Thoughts on what I wrote and what I will

I'm done revising. It took a while. But for now, I'm done. They're off to my agent for feedback and then its  back to waiting and wishing and hoping and dreaming. I love my book. Not like a child, but honestly? The analogy isn't too far off. I've put my heart and soul into it. I've had days where it felt like drudgery and then moments of transcendental bliss. Its kept me up nights. Its made me worry. Its taught me patience. And now, I see it off again into the world. Again- for what might be the final time, the final round of editors. And I can do nothing but wait and hope I raised it right. The result may be a big fat no. And this book I invested in, might only be viewed by the kind hearted people who agreed to beta-read it in the early days. Still- at least I can say I've tried. At least I can't look back with regret of what could have been, because I will know. And despite my efforts to be zen about it, to let what will be be- I really hope something comes of this. I really hope someone will see my book, and love it, and want to buy it. I hope.

In the meantime, its time to start the next project. I have two I can choose from to give my undivided attention. But starting a new book? It's intimidating. The blank sheet of paper is simultaneously both the most exciting and frightening thing I will ever see. I stare at the page and then, I think of dishes to wash, laundry to fold, something, anything but this. You could call it writer's block, but writer's block is just a fancy word for fear. Pure, ice-cold fear. You could say its not enough time, but let's be real, you can make time, you can find it if it means enough even if its fifteen minutes before bed, or while you wait for the rice to boil. You might wonder if you're making excuses to avoid writing, staring blankly at the blank pages, why write at all? but funny enough ts not limited to those in the trenches, it afflicts even the wildly successful authors. You have to drag us to the table kicking and screaming, most days. Writers love to write and writers hate to write. Its love when you are inspired, and otherwise when you are not. Inspiration is awesome, but you can't spend your life waiting for it. You have to write even when you don't want to. Even when there a million other things that should be getting done. As this blogger put it:

My house may one day be as clean as I’d like it to be—but it is just not going to happen when my girls are so small and my time is at such a premium.  And that’s okay.  I’d rather have time with my little ones and a finished book than a waxed and polished kitchen floor. 

 Amen. When he naps, I write. When the rice boils, I write. When K watches football, I write. 1,500 words a day- rain or shine- until this first draft is complete. And as any writer knows, while the first draft is far from the last one, its the hardest (but most important) one to see to the end.

When does the hyphenation end? Thoughts from a Pakistani-American

All my life I've been asked a particular question which if you're a person of color, I'm sure you've been asked too: Where are you from? When younger I answered Florida. Sometimes I'd get an awkward nod at this response, but other times the questioner would persist, sometimes politely by, "I mean ethnically speaking. . ." and sometimes not so politely (though I refuse to impute bad intent): No where are you really from? Pakistan, I would respond though a tiny voice in my head wondered because I'm not really from here?

My parents are from Pakistan but the last time I stepped foot in Pakistan I was eight years old. Yes I share genetic makeup with people of that part of the world. Yes I speak the language and own shalwar kamiz and value my ancestral homeland and much of my writing is inspired by Pakistan, but I was born here. I'm a U.S. Citizen by birthright. My home is here, my family is here, my career is here. I am from here. This led to many an ABCD (American Born Confused Desi) moment growing up but I've come to accept myself as a Pakistani-American. I'm a blend of east meets west. Mostly west, but undeniably east as well.

But now I look at my son. His grandparents have lived here longer than they lived in Pakistan, his parents are from here, he is from here, and yet are people still going to ask him where he is really from? Ofcourse they are. And while I am proud that I am Pakistani. Proud of my son's dark brown eyes and soft black hair and the history behind his DNA when I look at him I wonder: when does the hyphenation end? How many generations does it take to get to call yourself American full-stop? I'm not sure since African-Americans are still called that despite having lived here hundreds of years without ever setting foot in the motherland or knowing anyone who lives there. And then I wonder, is it only white people who can be American-sans-hyphen despite the rich heritage of countries from which they also hail?

With a country growing in diversity every second of the day, I wonder when the hyphens will end because as much as its important to celebrate our cultural diversity, predicating the word American with a hyphen implies that you are not fully from here even if here is all you know. And what a strange place to vacillate between when you are not from there, but not perceived fully from here either. I want my son to be proud to of Pakistani heritage but I hope he will know that when people ask him where he is really from, the answer is here.

Traveling: Pre and Post Baby

K had a business trip to Colorado and since we heard it was pretty there, baby and I decided (well I decided since said baby currently speaks exclusively in incoherent babble) to tag along too, stay the weekend and make a vacation out of it. It was our first vacation post-bebe and it was interesting to see how things change once a little one arrives.

Pre-baby flight: Eat in-flight snack. Nap. Write. Stare out window. Play sudoku.
Post-baby flight: Feed baby. Get baby to nap. Get baby to stare out window. Watch baby eat sudoku.

Pre-baby time zone change: It feels like 9pm but its only 7pm. The day is suddenly longer! YAY.
Post-baby time zone change: Baby thinks its 9pm when its really 7pm. OMG MUST SLEEP NOW NOW NOW. Our day? Suddenly shorter.

Pre-baby hotel sleep: Fluffy pillows. AC low. Hello: sleep as long as I like.
Post-baby hotel sleep: Baby wakes up every hour on the hour stares at unfamiliar surroundings and screams (in not so many words):  GAH! NOT MY CRIB! COLD. HOLD ME RIGHT NOW SERIOUSLY FOR REAL!

Pre-baby drive through mountains: Drive until the gas tank shows E while snapping pictures, and stopping along the way to smell flowers and walk through quaint mountain towns surrounded by imposing monuments to God every where you turn.
Post-baby drive through mountains: Mountains? What mountains? Too busy sitting in backseat shaking rattle while singing various Barney songs at high volume to keep baby calm to notice.

Pre-baby late night hangout: Wander through town holding hands under the starry skies, dropping by at a cafe to get coffee and dessert and go over our day.
Post-baby late night hangout: Keep the car running while the other dashes into Target to grab a pint of Ben & Jerry's to eat at the hotel with the lights dim while watching a corny movie on HBO on low volume at the late hour of 7pm.

Pre-baby return home: It was such fun but now back to routine. Bummer.
Post-baby return home: It was such fun but now back to routine! YAY!

And the reason you won't see me complaining:

Yep- that smile makes it all worth it. A million times over.

His tears

Everyone has secret fears about parenthood. I was terrified of what would happen when my child cried. The screaming-at-the-top-of-the-lung cries that cut straight like a knife into your heart. I worried I would be unable to console him. That I would make it worse by my attempts to soothe. And even more secret: I was worried I would lose my patience with him or grow upset with him.

When Waleed cries he cries with his entire being, literally. His eyes shut tight, his nose wrinkles, his mouth turns downward, his face flushes, his legs kick up, his arms kick out and he screams. And he knows how to work those tear ducts with wet droplets clinging to his little lashes.

Sometimes when he cries, I get scared. I get worried. I get sad. And yes sometimes I have to really take a deep breath, whisper serenity now, and muster all the patience in every ounce of my being.

But in a weird way, I'm touched by his tears.  This small little being who weighs barely 15 pounds cries as though there is no doubt that someone will do something to help ease what aches his heart. So much trust. We are only our truest selves with those we love most deeply even though sadly sometimes this ease of familiarity can also hurt those we love too. He loves me so much he doesn't care how or how long he screams. He trusts that I will take care of him, provide for him, and find a way to take away the hurt behind the tears. That's the kind of trust I could never betray.

And while two-hundred people on an airplane might not feel so zen-like about my son's tears. I am honored that he trusts me. That he loves me. That I might somehow take those tears away.

**in unrelated news, the brass crescent awards are up again. I don't usually post about it, but its nice to support our fellow bloggers, so if you love reading blogs check it out and partake in the nominations!"

Happy Four Month Birthday

Dear Waleed,

You turned four months old today. The checkout lady at Publix smiled at me today. Got a four year old at home? She asked. I shook my head. She looked puzzled as she held up the number four candle on the conveyor belt. Oh its for my four month old, I replied. She raised her eyebrows. It's his four month birthday! I said. We get cupcakes each month to celebrate. Yep- first time parent. Just like they have "sales clerk in training" stickers on new GAP employees, they should mark on my forehead in big block letters: First Time Parent. I didn't realize for such a monumental task as parenthood, the trainer would be a 15 pound human being who only recently learned he has toes.

And speaking of toes? You love them. When I do yoga in the morning you sit in your bouncer and try to one up me constantly. I stick my foot in the air, you stick yours in your mouth. When I change your diaper, you oblige me by grabbing your feet and pulling them up. We get it baby, you're flexible!

You have gotten so cuddly. From your pillow soft cheeks to your chubby thighs and your feet? Even your feet are pudgy. I love holding you and kissing you. And luckily, you love being kissed. When I kiss you, your eyes light up and you give me huge toothless grins. I love those smiles, but I love your giggles even more. You giggle when I tickle your feet, or press my nose on your chest, or toss you (safely, grandma!) in the air. I live for those laughs. The sound of your laughter erases the pain of labor, the sleepless nights, it makes everything worthwhile.

You are an extrovert. You LOVE people. We went to Murphy's for my birthday and walked over to Paolo's for gelatos. You grinned and chatted up everyone who stopped to smile at you. You chat with nani and nana on the webcam daily and you are expressive! You move your hands, you raise your eyebrows, you stress certain goo goos and raise your voice for emphasis. I would give anything to know what you are saying.

I miss you as I enjoy you because I know you cannot possibly stay this little forever, not that I would even want you to. I want to see your first steps, hear your first words, walk you to Kindergarten, clap in the bleachers as you graduate high school, wave goodbye as you head off to college, cry tears of joy as I hold your children. I want to experience it all with you. But I will miss this. I will miss my baby Waleed.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I'm home. I have a bunch of degrees. I've earned a paycheck since I turned sixteen and it feels strange not to earn one now. But, I reason, I can always go back to work (I hope) but you will not always be this little. Each month is more amazing and awesome than the one before. Thank you for coming into my world Waleed. I can't wait to continue exploring it with you. Such fun we will have. Insh'Allah.

Love,

Your Mama

Fenugreek- the greatest thing- ever

He slept. He slept. HE SLEPT. I know one day does not a habit make, but I will take these moments when they come. I am not sharing this with you to gloat- far too afraid of the concept of nazr to do that. . . but I am sharing because I think I discovered the reason for the wakefulness and constant requests for feeds. I wasn't making enough milk. After starting Fenugreek, within 48 hours, things changed. Since Wednesday I have a different baby. He can go three hours without eating. He isn't crying like I've been starving him for days when he does get hungry. And he sleeps. HE SLEEPS. It's not the sleep marathons of seasons past, but its sleep and I'll take what I can get. I share this since I know some of you reading are nursing or plan to nurse and if you do and think you're having some supply issues run, don't walk, to get this supplement. One weird side effect though is that you do give off a scent like maple syrup. I thought Sunny was kidding when she mentioned this, but it is in fact, true. While strange, I suppose one could smell worse. I find it interesting that Fenugreek is what desis call methi a commonly used spice in desi cooking. In fact, most things I saw that help with this issue we use in desi cooking  such as fennel seeds, which until a month ago, I was eating by the handful each day because I just enjoy the taste.

Maybe its just a birthday gift and he'll go back to his old ways by day's end, but for now, I am going to savor the fact that I actually got some sleep last night. Thank you FENUGREEK!

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

Netflix. It rocks. As some of you know I was deeply distressed when Direct TV decided to charge me a hefty premium for the privilege of watching my once beloved BRAVO channel. Seriously, they jacked up the rates for the channel to higher than HBO! I love Netflix's streaming option. I'm on season three of Weeds (a very silly show that grows on you as you watch) and just wrapped up Season 1 of Dexter (which was so gory I kept saying I WILL NOT WATCH ANOTHER EPISODE as I finished each episode). The ending was very satisfying though and I love the layers of the show though I find Dexter's sister deeply annoying. Tangent aside, I prefer Netflix to Blockbuster on-line. I like how it suggests movies I'll like and did I mention I love the wireless streaming? Completely awesome and I don't even miss the Real Housewives and Millionaire Matchmaker and all the other awesomely fun pointless shows at all.

My finger. While Dexter certainly helps me appreciate all the limbs and digits I have, I list my finger because I think we've determined the source of the sleepless nights: teething. Most certainly, teething. We've tried tablets that melt in your mouth, except he swallows them. The frozen teethers, except they're too cold. And then finally, entirely by chance my finger, as he grabbed it while I held him and popped it in his mouth. And he chewed and he chewed and he chewed. And he was happy and soothed. So my finger it is. Whatever will take his pain away I'm game. So happy to have found something that helps.

Beautiful portraits to adorn your home and help flood victims. A friend of ours is a top notch photographer who is selling his prints with all net profits going to UNICEF to assist the flood victims of Pakistan. Because everything we do for them helps, even though unfortunately it will never be enough.