in addition to whatever I'm doing outside of the house. I have done it for periods of time during my married/mothering life, and sometimes with less than desirable results, i.e., total burnout. I suppose that what I crave is that mental stimulation, that feeling I get when someone else acknowledges that I am not just a cooker of meals and cleaner of dust bunnies.
I have four children. They need me.
So for now, I just sit back and contemplate that my window of opportunity may be around the corner, as the kids are growing older and I have no plans (Allah knows best) to add to this unit. I sit and pray for a time when I have my chance, when there is a time of ease and I don't feel like a two-headed (or two-butted) animal who cannot identify her direction but who feels a pull of something inside, urging her to take flight.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A Mom's Cordial Request
Dearest Children,
I love you all so much.
But please, if you feel the need to throw up, consider the following:
1. Try to already be in or near the bathroom when the feeling overtakes you. Stomach acid, I've found, can penetrate marble floors, leaving them with the "splattered" look, long after they've been cleaned.
2. Don't drink a 1/2 gallon of chocolate milk just hours before needing to vomit. Sour milk is bad enough, but milk + Nesquik + digestive juices = most unpleasantness.
3. If Mom or Dad put a bucket near your bed and line your carpet with plastic just in case you feel the need to regurgitate during the night, TRY to at least aim your spillage in the bucket or on the plastic. How it makes it across the room to your sleeping sibling is beyond our comprehension.
4. Try, just try to not plan your illnesses on the same days that your parents want to take a trip or have very special out of town guests coming to visit.
5. Mama will always be there to hold you up, put a cold or warm cloth on your head, and give you 7-Up.
Vomit: It's an undeniable part of life's experiences.
I love you all so much.
But please, if you feel the need to throw up, consider the following:
1. Try to already be in or near the bathroom when the feeling overtakes you. Stomach acid, I've found, can penetrate marble floors, leaving them with the "splattered" look, long after they've been cleaned.
2. Don't drink a 1/2 gallon of chocolate milk just hours before needing to vomit. Sour milk is bad enough, but milk + Nesquik + digestive juices = most unpleasantness.
3. If Mom or Dad put a bucket near your bed and line your carpet with plastic just in case you feel the need to regurgitate during the night, TRY to at least aim your spillage in the bucket or on the plastic. How it makes it across the room to your sleeping sibling is beyond our comprehension.
4. Try, just try to not plan your illnesses on the same days that your parents want to take a trip or have very special out of town guests coming to visit.
5. Mama will always be there to hold you up, put a cold or warm cloth on your head, and give you 7-Up.
Vomit: It's an undeniable part of life's experiences.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Untitled
The best way to remember how to spell the word definitely is to identify its root, which is finite, meaning,
1. having definite or definable limits; "a finite number of possiblities;" Etymology: Middle English finit, from Latin finitus, past participle of finire
Date: 15th century
This is one of the most commonly misspelled words I read, daily. There is no "a" to be found in it.
Do schools even bother to teach etymologies anymore? How about the fine art of lexical knowledge? Do we care about building our vocabularies, or are we content accepting our condemnation to the texting universe of CU LTR and H R U? I, for one, say "No!" (or is there an abbreviation for that these days?)
I am on the cusp of having to make some big decisions about my children's education here in Jordan. I want them to be proficient in my mother tongue, not just spitting out words, but writing with confidence and clarity. The old paper-and-pen write till your wrists ache exercises that helped me to not be a moron are lost on them here. I question whether or not they will accept instruction from me; I have always been able to teach others' children but not my own. Am I alone in this way? Any hints to help me help my kids be interested in writing well?
I definitely have some planning to do.
1. having definite or definable limits; "a finite number of possiblities;" Etymology: Middle English finit, from Latin finitus, past participle of finire
Date: 15th century
This is one of the most commonly misspelled words I read, daily. There is no "a" to be found in it.
Do schools even bother to teach etymologies anymore? How about the fine art of lexical knowledge? Do we care about building our vocabularies, or are we content accepting our condemnation to the texting universe of CU LTR and H R U? I, for one, say "No!" (or is there an abbreviation for that these days?)
I am on the cusp of having to make some big decisions about my children's education here in Jordan. I want them to be proficient in my mother tongue, not just spitting out words, but writing with confidence and clarity. The old paper-and-pen write till your wrists ache exercises that helped me to not be a moron are lost on them here. I question whether or not they will accept instruction from me; I have always been able to teach others' children but not my own. Am I alone in this way? Any hints to help me help my kids be interested in writing well?
I definitely have some planning to do.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Let them be kids and go give them a hug
Today marks the beginning of the last 10 days of Ramadan. The month has truly flown by. I have totally plugged-up ears due to this nasty cold, and it's almost 90 degrees outside. There is not much worse than a horrendous upper respiratory infection in the heat. I have been rather irritable the past few days and probably not the friendliest mom, wife, or friend on the block.
My kids are having exams because the relentless school system here does not cut anyone some slack while fasting in nearly summer temperatures, staying up late with family, praying, reading Qu'ran, etc. Nope, no breaks. I told my kids last night I don't care what kind of scores they get this time, and I mean it. I want them to be happy and relaxed and enjoy these final days of Ramadan, and get ready for the coming of the Eid holiday.
Today I passed by my buddy Um Tareq's house. She had called me this morning but I silenced the phone, trying to catch up on some sleep. So later on, I dropped by to see what she needed. She had been crying, and told me that her son who goes to my kids' school came home yesterday and told her that one of his classmates, an 11th grader, passed away. He had a headache and was taken to the hospital yesterday morning. His blood pressure was high. The nurse checked his pressure, left the room, and came back in to find him gone. Inna li lahhi wa inna ilayhi raji'oon; To God we belong and to Him we return. Sixteen years old, and had memorized the entire Qu'ran. Sixteen years old, and his parents buried him yesterday at 'asr time.
So Um Tareq and I were wondering, what was the last thing his mother or father might have said to him? Were they worried about his grades? Were they hassling him about something he might have done, or forgotten to do? Did they tell him, on a daily basis, how much he meant to them? How proud they were of the young man he had grown into, in a time where the world is full of sorry young men? Did they remind him regularly how much of a light he was in their home, bringing them joy and happiness and making them grateful for being his parents?
What did I say to my kids before I dropped them off this morning, or before they went to sleep last night?
I'm waiting on my two older ones to walk in the door. When they do, I'm going to shower them with affection and make them some brownies. And I'm going to continue to remind myself, inshaAllah, to show them how precious they are, every day.
Update: Five busloads of teachers and students from the deceased Muhammad Ghazali's school went to pay their condolences to his family yesterday. It was there they learned that the cause of death was a cerebral aneurysm, and he had been suffering from a terrible headache for the entire day prior to his death. He tried to get through a math exam but could not. The morning he passed away, he was fasting. This family has a surviving daughter in University who has also memorized the entire Qu'ran, and another son at Ridwan school who has memorized 20 juz' thus far. May Allah give them strength and patience during this time of grief. May Allah preserve in us the ability to raise our children right and to be ever-conscious of the fleetingness of this life.
My kids are having exams because the relentless school system here does not cut anyone some slack while fasting in nearly summer temperatures, staying up late with family, praying, reading Qu'ran, etc. Nope, no breaks. I told my kids last night I don't care what kind of scores they get this time, and I mean it. I want them to be happy and relaxed and enjoy these final days of Ramadan, and get ready for the coming of the Eid holiday.
Today I passed by my buddy Um Tareq's house. She had called me this morning but I silenced the phone, trying to catch up on some sleep. So later on, I dropped by to see what she needed. She had been crying, and told me that her son who goes to my kids' school came home yesterday and told her that one of his classmates, an 11th grader, passed away. He had a headache and was taken to the hospital yesterday morning. His blood pressure was high. The nurse checked his pressure, left the room, and came back in to find him gone. Inna li lahhi wa inna ilayhi raji'oon; To God we belong and to Him we return. Sixteen years old, and had memorized the entire Qu'ran. Sixteen years old, and his parents buried him yesterday at 'asr time.
So Um Tareq and I were wondering, what was the last thing his mother or father might have said to him? Were they worried about his grades? Were they hassling him about something he might have done, or forgotten to do? Did they tell him, on a daily basis, how much he meant to them? How proud they were of the young man he had grown into, in a time where the world is full of sorry young men? Did they remind him regularly how much of a light he was in their home, bringing them joy and happiness and making them grateful for being his parents?
What did I say to my kids before I dropped them off this morning, or before they went to sleep last night?
I'm waiting on my two older ones to walk in the door. When they do, I'm going to shower them with affection and make them some brownies. And I'm going to continue to remind myself, inshaAllah, to show them how precious they are, every day.
Update: Five busloads of teachers and students from the deceased Muhammad Ghazali's school went to pay their condolences to his family yesterday. It was there they learned that the cause of death was a cerebral aneurysm, and he had been suffering from a terrible headache for the entire day prior to his death. He tried to get through a math exam but could not. The morning he passed away, he was fasting. This family has a surviving daughter in University who has also memorized the entire Qu'ran, and another son at Ridwan school who has memorized 20 juz' thus far. May Allah give them strength and patience during this time of grief. May Allah preserve in us the ability to raise our children right and to be ever-conscious of the fleetingness of this life.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Videorama
Today I dug out the video camera that we bought in 1996, I believe. It's old, outdated, and plain, but it still works.
I hooked the camera up to the TV and popped in the old cassettes that I had labeled willy-nilly "Jordan 2003" and "Stacy and Hayfa." I had no idea what the tapes actually had recorded on them.
The first one was all kinds of footage of my third child, who is now five. She did not ask to have a little sister born right after her, so she got just a little bit of time in the limelight, and is kind of the 'middle child' who is sometimes, not purposefully, neglected.
She kept telling me while watching all of the scenes featuring her as the center of attention how nice my voice was with her. She also made the comment how happy I seemed (although I was living in a third world country without my spouse and struggling through each day), and how she'd so love to go back to being a baby.
Hmmm.
Although the shots of my family with just two girls and one boy (sans the fourth child, she wasn't around yet) to me seem incomplete, I think child #3 made some valid points.
I was more relaxed. I smiled more. I cared less about what the house looked like and focused more on the kids. I was twenty-five pounds lighter. I was more relaxed. I smiled more. All throughout the three hours of video.
I think Mama needs to re-group, prioritize, and calm down.
Some of my favorite moments on the video are in the Great Smokey Mountains in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. That was the last time I went back to the states to see my homies. Two thousand and three, the year of our Lord. I have footage of us at the fabulous aquarium, at Laurel Falls where we took a long, beautiful hike, and other great spots. If you can get to the Smokey Mountains, do so, now. What a wonderful place.
I also watched my now 89 year-old grandmother sit and swing in her immaculately manicured yard with my then youngest, and ask me if she had chicken in her teeth. (We had just eaten Chic-Fil-A sandwiches) Yum.
I think a trip home is in order, I just don't know how, or when.
Tomorrow, however, I'm going to practice being sweet to everyone and to let some not-so-important things slide. I owe it to the family. I owe it to myself.
I hooked the camera up to the TV and popped in the old cassettes that I had labeled willy-nilly "Jordan 2003" and "Stacy and Hayfa." I had no idea what the tapes actually had recorded on them.
The first one was all kinds of footage of my third child, who is now five. She did not ask to have a little sister born right after her, so she got just a little bit of time in the limelight, and is kind of the 'middle child' who is sometimes, not purposefully, neglected.
She kept telling me while watching all of the scenes featuring her as the center of attention how nice my voice was with her. She also made the comment how happy I seemed (although I was living in a third world country without my spouse and struggling through each day), and how she'd so love to go back to being a baby.
Hmmm.
Although the shots of my family with just two girls and one boy (sans the fourth child, she wasn't around yet) to me seem incomplete, I think child #3 made some valid points.
I was more relaxed. I smiled more. I cared less about what the house looked like and focused more on the kids. I was twenty-five pounds lighter. I was more relaxed. I smiled more. All throughout the three hours of video.
I think Mama needs to re-group, prioritize, and calm down.
Some of my favorite moments on the video are in the Great Smokey Mountains in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. That was the last time I went back to the states to see my homies. Two thousand and three, the year of our Lord. I have footage of us at the fabulous aquarium, at Laurel Falls where we took a long, beautiful hike, and other great spots. If you can get to the Smokey Mountains, do so, now. What a wonderful place.
I also watched my now 89 year-old grandmother sit and swing in her immaculately manicured yard with my then youngest, and ask me if she had chicken in her teeth. (We had just eaten Chic-Fil-A sandwiches) Yum.
I think a trip home is in order, I just don't know how, or when.
Tomorrow, however, I'm going to practice being sweet to everyone and to let some not-so-important things slide. I owe it to the family. I owe it to myself.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The Mother's Love, The Test from Allah
Once, many years ago when I had just two small children, ages four and two, I was standing in line at the post office. Behind me I heard Arabic being spoken, and I turned around to see a lovely older woman and her daughter conversing. I was not sure if they were Muslim or not, but I gave it a shot, and said softly, "Assalamu Alaikum."
The lovely older woman paused, smiled, and returned my greeting. We began chatting in line, and I learned that she was from Egypt but had lived in Alabama for over twenty five years. Her husband was a well-known physician and her two daughters were both nurses. She, Layla, had a very warm personality and soothing voice. She took my phone number to give to her other daughter who was closer in age to me and worked as an obstetric nurse at a prominent Catholic hospital.
Within days, her daughter called me. We had a lot in common and 'hit it off' instantly. She was a few years older and had one daughter, but was divorced and living with her parents. She invited me to come over one evening, and I agreed.
I really was not expecting the house to be as palatial as it was. When we drove up, my daughter exclaimed, "Oh Mama, is this a castle!?" I remember taking my shoes off as I normally do when entering a Muslim family's home, and she and her mother thought that was hilarious. These were Louis Vuitton kind of hosts, and I was, well, a TJ Maxx sort of visitor.
What struck me the most inside the home were the dozens and dozens of pictures and portraits dedicated to the little princess of the house, my friend's daughter, also named Layla, after her grandmother. Layla's face was everywhere--cascading black curls tied in bows, Layla on Santa's lap, Layla in her ballerina costume, Layla smiling with her angelic seven-year old smile, confident in her status as the apple of every one's eye. My daughter played in her wonderland bedroom with brilliant murals on the walls and every toy or gadget a child could ask for.
All of the opulence in their home was a reminder that they were living the American dream, having come from Egypt, a poor nation where it is hard to make it out of whatever rank or class you are born into. They had made it, and done so in style, with flash and class and, yes, pomp.
When my mother in law came to visit us for the first time, they invited us out to lunch. We showed up at the restaurant in our jilbabs, they arrived in the finest, trendiest clothing. My Arabic was so-so at the time, and I had a hard time keeping up with their Egyptian dialect. I remember my mother in law feeling kind of out of place with them, so during her long visit with us I did not push her to hang out with them much.
Eventually, my friend and I kind of lost touch. I started Graduate school and got busy with other things. As much as I liked my friend, my inability to just see her as a fellow Muslimah and not someone 'lost' or 'misguided' clouded my vision. This is something that being a Muslim for a long time, instead of being in the newbie Muslim judgmental phase, helps us with, inshaAllah. I would find later that my friend was not just about handbags and expensive shoes. Muslimahs not wearing hijab or living in big fancy houses and having parents who want to forget the 'old country' to some extent and create new lives, join country clubs, or whatever the case may be, are still our sisters. Treat them as such--reach out to them. Burning bridges does nothing but leave you with charred soil and broken foundations. How long does it take to learn this lesson, sisters? But, I digress.
I was newly pregnant with my third child, in the throes of the morning sickness phase. I had spent the night at my mother's house because she had needed me to drive her to an early morning appointment at the hospital. I stuck around her house to have some breakfast (her cabinets are always full of treats) and sit and make a list of things to do for the day. I received a phone call from my husband that someone in the community had passed away and needed washing. He told me to call Br. Ashfaq, who had more information.
I called Br. Ashfaq. He said that an Egyptian family I did not know who was away from Islam and not active in the community had suffered a terrible accident, and that the deceased needed washing. He asked me if I could do it. I told him I would, but being newly pregnant and kind of ill, I would need some help. At that time, I had washed two Muslimahs, alhamdulillah.
I got myself ready and called the other sisters I needed to help me. They kept saying, "Who are these people?" and I said I did not know.
On the way to the funeral home, it hit me. Egyptian family. No one knows them. Away from Islam. Could it be my friend's family, I wondered.
I pulled into the parking lot. I walked into the main door of the funeral home. I saw my friend standing there, weeping. She shouted my name and ran to me. It was her daughter, Layla, who had been in the accident. Layla, the center of her life.
What was most difficult about this precious child's life coming to an end was the circumstance in which it happened. Layla had been bugging her grandmother to buy her a racquetball set. Her grandmother presented her with the gift she wanted, but Layla wanted to try it out immediately. Her mother, my friend, was upstairs on the phone with a call from work. The grandmother told Layla to go put the ball and racquets in the garage. The grandmother had to leave, so she climbed into her Lincoln Navigator and began backing out of the long driveway.
She did not see little Layla behind her. She knocked her down with the car and ran over her with the vehicle's right back wheel. When she realized what she had done, she threw the car into 'park' and jumped out, screaming, calling to her daughter to call for help. The entire weight of the car was sitting on the child's chest. She did not know if she should try to roll back over her or leave the tire in place. This dear lady was so shocked and horrified at what was happening--there was her precious granddaughter, stuck under the weight of an enormous vehicle.
The fire department arrived within minutes. They lifted the car off of the child. They began to treat her, putting her into the back of the ambulance. Everything was happening so fast. The child's chest had been crushed. She was not conscious.
She died before reaching Children's Hospital.
Ya Allah! The love that was so obvious between my friend and her mother who had taken the life of the most beloved thing to them all was something to bring me to my knees. There was no blame. My friend must have told her mother five hundred times how much she loved her. It was an accident. This child was taken back to her Creator. This family had to come together, had to grieve properly, had to love one another, had to keep standing.
Layla did not look like anything but an innocent, beautiful creature. We washed her and shrouded her and perfumed her with camphor, with her mother and grandmother watching, weeping silently, reciting Quran that perhaps had been buried in their deepest memories but sprang forth effortlessly as they held each other.
Their house had been a monument to this child. Now, she was gone.
For months, every night when I closed my eyes, I saw Layla's face. My friend told me that she was looking forward to getting back to work, delivering babies, helping to bring life into this world with her more thorough--and of course sorrowful--understanding of how precious, how fleeting, this life is.
I think of this family often. I hope they are well. I will never forget that beautiful child and the lesson her passing taught me.
The lovely older woman paused, smiled, and returned my greeting. We began chatting in line, and I learned that she was from Egypt but had lived in Alabama for over twenty five years. Her husband was a well-known physician and her two daughters were both nurses. She, Layla, had a very warm personality and soothing voice. She took my phone number to give to her other daughter who was closer in age to me and worked as an obstetric nurse at a prominent Catholic hospital.
Within days, her daughter called me. We had a lot in common and 'hit it off' instantly. She was a few years older and had one daughter, but was divorced and living with her parents. She invited me to come over one evening, and I agreed.
I really was not expecting the house to be as palatial as it was. When we drove up, my daughter exclaimed, "Oh Mama, is this a castle!?" I remember taking my shoes off as I normally do when entering a Muslim family's home, and she and her mother thought that was hilarious. These were Louis Vuitton kind of hosts, and I was, well, a TJ Maxx sort of visitor.
What struck me the most inside the home were the dozens and dozens of pictures and portraits dedicated to the little princess of the house, my friend's daughter, also named Layla, after her grandmother. Layla's face was everywhere--cascading black curls tied in bows, Layla on Santa's lap, Layla in her ballerina costume, Layla smiling with her angelic seven-year old smile, confident in her status as the apple of every one's eye. My daughter played in her wonderland bedroom with brilliant murals on the walls and every toy or gadget a child could ask for.
All of the opulence in their home was a reminder that they were living the American dream, having come from Egypt, a poor nation where it is hard to make it out of whatever rank or class you are born into. They had made it, and done so in style, with flash and class and, yes, pomp.
When my mother in law came to visit us for the first time, they invited us out to lunch. We showed up at the restaurant in our jilbabs, they arrived in the finest, trendiest clothing. My Arabic was so-so at the time, and I had a hard time keeping up with their Egyptian dialect. I remember my mother in law feeling kind of out of place with them, so during her long visit with us I did not push her to hang out with them much.
Eventually, my friend and I kind of lost touch. I started Graduate school and got busy with other things. As much as I liked my friend, my inability to just see her as a fellow Muslimah and not someone 'lost' or 'misguided' clouded my vision. This is something that being a Muslim for a long time, instead of being in the newbie Muslim judgmental phase, helps us with, inshaAllah. I would find later that my friend was not just about handbags and expensive shoes. Muslimahs not wearing hijab or living in big fancy houses and having parents who want to forget the 'old country' to some extent and create new lives, join country clubs, or whatever the case may be, are still our sisters. Treat them as such--reach out to them. Burning bridges does nothing but leave you with charred soil and broken foundations. How long does it take to learn this lesson, sisters? But, I digress.
I was newly pregnant with my third child, in the throes of the morning sickness phase. I had spent the night at my mother's house because she had needed me to drive her to an early morning appointment at the hospital. I stuck around her house to have some breakfast (her cabinets are always full of treats) and sit and make a list of things to do for the day. I received a phone call from my husband that someone in the community had passed away and needed washing. He told me to call Br. Ashfaq, who had more information.
I called Br. Ashfaq. He said that an Egyptian family I did not know who was away from Islam and not active in the community had suffered a terrible accident, and that the deceased needed washing. He asked me if I could do it. I told him I would, but being newly pregnant and kind of ill, I would need some help. At that time, I had washed two Muslimahs, alhamdulillah.
I got myself ready and called the other sisters I needed to help me. They kept saying, "Who are these people?" and I said I did not know.
On the way to the funeral home, it hit me. Egyptian family. No one knows them. Away from Islam. Could it be my friend's family, I wondered.
I pulled into the parking lot. I walked into the main door of the funeral home. I saw my friend standing there, weeping. She shouted my name and ran to me. It was her daughter, Layla, who had been in the accident. Layla, the center of her life.
What was most difficult about this precious child's life coming to an end was the circumstance in which it happened. Layla had been bugging her grandmother to buy her a racquetball set. Her grandmother presented her with the gift she wanted, but Layla wanted to try it out immediately. Her mother, my friend, was upstairs on the phone with a call from work. The grandmother told Layla to go put the ball and racquets in the garage. The grandmother had to leave, so she climbed into her Lincoln Navigator and began backing out of the long driveway.
She did not see little Layla behind her. She knocked her down with the car and ran over her with the vehicle's right back wheel. When she realized what she had done, she threw the car into 'park' and jumped out, screaming, calling to her daughter to call for help. The entire weight of the car was sitting on the child's chest. She did not know if she should try to roll back over her or leave the tire in place. This dear lady was so shocked and horrified at what was happening--there was her precious granddaughter, stuck under the weight of an enormous vehicle.
The fire department arrived within minutes. They lifted the car off of the child. They began to treat her, putting her into the back of the ambulance. Everything was happening so fast. The child's chest had been crushed. She was not conscious.
She died before reaching Children's Hospital.
Ya Allah! The love that was so obvious between my friend and her mother who had taken the life of the most beloved thing to them all was something to bring me to my knees. There was no blame. My friend must have told her mother five hundred times how much she loved her. It was an accident. This child was taken back to her Creator. This family had to come together, had to grieve properly, had to love one another, had to keep standing.
Layla did not look like anything but an innocent, beautiful creature. We washed her and shrouded her and perfumed her with camphor, with her mother and grandmother watching, weeping silently, reciting Quran that perhaps had been buried in their deepest memories but sprang forth effortlessly as they held each other.
Their house had been a monument to this child. Now, she was gone.
For months, every night when I closed my eyes, I saw Layla's face. My friend told me that she was looking forward to getting back to work, delivering babies, helping to bring life into this world with her more thorough--and of course sorrowful--understanding of how precious, how fleeting, this life is.
I think of this family often. I hope they are well. I will never forget that beautiful child and the lesson her passing taught me.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Making of a Van Gogh (Ears in Tact)
by Daughter, age 11
by Son, age 9I told Izzy Mo a while back that I would post pictures of the artwork my children did during the long winter break we had here in Amman.
I am a parent who loathes the television's ability to suck all of the creative juices out of my children's heads. Years ago my husband informed me we were going to get rid of the TV and replace it with an aquarium. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. The TV stayed.
Amman + Winter --> AmmanWinterDreariness +/- Bored Kids = Adult Lunacy
I'm sure that somewhere in the science texts, this is a proven equation.
I went down to one of the local art supply stores owned by an Arab-American lady I met at the mall several years ago. She had been raised in New York City and knew that moving to Amman with her children meant that they would have little or no access to Elmer's Glue. This, she said, was unacceptable. She and her husband opened an art supply store and I am one happy parent because of it.
They sell the good stuff--oil paints, easels, model train and car sets, little furry trees you can stick on a project for school, etc. They sell small canvases for 1.25 JD and good acrylic paints for around 7 JD. For less than $15, your children can spend time creating.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Could I Borrow that Megaphone?
I never really understood sibling rivalry, being the youngest of four children. The closest sibling in age to me is nine years older, then another ten years older, and the oldest is twelve years older than I am. They did not pick on me. They did not fight with me. I was not jealous of my brother or sisters, ever. If anything, they spoiled me and doted on me. I think I might have been rotten at some point in my childhood.
Now as a mother, I have a house full of kids who can fight. And I mean the tackle-one-another-to-the-ground type of hand to hand combat. They are extremely jealous of one another sometimes, and I cannot understand it. I, like my mother, have three girls and one boy. Why the boy is jealous of a five year-old who practically has no toys of her own (everything is a hand-me-down) and who is the most quiet and unassuming of children, is beyond my comprehension. I also wonder if adding two or three more kids to the mix will help balance things out. (waiting for comments re: having more kids)
When the kids are all getting along, it's blissful. But it's also noisy. We are quite the loud family. When my husband is on the phone shouting in what is really the normal decibel for Arabic conversations, I'm usually raising my voice to speak above his, while the kids are all putting their two cents in...so even in times of relative calm, we're a rowdy bunch.
I am afraid to go and visit my mom in the U.S. and disrupt her quiet environment. It has been many years since trampling elephants lived in her home. I don't know if she will be able to recover.
I wouldn't, however, trade my expressive, raucous group for all the quiet in the world.
Now as a mother, I have a house full of kids who can fight. And I mean the tackle-one-another-to-the-ground type of hand to hand combat. They are extremely jealous of one another sometimes, and I cannot understand it. I, like my mother, have three girls and one boy. Why the boy is jealous of a five year-old who practically has no toys of her own (everything is a hand-me-down) and who is the most quiet and unassuming of children, is beyond my comprehension. I also wonder if adding two or three more kids to the mix will help balance things out. (waiting for comments re: having more kids)
When the kids are all getting along, it's blissful. But it's also noisy. We are quite the loud family. When my husband is on the phone shouting in what is really the normal decibel for Arabic conversations, I'm usually raising my voice to speak above his, while the kids are all putting their two cents in...so even in times of relative calm, we're a rowdy bunch.
I am afraid to go and visit my mom in the U.S. and disrupt her quiet environment. It has been many years since trampling elephants lived in her home. I don't know if she will be able to recover.
I wouldn't, however, trade my expressive, raucous group for all the quiet in the world.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Pooped
Have you ever been so tired that when you finally lie or sit down, your body kind of pulses? Like a tired dog panting?
That is how exhausted I am right now. My mind is plagued with so many worries that I cannot concentrate on more than one thing at a time. The Queen of Multitasking is currently in absentia. Her return is unknown. I cannot read a text message and listen to my child at the same time. I cannot fry something on the stove and answer a phone call. I cannot put my shoes on and utter a coherent sentence. Right now I am suffering from tunnel vision and an inability to focus.
This has happened to me before. After giving birth, my mind goes on hiatus, as well as when I try to hold down a full-time job and keep my family clothed and fed. I have not given birth lately, and I'm not working right now. I once had a similar experience in the US...too dog-tired to concentrate...when I handed the McDonald's drive-through worker my endorsed check and deposit slip for the bank. She took it from my hand as I just stared ahead, thinking I was at the bank. Then she kindly said, "Honey, what do you want me to do with this?"
This will pass. InshaAllah sooner than later.
That is how exhausted I am right now. My mind is plagued with so many worries that I cannot concentrate on more than one thing at a time. The Queen of Multitasking is currently in absentia. Her return is unknown. I cannot read a text message and listen to my child at the same time. I cannot fry something on the stove and answer a phone call. I cannot put my shoes on and utter a coherent sentence. Right now I am suffering from tunnel vision and an inability to focus.
This has happened to me before. After giving birth, my mind goes on hiatus, as well as when I try to hold down a full-time job and keep my family clothed and fed. I have not given birth lately, and I'm not working right now. I once had a similar experience in the US...too dog-tired to concentrate...when I handed the McDonald's drive-through worker my endorsed check and deposit slip for the bank. She took it from my hand as I just stared ahead, thinking I was at the bank. Then she kindly said, "Honey, what do you want me to do with this?"
This will pass. InshaAllah sooner than later.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
For Alia
I do not have all of the answers she needs
Knowing she has so many
keys already
And is unknowingly far, far ahead of me
Who am I to teach her?
If the fitrah is purity, she
is the embodiment of such
So much that it keeps me running
in the distance,
For fear she will discover
I am an imposter
Never ceasing to marvel at how much I
have lived and seen and known and felt
Oh daughter, it was not a life.
She is the essence of fourteen hundred years
of wisdom
Having experienced no real injustices from the world
but rather from me
She sometimes withers at the idea of absorbing
the cruel reality of this life
Saying she wants no part of
growing older
Except to be a mother like the one she believes
I am
How can I berate or compare or boast
While knowing inside I am small and selfish and cannot be
Who she is—this daughter, this gift
She, a sanctuary from the haunting of my youth
Will the ghosts ever disappear?
She is not lost, she cannot lose,
Being so far ahead in this game
No spoils!
I pray no spoils will come this way, not from this war
that wages within the one
The one she believes in, confides in…no, I keep
this war private, grotesque, internal.
My defense is to preserve—a preservation of truths
and rights in this world
and she who is the mirror image I wanted to view
but could not, for all of the self-loathing
and fear clouding the
way.
No debris, she brings with her no debris, no
fall-out, no baggage, no guilt
Just khayr and barakeh
The image stares back at me
Smiling, forgiving,
and approving.
Knowing she has so many
keys already
And is unknowingly far, far ahead of me
Who am I to teach her?
If the fitrah is purity, she
is the embodiment of such
So much that it keeps me running
in the distance,
For fear she will discover
I am an imposter
Never ceasing to marvel at how much I
have lived and seen and known and felt
Oh daughter, it was not a life.
She is the essence of fourteen hundred years
of wisdom
Having experienced no real injustices from the world
but rather from me
She sometimes withers at the idea of absorbing
the cruel reality of this life
Saying she wants no part of
growing older
Except to be a mother like the one she believes
I am
How can I berate or compare or boast
While knowing inside I am small and selfish and cannot be
Who she is—this daughter, this gift
She, a sanctuary from the haunting of my youth
Will the ghosts ever disappear?
She is not lost, she cannot lose,
Being so far ahead in this game
No spoils!
I pray no spoils will come this way, not from this war
that wages within the one
The one she believes in, confides in…no, I keep
this war private, grotesque, internal.
My defense is to preserve—a preservation of truths
and rights in this world
and she who is the mirror image I wanted to view
but could not, for all of the self-loathing
and fear clouding the
way.
No debris, she brings with her no debris, no
fall-out, no baggage, no guilt
Just khayr and barakeh
The image stares back at me
Smiling, forgiving,
and approving.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
First Born
I love all of my children. Equally, yes; in different ways, yes.
My oldest child, a girl, never ceases to surprise me. She is an amalgam of all of the goodness that I wish I had. Even as a youngster I know I did not possess all that innate goodness.
MashaAllah, TabarakAllah.
So last night as I was combing her Pocahontas-like hair, I started to compose a poem in my head. She is the oldest, she takes on a lot of responsibilities, she takes the brunt of punishment sometimes, she is my right hand, she studies hard and is kind to everyone, young and old... Anyhow, poem to come, inshaAllah.
A tribute to my gal.
My oldest child, a girl, never ceases to surprise me. She is an amalgam of all of the goodness that I wish I had. Even as a youngster I know I did not possess all that innate goodness.
MashaAllah, TabarakAllah.
So last night as I was combing her Pocahontas-like hair, I started to compose a poem in my head. She is the oldest, she takes on a lot of responsibilities, she takes the brunt of punishment sometimes, she is my right hand, she studies hard and is kind to everyone, young and old... Anyhow, poem to come, inshaAllah.
A tribute to my gal.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
To be 18 again...
In You on a Diet they say that genetics plays a large role in whether or not we will be overweight later in life.
Dr. Oz says to take a look at your parents and grandparents at age 18, and take a look at what you looked like at age 18, and these images should give you insight into your ideal body type.
So, I found this picture of my Mom, circa 1959, at age 18. She was a vision of loveliness. I know my Dad was thin and trim at age 18 as well. And my Grandmothers.
But wasn't everyone relatively in good shape up until the advent of the Swanson's TV dinner??
My kids have gotten such a kick out of looking at this picture of their "Teta." It's from her yearbook, Jones Valley High School, class of '59.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Alia Ansari
Assalamu Alaikum,
Read here about the murder of a mother of six, Alia Ansari, who was shot while walking with her three year old to pick up her other children from school.
May Allah help her family to heal during this tragic time.
https://www.americasmuslimfamily.com/AliaAnsari/alia_ansari.html
Read here about the murder of a mother of six, Alia Ansari, who was shot while walking with her three year old to pick up her other children from school.
May Allah help her family to heal during this tragic time.
https://www.americasmuslimfamily.com/AliaAnsari/alia_ansari.html
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
