Why you should not try to psycho-analyze your friends. Ever.

Friend: What's your favorite animal ever?
Me: Why?
Friend: Just tell me.
Me: But, seriously, why do you need to know this?
Friend: I'm going to show you a cool psychological trick- trust me!
Me: Fine, a lion.
Friend: Great. Why?
Me: They're brown and furry, love. love. love. the furriness. And the big fuzzy head of hair. Plus they're the ruler of the animal kingdom and they have this quiet calm, like they're so mafia. It's like you want to give them a hug even though you know if you did they'd eat you up and spit out the bones. I mean they're cats, but they can kill you. Awe-inspiring and frightening. What's the psychological twist to this?
Friend: Um, they did this study that. . . you know what, never mind.
Me: You have to tell me now!
Friend: The traits you assign your favorite animal are the traits you um, possess yourself.

Aisha: Furry. Fuzzy. Frightening. Hug at own risk.

Yep, that about covers it.

Psycho-analysis: #FAIL

Parenting theories and how I [basically] had no clue

My kiddo is about to turn one-year-old and though I've marked each month, and recorded each milestone, I'm still sort of stunned at how this can really be happening so soon. I read Susan's post about things she's learned post-parenting and it made me think of all the preconceived notions I once had of parenting, and how I feel now after nearly a year of parenting myself.

Pre-parenting Theory #1: Boasting about your kid and each milestone and comparing and contrasting bowel movement with other parents is boring. True. Yep boring before parenting, boring after. While one perk of parenthood is the ability to relate to people you otherwise had nothing in common with, there's only so much you can dissect feeding routines and sleep schedules before I get sleepy myself. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind conversation about children, it's nice sometimes, but when I am in the presence of people with the ability to form sentences, I want to talk about things like books, politics, [makeup! I'll even take makeup!] something. anything. else. It's like the executive who doesn't want to go out and discuss his job all the time. I love my job. My job kicks any other job's butts. But sometimes, I want to talk about other things.

Pre-parenting Theory #2: People who say they are running late because of their kids are just hiding behind their kids. False. Thanks to my parents, I am a ridiculously punctual person in a ridiculously unpunctual culture.  I've eaten dinner for a 7pm wedding at 11:30pm. I've arrived at 1:30pm for a 12pm function to find the hosts about to hop in the shower. I've adapted to this cultural quirk by timing my late arrival. 8pm dinner date? I take care to arrive at 8:30. Late, but punctually so. Enter: baby. I still haven't grasped that a baby requires extra time due to last minute diaper explosions and resulting outfit changes, hunger requests, buckling into car seats, prepping diaper bags and now am always running about thirty minutes behind schedule. Even my delayed arrival schedule. And while this mortifies me, and I have had almost a year to get up to speed, I am still always late.

Pre-Parenting Theory #3: Putting your kid to bed at 7:30pm is silly. Why do I want him up at the crack of dawn? False.  He's getting up at dawn anyways. Whether he goes down at 5pm. 7pm. 10pm. 3am, with the exception of one day he slept until 10am and we stared at him in a state of utter panic, he wakes at the crack of dawn no matter what time he's down for the night. And right around 7pm? He gets feisty and doesn't let up until he knows he is well on his way to PJs and bed. [how far we've come] So to ensure he gets enough rest? He sleeps at 7:30. 

Pre-parenting Theory #4: You seriously can have more to talk about with your spouse except your kids once you have kids.  False. We've gone out for two solo dinner dates since he's been born with the promise of no kiddo talk while we're out. And it went like this:

K: So what's new with you?
Me: Going good. Waleed went to the -
K: No, remember? No kiddo talk.
Me: Oh yeah, right. 
Me: Silence
K: Silence
Me: Well, where do you want to vacation this year?
K: Hm, something tropical. Don't want to be too busy on the trip since Waleed might get fidgety, plus time zones. . .
Me: Wait, no kiddo talk.
K: Oh, right.
K: Silence.
Me: Silence.
K: Did you like the last episode of Mad Men?
Me: I fell asleep towards the end. Waleed woke up twice last night. I think he's teething. 
K: Wait no kiddo talk.
Me: Oh right.
K: Silence. 
Me: Silence.

You get the idea. So far, the not talking about the baby who is [delightfully] embedded in every single aspect of our life? Not happening. Not sure if this is a good or a bad thing; it simply is.

Pre-parenting Theory #5: By the time my kid is one years old, I'll be an expert. Oh Aisha, how cute. Ha. Ha. And. False. I still have a handful of days to go, so maybe the parenting fairy will come to me while I sleep, and I shall wake a bastion of knowledge on all things parenting, but really? Doubtful. Nearly one year later I'm just as 'flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants' as I was the day he was born. The only difference? I'm at peace with the uncertainty. I'm a first-time parent and he's teaching me every step of the way what it is to be not just a parent, but his parent. And as uncertain of a road it is to know that you will be a novice every step of the way, its awesome in ways I could never have imagined.


What preconceived notions of parenthood did actual parenthood effectively shatter for you? Not-yet-parents, what theories do you currently cling to with the undeniable belief that they must be true?

Bobullah the overly observant check-out dude

I wrote before about a particularly interesting Indian grocer at my local Publix. While I know he's well-meaning- he takes friendliness to the. . . next level so I avoid his check-out line even if he's manning the ten items or less booth and the alternative is waiting with my gallon of milk behind  a lady with a stack of produce tall enough to make a mountain climber feel wistful. Until today- when I happened to be in line as shift change took place and Bobullah [Bob for short] became my check-out dude.

Bob: Make a donation to March of Dimes?
Me: Not today.
Bob. Ha. Ha. Not today, she says.
Me: Excuse me?
Bob: Oh nothing. Where is your son?
Me: With my husband.
Bob: Yes he bought soda, lots of diet soda, last week right?
Me: Um. I guess so.
Bob: There is a new Indian store that's opened up two miles up the road.
Me: That's good.
Bob: I bet you go to Bombay Spices.
Me: Um. Sometimes.
Bob: Go to the other one. My friend owns it. Bombay Spices? They rip you off and I mean you.
Me: What?
Bob: You don't pay attention. I see it. You don't even look at your receipt. That's how Bombay Spices makes its money. I can ring these buns twice and you would not notice.
Me: Crickets.
Bob: I mean. I would not do that. ha. ha. but I could. And you wouldn't know. That will be $21.27

It's not just me right? While he doesn't say anything that is outright 'go-to-your-manager-and-complain'-able it's just a strange conversation to have but what can I say? He notices things too much? Tell him to be less observant? [And now I both want to go Bombay Spices and never step foot in there again.]

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

One. When my first novel was deferred, my agent said, write your next one, we'll come back to your first. Next one? I thought. One was difficult enough. And yet- I forced myself to write. Some days it was downright depressing, but over time it got easier, and soon enjoyable as the characters showed me their spirit, the story guiding me along. For the past six months, every time Waleed napped, I wrote. Between diaper changes, feedings, and laundry, I wrote. And now its done. I'm still not used to this as I found myself today, instinctively opening my laptop upon nap-time, only to remember, its done. The process of writing fiction has been amazing and I'd go so far as to say that the first novel's deferment is a mixed blessing as this second one is a stronger piece of work simply because I learned so much in the process and am better for it. Now, as I look at a third manuscript I drafted some time back, I feel not dread, but anticipation at creating new characters, and new worlds. The fear of 'can I do this again' is gone because yes, I can. Will any of my work see the light of publication? I hope with all my heart, insh'Allah, they will but while I wait, I will write. This was a week off from writing  [hence four blog posts in a week, yowzers], but next week? back to work, writing when he naps, when he sleeps, and all the spare snatches of time in between.

Two. Though Hurricane Andrew is many years behind me, strong gusts of wind blowing just so through the trees rapping against a window can take me back to August 1992 as if I'm huddled in a hallway with my family, our world literally crashing around us. These past few weeks we've had severe thunderstorms. Tornado terrifying thunderstorms. They come in the dead of the night cracking thunder like a thousand splintering trees, and lightening that illuminates the peaceful dead-of-night world into anything but. As long as we have each other, that's all that matters, my parents said as we surveyed what was once our home. As much as I dislike the dramatic fanfare of Nancy Grace, she recently spoke of her brush with cancer,  once I found out I didn't have cancer- I haven't had a bad day since. 'Having each other' is something I sometimes take for granted as I look at things to do, things undone, but today as I look out at the dark foreboding clouds, and anticipate the gusts that will once again steal my sleep, I am trying to focus not on the fear of that August 1992 morning, but instead my parent's words, this too shall pass, as long as we have each other it will be okay.

Three. A while back I heard someone say, it must be nice to be a stay-at-home mom. I wish I could just read books, and exercise all day! Huh? Sometimes I feel on the go from the moment I get up until I put him down to bed. There's always something I should be doing and guilt if I'm not doing it. Due to the storms of the night before, I've been exhausted today in a way I haven't for months. I thought of all the things to do and suddenly, I just couldn't. I pushed away the guilt, and self-recriminations and lay down, right on the family room rug, surrendering to my exhaustion; the television off, the phone ringing unanswered in the distance, [sorry if it was you calling]. I let the fan run over me and feel my body sink into the rug while my son as though tethered to me by an invisible rope, crawled over me, sat on my head, spotted my belly button and poked a finger, laughing hysterically. And I realized I don't do this enough. This sitting for an unhurried amount of time absorbing the lightness of his being. Not since he was a newborn and 'they' [whoever 'they' are] said it was okay to let the house go to hell, have I just allowed myself an unhurried amount of time to simply be with him without guilt like a noisy parrot on my shoulder reminding me of the things left undone. I want more time like today with him, large swathes of unhurried time, not bathing him, not feeding him, just being with him, taking in his joy, letting it settle into my soul. There should be no guilt in this time together, simply more of it.

So in Sum: Manuscripts done and undone, keeping focus despite ominous clouds, and the unhurried enjoyment of my son. A beautiful Thursday indeed. Hope you had a great day too.

How to make Afghani kebabs [since I'm too cheap to buy them]

A few weeks ago I wrote about my craving for Afghan kebabs. Chef Google  revealed the only intriguing recipe was written entirely in Urdu. Some of you expressed interest, including Azmina and Muslim Wife, who are such awesome cooks I got a bit nervous venturing into recipe-sharing territory, but this dish? It's good [At least the most important food critic in my life, K, seems to think so]. It's affordable. And deserves translation.

What I'm sharing is an adaptation of the original as I'm incapable of following a recipe step-by-step [Just ask my dear friend Saba who witnessed in abject horror as I measured the oil and water for brownie batter. With a drinking cup]. I'm just an andaza se type of girl. When the mood strikes to make a dish, I look up 5-10 different recipes, pick my favorites out of each and make it according to what feels right. Here I only had one recipe to work with so altered ingredients upon subsequent attempts. [Yes, we've eaten this dish three times in two weeks, its that yummy]. Julia wrote this lovely post about cooking and its correlation with creativity and I must agree. Ever since I began working on my manuscripts, I've noticed an uptick on my willingness to experiment with my cooking. In short, this is not a literal rendering of the recipe but my interpretation. Use and lose heat-inducing spices at your discretion because this recipe as written will make wasabi taste like guacamole. 

Ingredients
1 pound lean ground beef
1/2 cup chopped cilantra
1 large chopped onion
1-2 chopped jalapeno
1 tspn salt [to taste!]
1/4 tspn crushed red pepper [can be plenty spicy without this so use only if you feel the jalapeno you picked is not particularly hot]
2 teaspoon whole black pepper freshly ground [Freshly ground black pepper is what makes this dish sparkle and I can attest to this as I've made it both with fresh and preground peppers, the difference in taste is remarkable]
1 14.5 oz can of crushed tomato
1 tbspn lemon juice
[I also added three cloves when I ground the black pepper, I enjoyed the extra kick but not necessary if you don't have any on you]

Combine the ground beef with half the cilantro, half the onions, all of the jalapeno, salt, red pepper  and 1 tspn of black pepper. Knead it together with your hands so its blended.

Divide the meat into four separate balls, make sure to press and mold them so the ingredients stick together.

 

Flatten each piece as thin as you can. Place on oiled and heated frying pan. Cook for 1-2 minutes per side before removing, the inside will be a little rare. Repeat with the rest and then chop them fajita-cut strip-style and set to the side.

In a separate sauce pan, fry the rest of the onions until they are golden brown. Add the crushed tomato sauce, salt, pepper, red pepper, and lemon juice. Stir until the oil separates from the sauce. Add the beef strips. If you feel like its not saucy enough like I did, add 1/4 cup of water, cover and simmer for 15 minutes stirring occasionally and adding water if it feels like its sticking. Turn off and garnish with remaining cilantro..

Eat with rice [if you like], defrosted naan [if you must], and really, if you are anywhere near an Indian or Pakistani joint,  pick up some fresh naan hot off the tandoor because it really just tastes better that way. [And I'd have shared the pictures of the final product- except um, it got consumed rather quickly]

Hope you like the recipe, if you try it do let me know!

- - -
My seven year blogoversary is coming up! If you read, please click follow for a chance to enter for some fun giveaways courtesy of moi as a thank you to you for reading! :)

On toddlers. Mean librarians. And why I won't be leaving my house until he's eighteen.

When you were little, you played with toys or followed close to me gripping me by the leg, my mother said of me. When K was little, he didn't walk, he ran- everywhere. Up the stairs and down the stairs, into the alleyways, neighbor's homes to steal a shoe, bring a frog as a gift for his grandmother, said K's aunts, uncles, and mother.

In addition to K's metabolism, it appears my son has taken after his father here too.

Let me be the first to say that watching my son waddle over to me like a penguin squealing with a wooden spoon in his hand is the cutest. thing. ever. But outside the confines of our house? Sigh. Today was my first solo-venture out into the world with my newly walking child. Library story-time, a fairly safe environment for chaos as all the children are waddling around babbling like a convention of slightly confused zombies. In story times past, he stuck close to me but now? He made a beeline for a set of keys [not mine]. Toys [not ours] which he then tried sticking into the mouth of a fellow child [said child obliged by opening wide] and then? His jaw dropped as he noticed the books- shelves of books- rife for the yanking and tossing. Which he did. With me close behind. Sticking them back in. As he pulled more out. And while asking him to stop works at home [though lately more finicky a challenge than before] here? He just looked at me like I was speaking Swahili and went on his business.

At the self-check-out, balancing both the ten children's books I needed to place one at a time on the scanner and my nineteen pound child proved difficult so I set him on the ground for a second. Which he took full advantage of by zooming for the DVDs, flinging each one-by-one and then looking back with a proud grin like he just cured world hunger. I tried checking out as quickly as possible, put the fallen items back in their place under the disapproving gaze of a very sour librarian, and headed out, when we heard beep. 

Without even giving me a chance to turn around, the librarian screamed for me to stop like I was walking out with classified government secrets.  Must be the DVD you stuck in your bag, she said. Yep, I wanted to say, its a mother-son operation. I pretend to check out, he distracts by flinging DVDs, and then, we swipe obscure DVDs on the mating habits of penguins! Come on. Really?  It turned out one of the books didn't scan, needing manual entry, and in my distraction, I didn't notice. So she gave me the book to manually enter at the self scanner [though between you and me, she could have kindly just checked it out for me!] and so I set him down, he bee-lined for the DVDs- and we rinsed and repeated.

We're home now. And while he's as perky as a bunny on ten cups of coffee, me? I need a nap. I thought I had at least a couple more weeks before toddlerhood began?

Seriously, as parents of fully mobile children, how do you balance their desire for independence with the desire to not have to be seen as sticky fingers by your local librarian? How do you encourage curiosity, keep from buying all broken inventory due to said curiosity, and leave the house before your child is eighteen years old?

Life measured in Dogwood

Photo Source Here

Eight years ago, brand new to Atlanta, our boxes still packed our bodies still worn from twenty hours of driving from our old home to our new, we jumped in the car to briefly explore the city we chose to call our home. One wrong turn led us into the throbbing heart of the city, traffic backed up for miles, and people- so many people- teeming masses of people wandering under vibrant pink and white trees, pushing strollers, lugging coolers. The Dogwood Festival in full-swing on the afternoon of our arrival.

No longer bleary-eyed wayfarers observing from afar, but instead participants with roots slowly entrenching into the clay earth of our adopted city, we do our best to attend each year wandering through the craft stalls, stopping to listen to local musicians, and finding the best shade tree in the heart of the park to sit under to do what we love best: people watch- creating stories for the terse arguing couple in matching yellow shirts power-walking past, or the octogenarian following eight leashed dogs along the outskirts of the park. And last year- walking hand-in-hand  under a starlit sky watching vendors unwind from the day, as a movie played on a large screen in the distance and my son jabbed me with his foot from within, wondering what the coming year between Dogwood festivals would bring.

Today we went to the Dogwood Festival. We maneuvered our unwieldy stroller through the crowded craft stalls. Rushed past the local musicians hoping they didn't wake our sleeping baby- and sat down under a distant shade-tree to nurse and watch him stare at the nine-foot ferris wheel in the distance, trying with his wobbly legs, to make his way towards the merry-go-round and face-painting just beyond the hill; a hint at the new things the next Dogwood Festival will bring.

Today was my eighth Dogwood Festival. In the span of these eight years I lived lives as a city-dweller, a regrettable suburbanite, a teacher, a lawyer, and now a stay-at-home mother pursuing my creativity, a second manuscript in the hands of my agent, and a hope and a prayer that the space between this festival and the next will yield good things. The Dogwood Festival holds a special place in my heart for it is a tangible marker of the time I have spent in this city- the beautiful changes that have come with- and all, I hope, that is yet to come.

Things I fail to understand

Why the non organic grapes at Whole Foods [since they are mysteriously always out of the organic sort] cost approximately three dollars more per pound than the same exact grapes from the same exact country in the same exact packaging located down the street at Kroger. Were the Whole Foods grapes brought in on organic trucks driven by organic drivers? What makes the same exact grapes worth 300% more than the grapes down the road.

And for that matter why is most of the produce at Whole Paycheck Foods not organic but conventionally grown but with prices so jacked up you could, in a hurry, presume them organic only to be truly paying triple the price for the privilege of carrying your food in a Whole Foods bag? For a store that makes its living marketing the benefits of organic- they have a funny way of showing it.

Why my son refuses the waffle on his tray tossing each piece onto the floor while staring at me in horror as though I tried feeding him an [organic] koala bear in all its cute glory but thirty minutes later when placed on the floor will make a beeline for those very waffle pieces on the kitchen floor as if its an elusive delicacy he's waited for all his life? Is there something in the tiles that adds the extra oomph of flavor?

How this same child, of the 25th percentile in weight, can eat six ounces of carrots, three wings, an entire stick of mozzarella cheese, and a bowl of mango all in one sitting and then stare at me as I eat my banana with a pitiful look because I'm meanest. momma. ever for not sharing. We debate constantly on whose nose or eyes or chin he has, but that metabolism? Aint mine.

How he can walk- and fall- and stand up again- only to walk. and fall. again. And repeat this with a smile on his face for one-hour straight on hardwood floors and ceramic tiles but- upon tumbling on the soft fescue sod in the backyard screams as though we tossed him in a fire pit.

And-

The transition from walking to running isn't supposed to span three days is it? K's mother said he never really walked much- just sort of stood up one day and started running. I chalked it up to parental hyperbole that cemented into memory, but no, I am documenting it here- yes- he is in fact running. Zombie-like. Tumbling every ten steps. But running nonetheless. How are my days of outrunning him  numbered- when he's only eleven months old?

Happy Eleven Month Birthday

Dear Waleed,

On Thursday you turned eleven months old. This time last year your Abu and I walked around our neighborhood taking in the cool evening breeze while you kicked and swam inside me and now? Now you bounce in your ergo squealing and chattering- about to turn one years old. What a difference a year makes in the life of someone so small.

You are growing like a weed with this month the busiest one of huge developmental milestones. We say thali bajao- your face beams like you stole serious wattage from the sun- and you clap. It seems like such a small thing but its huge because its authentic communication with you. You also wave good-bye, drum your fingers against your lips and then laugh at the sounds that come out. Oh and you began walking.  The week before you inexplicably began crawling at times with arms and legs raised off the ground- like a crab. Then one day, you stood up, and took your first steps. I squealed at the top of my lungs and promptly burst into tears, while you? You glanced back at me as though to say what? this? its about time really.

You are the center of our universe- and you know it. If we turn from you for an instant during our dinner conversations, you bang the table, grunt or squeal, demanding we not forget that all eyes should properly be focused on you. You babble with purpose now, raising your voice, inflecting your tone, and always demanding more food. You love to eat. You have tried it all. Chicken Tikka. Pad See Ew. Fettuccine Alfredo. Despite the fact that you still have no teeth, you eat without hesitation.

Despite all the eating you remain thin as a rail. I think its because you are perpetually in motion. Climbing over blankets, opening dressers, drawers, cabinets, sliding behind the sofa, banging on the tables. We went to your dadi ami's house this month where you played with your cousins and where  you shot up the stairs in thirty seconds flat and then requesting a ski lift [i.e. us] to bring you down so you could do it again. I love it though- that you entertain yourself so thoroughly, so much so I've relented and given you your own kitchen cabinet so you are free to pull out containers and lids, examining each as though you have in fact unearthed the dead sea scrolls.

While you are fully mobile, and ever curious and exploring, you never refuse my kisses or hugs. If I want to scoop you up from a game of bang the ducky on the wall, and just hold you tight and not let go, you smile and oblige. At night after pajama and diaper changes, you crawl up to me and kiss me, wrapping your arms around my neck and rest your head on my shoulder- surrendering to sleep in the sweetest of ways. When you're older, learning Calculus and driving cars, I'm pretty sure this is what I will miss most.

Years ago your Abu and I bought a house. I wanted the benefits of home ownership like no wall-to-wall neighbors, covered parking, and space. I really wanted to buy a house. Then we bought a house. And while it is all those things, its a lot of work with falling dishwashers and squatting squirrels which are your responsibility not that of some elusive landlord because the buck stops with you.  I was afraid parenting might be similar; rosy in theory but when you realize that here too, the buck stops with you alone, you might look back with wistfulness at what was. This hasn't happened. Not during late night rocking, or poopy explosions, or inconsolable tears, the vacations we no longer take, the late night coffee shops we no longer frequent- and while yes there are days that are difficult  there has not been a single day I have glanced backwards missing what once was. Nope. There has yet to be a moment I have ever felt anything other than overwhelmingly blessed to be your mother.

Love,

Your Mama

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

One. Driving past a hole-in-the-wall strip mall on our way home the other day we nearly braked in the middle of the road as we saw a brand-new Afghani kebob house. I love Afghani food. Kebobs and rice or fresh tandoori naan with a side of chopped tomatoes and cucumbers and yogurt. We haven't seen any before so were giddy about one opening so close to our house. We can take-out when guests come last minute, or when I'm too tired to cook! I checked yelp to see if any early adventurer had checked out the place, and was stopped short at the price. $$$. And- jacket required. Convinced there had to be a misunderstanding, perhaps an uncle who didn't understand this whole yelping shelping business and pressed the wrong button, we headed out to check the menu and were greeted by a group of eager Afghani kids who apparently pooled their money for the next big thing- fine dining, Afghan style. Except, fancy table covers can't justify $27 for Shami Kebob and $35 for a beef platter in a hole-in-the-wall strip mall in the burbs where fish tacos are frankly considered terribly exciting and exotic. I could be wrong. Maybe pricey Afghan food will work. Just not for us. We left feeling bummed and craving Afghan food more than ever. So I consulted Chef Google and searched to no avail for a tried-and-true recipe stumbling finally upon this- written entirely in Urdu. To my complete surprise, I read it. And made it. [with some twists of my own. I'm incapable of following a recipe to the tee- andaza se is just how I roll] The result? Delicious! I'm beside myself that I read Urdu, not a primer with pictures of yellow kittens on the borders, but a grown up recipe! I couldn't help but just sort of drop it in there when I picked up fresh naans to eat it with at the local Indian restaurant.

B: What are you making?
Me: You know, it just kind of felt like an Afghan Kebab night.
B: What? You're making Afghani kebabs? Wow.
Me: yeah, I found a recipe online, its in Urdu, but I mean, it was simple enough.

Ha. Yes. Like I read Ghalib on a regular basis and recite Iqbal when the mood strikes. Still, finding hidden abilities to read Urdu is gloat-worthy no? It's a shame the recipe is only available in Urdu considering the dearth of good afghani kebab recipes. I'm considering possibly translating it here and doing a step-by-step if there is interest. Let me know if you are. If so, might be worth the effort.

Two. Waleed turns eleven months old today. I have marked each month. Celebrated with a cupcake. Recorded the milestones. Taken enough pictures to wallpaper my house inside and out- and yet I am not understanding where the time went. The day they placed him in my arms in the hospital, his first birthday felt like an elusive event occurring in a mythical land- I felt that once this first birthday came- I would be a sophisticated mama and my son? Why he'd be practically reciting Shakespeare for clapping dinner guests. And while we do still have a month to go- so anything could happen- I have a sneaking suspicion neither my sophistication nor his Shakespeare recited prose will be improving anytime soon. I realized I'm not alone in feeling this way as I came across Eve's post where she felt the same thing with her eldest son:

. . . I had this sub-background voice…more like an assumption…that if I could get past the first year, then being a mom would get significantly easier.  Like, POOF, on his first birthday he would get a cake-messy face and I would get a magic wand with all the answers or something.

It's good to know I'm not the only one who has felt this way- and sad to know no magic wand exists.  While I will save the thoughts about this past month for his monthly update, tonight I looked with wonder at my baby boy who in eleven months has gone from a tight-fisted helpless creature to a standing, crawling, hollering person. Its beautiful to see him reach each milestone and heartbreaking as you leave those long-awaited moments behind. I never knew it was possible to harbor two equally strong opposing emotions simultaneously until now. Loving him involves a sort of heartbreak that inexplicably leaves me happier than I ever knew I could be.

Three. Fruitful Fusion nominated me for an award. The Stylish Blogger Award! She's awesome and I love her blogs and appreciate the shout out. And- I love all of you guys for reading and commenting. I was telling a fabulous blogger I recently began reading that many of my blogging compatriots when I first began are not blogging anymore- the average time for blogging apparently 2-3 years. So I'm excited to see a seventh anniversary coming up in May.  As I've mentioned before, to celebrate my son's birthday and this blogoversary, I'm planning a fun give-away of things I like. They're picked by me, bought by me, and there are no round-trip tickets to Paris. Sorry. But- if you read and enjoy this blog I'm pretty sure you'll like what I'm giving away. As of now there are five things so more than one opportunity to win something. I'll be sharing more about it later this month as the date for his birthday gets closer, but because I want to limit it to folks who read, regardless of whether you're a new reader or not, to thank you, you can be eligible by clicking follow on the right for this blog, my writing blog, or linking to me at your own blog. All three gives three entries. Subject to tweaking as the date approaches to figure out how to include more people that may not be 'follow-y link-y' sorts but who read and give so much commenting-love nonetheless.

So in Sum: Seven years blogging. My son's approaching birthday and hidden talents for Urdu literacy. A fabulous Thursday indeed. Hope you have a good Thursday too.

To organic or not to organic- that is the question

This past weekend we headed to Home Depot. As we stood at the check-out counter, the grumpy cashier jerked his elbow into a display of precariously perched weed-kill bottles which fell and promptly exploded all over us. Mostly K. His body waist down, coated in foam. My feet got soaked in my first time in sandals this spring. Luckily only a few drops landed on Waleed. We raced home to wash it off as fast as we could- and that night, when K said his legs itched- I worried. While I realize its a chemical designed to harm plant-life and K is decidedly human- I can't shake off the fact that the chemical was designed for the specific purpose to harm.

It got me thinking about food and the pesticides inherent in regular store-bought produce which washing alone simply won't get rid of. While the pesticides in produce are designed to attack insects- its a chemical with the specific purpose to harm.

I know organic is best, but until the moment I saw chemicals leaching on to my husband's skin, I didn't grasp it in quite so tangible a form. The majority of Waleed's food is organic and I buy it separately for him. K and me? We aim for organic but go conventional for the majority of our produce purchases. The reason is simple: Price.

For example, the asparagus I went to the grocery store to purchase today:

regular asparagus

organic asparagus

You can ninety-nine cent it all you want, that's $6 asparagus! Normally, I'd see the sharp price-difference and pluck the regular veggie off the shelf- they look the same after all, but today the foamy substance fresh in my head, I bought the pricey produce because while pesticides are not intended to harm me, what are the side effects of those bug-zapping chemicals? What do the harsh punishments meted out to the insects interested in my apple mean for me and my family? A friend dismissed this saying we ate 'regular food' and we're fine aren't we? Except I think food may have been produced differently back then, and who is to say it didn't affect us?

Until now I've compromised. I go organic with the top contaminated foods [and lately, with my eggs and meat too]. But now I'm considering the chemicals in the soil and water in otherwise hardy fruit like watermelon or lemons and wonder what else has found its way through the outer layer into the soft flesh?

Why not stop contemplating and just stick to Whole Foods the whole time? As the owner of our favorite Turkish establishment says to us with a stern wag of his finger, Whole Foods baba? Whole paycheck! I'm in a single-income household and I look at what things cost. I just do. I'm fortunate I can afford to make this decision of organic or not. It will hit my budget but its something I could do- I'm just trying to figure out if I'm making much ado about nothing, or if I need to make a serious commitment to shifting my entire fooding intake to locally grown [sans pesticide] or certified organic. Because the chemical visual at Home-Depot made me realize I don't want to be penny-wise in the produce department and pound-foolish with my family's health and well-being.

What are your thoughts? Is there merit in going 100% organic? Do you go organic without compromise or selectively choose what to pay the extra bucks for?