Sometimes when it rains, it pours. I'm not referring to torrential thunderstorms with spastic lightening. Just rain. And lately? Its been figuratively pouring. The most awesome thing about life is that anything can happen, the most frustrating and anxiety-inducing thing about life is that anything can happen. I write lists, and cross them off. I organize my calendar. I clean my kitchen each evening before bed. All to give a sense of order and control over my day. But sometimes you get handed so many unknowns that the forest and the trees begin to meld together and you feel like you're staring into a hologram with a mounting anxiety that there's no image beneath the surface.
It's a silly story but true. In fifth grade walking to school I thought about prayer and faith and felt slightly doubtful. God, I prayed as I walked, if you exist, for real-you will make my teacher absent for a whole week. I felt fairly confident this would not happen as my teacher reminded us at every opportunity about her perfect attendance record, how she had only taken two days off in ten years. I went to class, sat at my desk, and then, my teacher cleared her throat and told us she was taking the next week off. She told us why but I don't remember the reasons, I just remember sitting at my desk, my mouth parted in shock as everyone high fived and grinned at one another. A miracle, I thought. God, you really answered my prayer. Yes, it sounds silly, but for so many years that moment buoyed me when the waters were rocky, did my prayer cause it? Did I get inspired to pray for a thing that would happen anyways? I didn't know but the fact that it happened before my eyes gave me certainty in a being greater than us, and of prayers, that they are answered. I loved the feeling of inner peace and certainty I had- someone was listening, someone was answering, a big warm hug from above.
As the years passed, as I see things go wrong for people, terribly wrong, so wrong there are no words to express, you feel hollow and wonder about the power of prayer- because surely these devout people prayed, prayed with everything in their hearts- for a thing- that did not happen. And while I do not doubt the veracity of my fifth grade memory, when I cup my hands to pray, to ask for help to ease my uncertainty, I feel a wall stands before me. I try- and I am unable to. What gives me the right? When babies lose mothers and mothers lose babies despite prayers and pleas, should I ask for anything with the hope to receive? I see my cupped hands and feel like a spoiled child asking for more when their belly is quite full enough.
I miss whispering my worries in prayers. Without prayer I hold my worries alone and they simply pile upon one another until I feel I might stumble beneath their weight. And worries do not make the future any more certain- it just takes away ever so much from the present before us. How do you cope with periods of vast uncertainty? How do you pray for things when you are not sure that you have any right to be heard, when you see others with more pressing causes whose requests from this mere, human's perception, seem to go unanswered? Apologies for vagueness, all is well in every way that counts, just trying to grasp a concept that is anything but solid to master.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Other Mothers
It's been a while since I last took Waleed to storytime. I need to take him. But its during his nap time. But he needs social interaction. Bad mom if I do, bad mom if I don't, I changed his clothes put on his shoes strapped him in the car seat and headed to the library. As I opened his door to get him out of the car I looked at his feet. No shoes. He kicked them off before we got out of the house I realized. Fumbling through the diaper bag hoping in that moment for a magic pair of extra shoes I realized I also forgot his sippy cup filled with ice-cold water on the breakfast table. As the sun beamed down on us, I imagined myself bringing my barefoot baby into story time, the looks of disdain of the other mothers at because
other mothers strap on shoes with socks to boot
other mothers have extra sippy cups just incase one is lost along the way
other mothers never bring the wipes and forget the diapers
other mothers always smile. keep spotless homes. point out everything in the grocery aisles. and wipe the applesauce from their child's cheek before guests arrive.
other mothers are better mothers than I'll ever be.
I heard a car door slam. A mother in a yellow sundress plucked her chubby baby girl in pink from the back of her sleek black car and strolled her towards the library. As she walked past us I saw Waleed stare at them with a wide-eyed grin and suddenly illogical as it was I thought, he recognizes this other mother. He knows. I'm not like her at all.
In that moment I felt tempted, so tempted, to close the door, get in the car and drive home.
Instead, we went to the library. We sat in the middle row and as I sat him in my lap I looked over at another child walking about barefoot. And another. And then yet another. Some mothers proferring sippy cups, some with slim purses that seemed to hold nothing. I suddenly feel lighter.
Maneuvering through the library aisles after, I paused behind a woman blocking the aisle with her stroller. She glanced to see me waiting and blushed, I am so sorry she said as she moved to the side. No problem I said as I walked past her. Her little boy, a child of three, gap toothed with straight blond hair flushed at this. Don't say that! don't say sorry! he yelled. It's rude not to say sorry when you've done something wrong, his mother said in a soothing voice. The boy stared at her for a moment his mouth parted, and then puffed up his chest, crossed his arms and screamed so loud not a person in the library could have misunderstood YOU ARE RUDE TO ME AND YOU NEVER SAY SORRY! WHY YOU SAY SORRY TO OTHER PEOPLE ONLY?
All heads turned towards them. I saw her through the corner of my eye, frozen in place by her son's words. She glanced at me for a moment, and then quietly strolled her son away. And I realized, in that moment, as she saw me with my own toddler who at that moment was browsing a board book while I looked at books for myself- I became the other mother.
It used to be that I felt my self-esteem drop three notches staring at the photo-shopped celebs hawking new diet solutions at the check-out aisle, now its other mothers be it through bubbly updates of motherhood bliss on facebook, or the mother singing like she's Mary Poppins to her darling child in the grocery aisle [yes, really]. The look on this mother's face as she quietly left the library told me I'm not the only one who does this. As women, we do this. We judge ourselves more harshly than anyone else ever could. There are always going to be other mothers. Me? I'm his mother. Imperfect, learning as I go, flawed at best. But I love him. I'd walk on hot coals for him. Juggle them too if necessary. I will never reach the standard of the other mother, but I don't know if any mother ever can. I just hope when he's fully grown, he will look past the things I did wrong, and remember the one thing I did right, which is love him with everything that I am.
other mothers strap on shoes with socks to boot
other mothers have extra sippy cups just incase one is lost along the way
other mothers never bring the wipes and forget the diapers
other mothers always smile. keep spotless homes. point out everything in the grocery aisles. and wipe the applesauce from their child's cheek before guests arrive.
other mothers are better mothers than I'll ever be.
I heard a car door slam. A mother in a yellow sundress plucked her chubby baby girl in pink from the back of her sleek black car and strolled her towards the library. As she walked past us I saw Waleed stare at them with a wide-eyed grin and suddenly illogical as it was I thought, he recognizes this other mother. He knows. I'm not like her at all.
In that moment I felt tempted, so tempted, to close the door, get in the car and drive home.
Instead, we went to the library. We sat in the middle row and as I sat him in my lap I looked over at another child walking about barefoot. And another. And then yet another. Some mothers proferring sippy cups, some with slim purses that seemed to hold nothing. I suddenly feel lighter.
Maneuvering through the library aisles after, I paused behind a woman blocking the aisle with her stroller. She glanced to see me waiting and blushed, I am so sorry she said as she moved to the side. No problem I said as I walked past her. Her little boy, a child of three, gap toothed with straight blond hair flushed at this. Don't say that! don't say sorry! he yelled. It's rude not to say sorry when you've done something wrong, his mother said in a soothing voice. The boy stared at her for a moment his mouth parted, and then puffed up his chest, crossed his arms and screamed so loud not a person in the library could have misunderstood YOU ARE RUDE TO ME AND YOU NEVER SAY SORRY! WHY YOU SAY SORRY TO OTHER PEOPLE ONLY?
All heads turned towards them. I saw her through the corner of my eye, frozen in place by her son's words. She glanced at me for a moment, and then quietly strolled her son away. And I realized, in that moment, as she saw me with my own toddler who at that moment was browsing a board book while I looked at books for myself- I became the other mother.
It used to be that I felt my self-esteem drop three notches staring at the photo-shopped celebs hawking new diet solutions at the check-out aisle, now its other mothers be it through bubbly updates of motherhood bliss on facebook, or the mother singing like she's Mary Poppins to her darling child in the grocery aisle [yes, really]. The look on this mother's face as she quietly left the library told me I'm not the only one who does this. As women, we do this. We judge ourselves more harshly than anyone else ever could. There are always going to be other mothers. Me? I'm his mother. Imperfect, learning as I go, flawed at best. But I love him. I'd walk on hot coals for him. Juggle them too if necessary. I will never reach the standard of the other mother, but I don't know if any mother ever can. I just hope when he's fully grown, he will look past the things I did wrong, and remember the one thing I did right, which is love him with everything that I am.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Fifty Book Challenge #10-13
Light and fluffy. Definitely not heavy. For obvious reasons that is what I wanted in my books while in Florida. I'm so glad I dove in and searched for such books because after a very long reading slump where I actually began wondering if I'd ever read regularly again, the state of inertia is finally over. I challenged myself to read fifty books this year- and considering I'm at book #14 at the moment I don't know if this mid-summer reading-burst will help me reach my goal but there's something to be said for trying. I used to post my book reviews on my review site. There are hundreds of books there broken down by category. This year I decided to update my 50 book challenge book reviews on my writing site and while I had been doing it, the truth is it's a lot of work to upkeep and update multiple blogs. As much as I love the concept of separate blogs for separate facets of me, its not possible to do each one justice given the fact that time- it be limited.
In any case, without further ado, the books:
The Heights. I could tell you this story is about a couple with two small boys living in a sought-after part of NYC and how their quiet normal lives are turned upside down by the arrival of a new neighbor. I could, but the plot is really besides the point. The point of this book is the effortless prose and the well-rendered characters, the type that will stick with you long after you are finished reading. It's a light read to be certain, but its done well. I didn't like how the author ended the story but I still love the book and will definitely be keeping my eye out for other books he's written.
Spoiled. I love the Fug Girls. When I heard they wrote a YA book I definitely planned to get it from the library but when I read a starred review on NPR hailing it as light and well-written I bought it right away. If books could be cotton candy, Spoiled would fit the bill. Two long lost sisters reunite, one a down-to-earth midwestern girl who only recently learned she's the daughter of a celebrity, the other a spoiled LA chick who is jealous at this newfound sister entering her life and taking from her precious time with her father. It's completely predictabe down to the last page, but I knew that going into it. I just wanted a new fresh funny take on a very tired story plot. While it was good enough, the name-dropping of actors and dress designers and purses was way too much and distracting me from getting on with the story. I expected pop culture references and designer labels, its the Fug Girls! but it was excessive and got in the way of the story. The pop culture references ensure this will be a book that will not make sense to a future generation, but for this one, its good enough, and it was the first book I managed to finish in months- so that's saying something.
Still Missing. I saw this book on the 'new to paperback' section of B&N. I simply meant to browse it to see if I should add it to my library queue. My normal rule for buying books is a) only if I liked it after reading at the library, or b) if its just not available at the library, or c) if I want to support the author because I know or like them. I guess I can now add d) I can't put this book down and now the B&N employees are staring at me leading me to wonder if reading books cover-to-cover while in a bookstore constitutes shoplifting. So I bought it. The story is narrated by the protagonist during her therapy sessions where she recounts a kidnapping and the effects that did not end with her freedom. This book is super-suspenseful but also a no need to dive into reserve brain cells type of book. Things start with a wham and don't slow down until the last page. I don't love the writing style- the author's voice seeped through too much- but this book was about the story not the writing. If you've ever accidentally channel surfed yourself into a Lifetime movie you couldn't stop watching [you know, the one where the woman marries this awesome guy but then he turns out to harbor a really dark secret and is actually a jerk? Yeah, that one!] then you will love this book. Not a contender for the National Book Award- but entertaining and interesting.
Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. It's strange to keep saying I normally go to the library and then review all books that I purchased, including this one. In my defense, it was a particularly mundane day and when I saw this book at Target while shopping for diapers and paper napkins I just wanted something cool to dive into when I got home. Plus a friend said she loved it. And it was 20% off. If you like Jane Austen you might like this. It's well-written, poignant and funny, and explores a topic I don't normally read about in modern literature- the concept of growing older told with a sharp eye on the reality without consuming us in its desolation. It is also a love story between a Pakistani woman and a British army Major in a world where such a thing is unheard of. I think the author overdid it a bit with descriptions in the beginning and so it took me months to get past the first fifty pages, but once I reached page 100 it was downhill reading from there. Definitely one I'll re-read again.
Good books make my day, so thankful to have finally found some, currently inhaling What is the What loaned from a friend and double-checking my library catalog because fifty book challenges means one cannot purchase each book one reads- well one could I guess- but one would not be financially wise in doing so. One thinks.
Hope you found this helpful! What good books have you read lately?
In any case, without further ado, the books:
Spoiled. I love the Fug Girls. When I heard they wrote a YA book I definitely planned to get it from the library but when I read a starred review on NPR hailing it as light and well-written I bought it right away. If books could be cotton candy, Spoiled would fit the bill. Two long lost sisters reunite, one a down-to-earth midwestern girl who only recently learned she's the daughter of a celebrity, the other a spoiled LA chick who is jealous at this newfound sister entering her life and taking from her precious time with her father. It's completely predictabe down to the last page, but I knew that going into it. I just wanted a new fresh funny take on a very tired story plot. While it was good enough, the name-dropping of actors and dress designers and purses was way too much and distracting me from getting on with the story. I expected pop culture references and designer labels, its the Fug Girls! but it was excessive and got in the way of the story. The pop culture references ensure this will be a book that will not make sense to a future generation, but for this one, its good enough, and it was the first book I managed to finish in months- so that's saying something. 
Still Missing. I saw this book on the 'new to paperback' section of B&N. I simply meant to browse it to see if I should add it to my library queue. My normal rule for buying books is a) only if I liked it after reading at the library, or b) if its just not available at the library, or c) if I want to support the author because I know or like them. I guess I can now add d) I can't put this book down and now the B&N employees are staring at me leading me to wonder if reading books cover-to-cover while in a bookstore constitutes shoplifting. So I bought it. The story is narrated by the protagonist during her therapy sessions where she recounts a kidnapping and the effects that did not end with her freedom. This book is super-suspenseful but also a no need to dive into reserve brain cells type of book. Things start with a wham and don't slow down until the last page. I don't love the writing style- the author's voice seeped through too much- but this book was about the story not the writing. If you've ever accidentally channel surfed yourself into a Lifetime movie you couldn't stop watching [you know, the one where the woman marries this awesome guy but then he turns out to harbor a really dark secret and is actually a jerk? Yeah, that one!] then you will love this book. Not a contender for the National Book Award- but entertaining and interesting.
Good books make my day, so thankful to have finally found some, currently inhaling What is the What loaned from a friend and double-checking my library catalog because fifty book challenges means one cannot purchase each book one reads- well one could I guess- but one would not be financially wise in doing so. One thinks.
Hope you found this helpful! What good books have you read lately?
Monday, June 20, 2011
Random thoughts. Because organized ones require sleep.
1. Before becoming parents K and I were super excited about the whole 'kids under two fly free' rule on airlines. We're going to travel like crazy until he's two we said. There is a good reason flights for children under two are free. Because no one in their right mind should be traveling on the regular with a child under two, and airlines are banking you won't be making a habit of it once you've tried it once, particularly alone. I have no redeeming words to say about my flight home from Florida except to say that if you feel time just goes too fast with your child, get on a plane for a one hour flight and watch the seconds turn to hours. I will save you the gory details that required two outfit changes [both him, and me] plus a seat cover change and my hair coated in apple sauce [not the best look when greeting ones husband standing with balloons and flowers at the gate] but a brief PSA: when you have a child of the toddling sort, never ever take a window seat particularly one wedged in a three seater row with two sleeping passengers next to you. Always take the aisle seat. Always. And Waleed? You owe me.
2. Though I had access to television [including BRAVO!] and internet while staying at my parent's place, the desire to use either was limited at best. At first it was simply too hectic with trips to and from the hospital, and all the other things to take care of when a family is in crisis, but once things settled down it just felt nicer to unwind with conversation and a cup of chai instead of with a screen. In the evenings once people went to sleep I found myself reading and ended up reading four books during my time there. Disconnecting from screens of all sorts I also felt more connected with Waleed than I thought possible. While I always play with him and engage with him, there is something to be said for the quick e-mail one checks or replies to in the middle of a feeding. Disconnecting felt freeing. I felt more peaceful, more in tune to my thoughts and feelings than I have in a long long time. Must remember to unplug more often. [Said while blogging, I realize]
3. Now that I'm home I have time to pick out the winners of the give-away I had running in May. Debating posting a blog about it [since who but those who won will be interested in reading it] but in any case will pick by the end of the week and send e-mails out to all those who won by this Friday.
4. My agent gave me feedback on my manuscript a while back and while I agreed with her advice I felt at a loss on what to do about it. Each day for the past month I sat at the computer dumbstruck as to how to proceed. Nothing felt right. I would write pages, and wish for words on actual paper to feel the satisfying crunch of said paper as I crumbled the detested words and flung them into a trashcan [hitting delete, no matter how forcefully, is just not as satisfying]. During my time in Florida the last thing on my mind was my book since more pressing matters were obviously at hand. So it figures that it was then, as I drove to run an errand my mind running over grocery lists and Target tasks that my protagonist spoke to me as though from out of the blue [inspiration it seems, always does strike, like lightening]. Through no effort on my own, she came to me, shared her life so clearly I could see it unfold before my eyes and I realized ofcourse! How could it have ended any other way? I had no pen or paper on me and all too aware of my swiss cheese memory of late I turned to my cell phone and dictated it into my text message voice activated system and sent myself approximately 20 texts with the ending. While there is something to be said for the hard work and effort that goes into writing, those brief moments where you are just struck with vision and the words flow like water are the magical moments you live for.
5. And smartphones, it appears, while possessing the undoubted flaw of making one overly plugged in, are helpful when inspired without writing utensils it seems.
6. As I sit down to put the final polishing on my manuscript, I realize there are benefits of being at this in between stage. The world and its possibilities are limitless. No one has said no yet. Everyone might say yes. Each book we read, whether its one we savor and read again on stormy days, or one we skim and toss back in the library return bin were borne of blood, sweat and tears. [Generally speaking, I don't know Snooki's writing process] Yet when we set about to write as an unknown we toil on our own dime and our reserves of hope. Sometimes I read blog posts and articles of how dire things are in publishing and get disheartened. But- just the other day as I browsed a bookstore I found three paperbacks written by debut novelists, well received and well ranked on the best seller lists. A reminder that dire does not mean impossible. That while I am not guaranteed to succeed, I am guaranteed to fail if I don't try at all. I came across an old post I wrote in 2007 before I had a finished manuscript and an agent who believed in me, before I really put pen to paper. The same fears? Ever present today. If we lived our lives not doing because we were afraid- what a different life we'd live. A firm reminder to me to not worry about the future but to focus on now, the business of getting this writing done and making sure all that I have control over I do to the best of my abilities; once I've done all I can, what will be will be.
Keep walking. Though there's no place to get to. Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings. Move within but don't move the way that fear makes you move" Rumi
2. Though I had access to television [including BRAVO!] and internet while staying at my parent's place, the desire to use either was limited at best. At first it was simply too hectic with trips to and from the hospital, and all the other things to take care of when a family is in crisis, but once things settled down it just felt nicer to unwind with conversation and a cup of chai instead of with a screen. In the evenings once people went to sleep I found myself reading and ended up reading four books during my time there. Disconnecting from screens of all sorts I also felt more connected with Waleed than I thought possible. While I always play with him and engage with him, there is something to be said for the quick e-mail one checks or replies to in the middle of a feeding. Disconnecting felt freeing. I felt more peaceful, more in tune to my thoughts and feelings than I have in a long long time. Must remember to unplug more often. [Said while blogging, I realize]
3. Now that I'm home I have time to pick out the winners of the give-away I had running in May. Debating posting a blog about it [since who but those who won will be interested in reading it] but in any case will pick by the end of the week and send e-mails out to all those who won by this Friday.
4. My agent gave me feedback on my manuscript a while back and while I agreed with her advice I felt at a loss on what to do about it. Each day for the past month I sat at the computer dumbstruck as to how to proceed. Nothing felt right. I would write pages, and wish for words on actual paper to feel the satisfying crunch of said paper as I crumbled the detested words and flung them into a trashcan [hitting delete, no matter how forcefully, is just not as satisfying]. During my time in Florida the last thing on my mind was my book since more pressing matters were obviously at hand. So it figures that it was then, as I drove to run an errand my mind running over grocery lists and Target tasks that my protagonist spoke to me as though from out of the blue [inspiration it seems, always does strike, like lightening]. Through no effort on my own, she came to me, shared her life so clearly I could see it unfold before my eyes and I realized ofcourse! How could it have ended any other way? I had no pen or paper on me and all too aware of my swiss cheese memory of late I turned to my cell phone and dictated it into my text message voice activated system and sent myself approximately 20 texts with the ending. While there is something to be said for the hard work and effort that goes into writing, those brief moments where you are just struck with vision and the words flow like water are the magical moments you live for.
5. And smartphones, it appears, while possessing the undoubted flaw of making one overly plugged in, are helpful when inspired without writing utensils it seems.
6. As I sit down to put the final polishing on my manuscript, I realize there are benefits of being at this in between stage. The world and its possibilities are limitless. No one has said no yet. Everyone might say yes. Each book we read, whether its one we savor and read again on stormy days, or one we skim and toss back in the library return bin were borne of blood, sweat and tears. [Generally speaking, I don't know Snooki's writing process] Yet when we set about to write as an unknown we toil on our own dime and our reserves of hope. Sometimes I read blog posts and articles of how dire things are in publishing and get disheartened. But- just the other day as I browsed a bookstore I found three paperbacks written by debut novelists, well received and well ranked on the best seller lists. A reminder that dire does not mean impossible. That while I am not guaranteed to succeed, I am guaranteed to fail if I don't try at all. I came across an old post I wrote in 2007 before I had a finished manuscript and an agent who believed in me, before I really put pen to paper. The same fears? Ever present today. If we lived our lives not doing because we were afraid- what a different life we'd live. A firm reminder to me to not worry about the future but to focus on now, the business of getting this writing done and making sure all that I have control over I do to the best of my abilities; once I've done all I can, what will be will be.
Keep walking. Though there's no place to get to. Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings. Move within but don't move the way that fear makes you move" Rumi
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The fact that he won't eat. And I no longer sleep.
When Waleed was little [as opposed to the college professor he is now] he ate anything. Fettuccine. Stir Fry. Fish. And like a fish he wouldn't stop eating though given his high activity level his constant eating resulted in very little upward incline on the weight charts. Now, while he still eats anything from paper to pad thai [I'm fairly certain he's part goat], two to three bites in he waves his hand, annoyed, indicating he's done which isn't possible since he last ate four hours earlier and played more vigorously than even a certain Miami Heat basketball player [who really could have made more free throws on game six]. After that much activity, how can a few bites fill him up?
I'm told not to push it. Let him stop eating when he wants, after all, children never 'starve themselves to death'; when he's hungry he'll eat. Yes. I believe in my son's survival instinct. However. I take issue with the 'when he's hungry he'll eat' because while he does eat, since lately he wont eat during the day he is now hungry at approximately 1am, 4am, 5am. [And last night, up on the hour every hour] His survival instinct is interfering with my sleep instinct.
It's possible the waking is unrelated. He is [finally] getting teeth [four at once!] plus I read kids at this age can wake because they begin actively dreaming now and wake up screaming when they find themselves in a dark room when seconds earlier they were prancing around grabbing bunnies and running head first down the stairs [which is what I imagine is the stuff baby dreams are made of] but regardless, even if he was sleeping through the night, he needs to eat- I think?
The experts say you shouldn't teach your kid to clear their plate. It can lead to long-term eating and obesity issues. Yes. But. How do I make sure he's getting his nutrition when my kid is eating three bites per meal? Back home I'll just slog out the refusal getting a bite here and there be it through 'airplane' mode [as in make high pitched sounds to make him gape at me like I've officially lost it giving me the mouth opening large enough to stick a spoonful of food in]. Usually we make it to the end of the bowl in this way at home, but here amongst grandparents, he's somehow aware of his many sympathizers so puts on grand displays of protests which on the bright side leave me fairly confident he'll be thanking me for an Academy Award someday.
To be fair he does usually eat one meal a day with vigor, and he loves snacks like apple sauce and string cheese, its just that the chomping emptying the fridge baby of months past is no more despite the variety of foods I try offering him. Maybe this is just the new normal. Except, the hourly wakings is not sustainable. I woke this morning put two tea bags in a mug and stuck it in the microwave. Without water. The brain cells that I was slowly regenerating seem to be jumping ship once more. Sleep- it was nice while it lasted.
Can you relate? What are you doing, or plan to do, or have done to handle this eating or non-eating issue?
I'm told not to push it. Let him stop eating when he wants, after all, children never 'starve themselves to death'; when he's hungry he'll eat. Yes. I believe in my son's survival instinct. However. I take issue with the 'when he's hungry he'll eat' because while he does eat, since lately he wont eat during the day he is now hungry at approximately 1am, 4am, 5am. [And last night, up on the hour every hour] His survival instinct is interfering with my sleep instinct.
It's possible the waking is unrelated. He is [finally] getting teeth [four at once!] plus I read kids at this age can wake because they begin actively dreaming now and wake up screaming when they find themselves in a dark room when seconds earlier they were prancing around grabbing bunnies and running head first down the stairs [which is what I imagine is the stuff baby dreams are made of] but regardless, even if he was sleeping through the night, he needs to eat- I think?
The experts say you shouldn't teach your kid to clear their plate. It can lead to long-term eating and obesity issues. Yes. But. How do I make sure he's getting his nutrition when my kid is eating three bites per meal? Back home I'll just slog out the refusal getting a bite here and there be it through 'airplane' mode [as in make high pitched sounds to make him gape at me like I've officially lost it giving me the mouth opening large enough to stick a spoonful of food in]. Usually we make it to the end of the bowl in this way at home, but here amongst grandparents, he's somehow aware of his many sympathizers so puts on grand displays of protests which on the bright side leave me fairly confident he'll be thanking me for an Academy Award someday.
To be fair he does usually eat one meal a day with vigor, and he loves snacks like apple sauce and string cheese, its just that the chomping emptying the fridge baby of months past is no more despite the variety of foods I try offering him. Maybe this is just the new normal. Except, the hourly wakings is not sustainable. I woke this morning put two tea bags in a mug and stuck it in the microwave. Without water. The brain cells that I was slowly regenerating seem to be jumping ship once more. Sleep- it was nice while it lasted.
Can you relate? What are you doing, or plan to do, or have done to handle this eating or non-eating issue?
Monday, June 13, 2011
Stumbling blocks on the journey to language
Like many parents I have lofty goals for my child. I want him to be good-hearted, happy, joyous, and free. And to one day buy his mother a waterfront condo overlooking the mountains of Kauai. [Waleed, if you're reading this years hence, just kidding. Really. Unless you want to. I mean, I wouldn't say no.] One of my deepest wishes however is to give my child the gift of being multilingual. I'm still in Florida and the effect of hearing Urdu and Punjabi day in and day out [I am accepting my child's Urdu will be a Punjabi-Urdu Hybrid- I'm okay with hybrid, its better than none at all] is immeasurably beneficial as I hear him trying out sounds and vowels not typical of English but in the tongue I wish to impart.
As much as I'm not a big fan of TV, my mom, who scoops up Waleed when he rises at 6:30am perky as a bunny on red bull, loves starting the morning with him watching a recorded Urdu drama on PTV each morning. [And extra sleep versus making sure little guy doesn't get TV exposure? Sleep is a selfish beast. And it wins each time].
Their daily ritual made me wonder about the benefits of watching some Urdu-language shows so I sat down at my increasingly rare moment at the computer to see what youtube had to offer in the way of Urdu language cartoons. Most were downright odd like a seemingly possessed girl singing urdu poems or this Tom and Jerry dubbed Punjabi 'song' but then I saw this, a properly rendered cartoon described as a story about a bird and crow with a lesson to boot! [In Hindi- but close enough] So I plucked my son in my lap, turned up the volume to watch this:
It's a tale about a crow. His house crumbles in a storm. Amidst thundering rain he knocks at his neighbor bird's door, begging for help. In a minute she says with one excuse after another. All while crow shivers and ducks lightening. Finally, she lets him in and orders him to babysit while she bathes. He does. But he's hungry. So he eats some kheer cooking on the stove. The bird sees him eat it. She gets mad. She pulls out a burning log. And burns his tail off. The moral of the story: Don't eat other people's food. I am not kidding, that's the lesson. While I know my son will experience the harshness this world has to offer, teaching him via cartoon that most people are only looking out for themselves and don't enjoy sharing and that its a dogeatdogeatworld are not exactly lessons I want to impart just yet.
My dad and I spent a good ten minutes tonight laughing [against doctor's orders- whoops] at this old school Cookie Monster sketch asking for a box of cookies at a library [back when Cookie Monster as opposed to carrots ate, well, cookies] and as I looked through more such videos [way more than a grown person without a child in their lap has any business watching with rapt attention] I felt downright nostalgic for the shows of my youth and wished so much my son could perhaps watch some good high quality similar stuff in Urdu with lessons not quite as traumatic as 'don't knock on a neighbor's door when you lose your house in a storm- they got better things to do'. In Hindi or Urdu, they must be out there. Just need to find it. In the meantime? PTV at grandma's house where pretty pasty ladies in dramatic falsettos swoon over marriage proposals will just have to do.
What creative methods are you using/plan to use/have used on the path to impart language to your child?
As much as I'm not a big fan of TV, my mom, who scoops up Waleed when he rises at 6:30am perky as a bunny on red bull, loves starting the morning with him watching a recorded Urdu drama on PTV each morning. [And extra sleep versus making sure little guy doesn't get TV exposure? Sleep is a selfish beast. And it wins each time].
Their daily ritual made me wonder about the benefits of watching some Urdu-language shows so I sat down at my increasingly rare moment at the computer to see what youtube had to offer in the way of Urdu language cartoons. Most were downright odd like a seemingly possessed girl singing urdu poems or this Tom and Jerry dubbed Punjabi 'song' but then I saw this, a properly rendered cartoon described as a story about a bird and crow with a lesson to boot! [In Hindi- but close enough] So I plucked my son in my lap, turned up the volume to watch this:
It's a tale about a crow. His house crumbles in a storm. Amidst thundering rain he knocks at his neighbor bird's door, begging for help. In a minute she says with one excuse after another. All while crow shivers and ducks lightening. Finally, she lets him in and orders him to babysit while she bathes. He does. But he's hungry. So he eats some kheer cooking on the stove. The bird sees him eat it. She gets mad. She pulls out a burning log. And burns his tail off. The moral of the story: Don't eat other people's food. I am not kidding, that's the lesson. While I know my son will experience the harshness this world has to offer, teaching him via cartoon that most people are only looking out for themselves and don't enjoy sharing and that its a dogeatdogeatworld are not exactly lessons I want to impart just yet.
My dad and I spent a good ten minutes tonight laughing [against doctor's orders- whoops] at this old school Cookie Monster sketch asking for a box of cookies at a library [back when Cookie Monster as opposed to carrots ate, well, cookies] and as I looked through more such videos [way more than a grown person without a child in their lap has any business watching with rapt attention] I felt downright nostalgic for the shows of my youth and wished so much my son could perhaps watch some good high quality similar stuff in Urdu with lessons not quite as traumatic as 'don't knock on a neighbor's door when you lose your house in a storm- they got better things to do'. In Hindi or Urdu, they must be out there. Just need to find it. In the meantime? PTV at grandma's house where pretty pasty ladies in dramatic falsettos swoon over marriage proposals will just have to do.
What creative methods are you using/plan to use/have used on the path to impart language to your child?
Monday, June 06, 2011
Random thoughts from the waiting room
1. Food is a funny thing. It doesn't matter and it does. You must eat but the last thing on your mind is chopping onions and mixing yogurt. And yet- there is only so much Panera and Pizza Hut one can eat. [Is it possible to get sick of Panera? Never thought it could happen, but I'm reaching the tipping point]. When I used to make meals for friends going through a crisis I thought it was more for me than them- me doing something, anything, to help in a small way. Now I realize how valuable such assistance is. It's just one less thing for someone to think about. And I'm bringing by food tonight is better than If you want me to bring food don't hesitate to ask. Because people hesitate. People won't ask.
2. Though my mother has made enough food to feed a small nation I found myself in the grocery store today purchasing fixings for fajitas. Where will we fit all these things my mother asked watching me unload peppers, onions, salsa and sour cream. I don't know. I just know that when my aunt had open heart surgery I made fajitas. And she liked it. And she got better. And while I know fajitas are not good luck charms in any culture or faith- similar circumstances seemed to merit similar food so I went with my go-to food for open heart surgery [And its a little sad to have a 'go-to' food for open heart surgery].
3. When I passed the bar exam I sent my dad this mug. Considered taking it with me to the hospital to put amongst the flowers, balloons and get well cards:
Except I worried his doctors might not find it quite as amusing.
4. My car side mirrors got busted a few years back and I've since mastered the art of a good over the shoulder glance. My father is unimpressed with my mastery and has for years admonished me at each opportunity to get my mirrors fixed. The morning after surgery I sat down across from him, held his hand and leaned in as he moved his mouth to speak, I've spoken with your mother and your brothers will be taking your car to my mechanic to get the mirrors fixed- no questions or debate. When these are your father's first words after surgery you know that a) he's going to be okay and b) saying no is not an option. Check. Mate.
5. And the kind of dad whose first thought after a triple bypass surgery is this is the perfect opportunity to convince my daughter to get her car mirrors fixed- is the kind of father you know you are damn lucky to have in your life. The only way to repay him is to be the best parent to my son that I can possibly be.
2. Though my mother has made enough food to feed a small nation I found myself in the grocery store today purchasing fixings for fajitas. Where will we fit all these things my mother asked watching me unload peppers, onions, salsa and sour cream. I don't know. I just know that when my aunt had open heart surgery I made fajitas. And she liked it. And she got better. And while I know fajitas are not good luck charms in any culture or faith- similar circumstances seemed to merit similar food so I went with my go-to food for open heart surgery [And its a little sad to have a 'go-to' food for open heart surgery].
3. When I passed the bar exam I sent my dad this mug. Considered taking it with me to the hospital to put amongst the flowers, balloons and get well cards:
4. My car side mirrors got busted a few years back and I've since mastered the art of a good over the shoulder glance. My father is unimpressed with my mastery and has for years admonished me at each opportunity to get my mirrors fixed. The morning after surgery I sat down across from him, held his hand and leaned in as he moved his mouth to speak, I've spoken with your mother and your brothers will be taking your car to my mechanic to get the mirrors fixed- no questions or debate. When these are your father's first words after surgery you know that a) he's going to be okay and b) saying no is not an option. Check. Mate.
5. And the kind of dad whose first thought after a triple bypass surgery is this is the perfect opportunity to convince my daughter to get her car mirrors fixed- is the kind of father you know you are damn lucky to have in your life. The only way to repay him is to be the best parent to my son that I can possibly be.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
About sunshowers after storms: what happened
My father had a heart attack Saturday evening- its mild my family assured me [as much of an assurance as anyone can give when the words heart attack are involved]. He'll be fine, the doctors said. He exercises daily, watches his diet and the initial tests prove promising. Except the initial tests were wrong. He wasn't fine. So not fine that the doctors showing the video of the blockages explained my father's well being as occupying the realm of miracles and fortunate happenstance. The initial insistence of there's no need to come fell to the wayside. We packed our things that evening to drive the eight hours to my parent's home hoping to get there in time for his open heart triple bypass surgery.
There's a Rumi poem I read in college and while I no longer can recall it verbatim, its essence has always remained in my heart: One fine day Prophet Muhammad steps out from his prayers and as he moves to put on his shoes a bird swoops in, snatching the shoe away. Overturning the shoe from the sky, a snake falls out. The bird that first appeared to insult the Prophet infact saved his life; the truth of the initial moment not evident until later.
In much the same way, the heart attack which at first appeared to be a devastating blow, in fact turned out to be a polite tap tap to look behind the curtain and see a staggering amount of blockages that were it not for the mild heart attack would never have been detected- until- well- I don't want to think about it.
He's still in the ICU. He's not officially out of the clear but the darkness that settled over my heart is lifting as I see him open his eyes, then speak, then sit, then stand. I apologize for the vagueness of my last post- somehow giving what was happening words made it seem more frightening- more real; but I wanted to tell you that your comments? They were like a hug, a shoulder squeeze a reminder that even in my darkest hour I wasn't alone. The fact that you reached out means more than you know. Its in your most difficult moments you see who truly cares, and it is in these difficult moments support of any sort is needed the most. Thank you.
Sometimes I get very bogged down when I consider the power of prayer. Why do some get answered and others denied. I cup my hands in supplication and wonder how to begin asking when so many others ask for the same and do not receive. While I still struggle with these questions I can no less pray for his recovery as I can choose not to breathe. Please keep us in your prayers, your support means more than you know- may things only get better here on out.
[I also apologize about the delay of the blogging give-away, I'm not in a place to mail things out but hopefully in a few weeks time I will get to that. Apologies once more.]
There's a Rumi poem I read in college and while I no longer can recall it verbatim, its essence has always remained in my heart: One fine day Prophet Muhammad steps out from his prayers and as he moves to put on his shoes a bird swoops in, snatching the shoe away. Overturning the shoe from the sky, a snake falls out. The bird that first appeared to insult the Prophet infact saved his life; the truth of the initial moment not evident until later.
In much the same way, the heart attack which at first appeared to be a devastating blow, in fact turned out to be a polite tap tap to look behind the curtain and see a staggering amount of blockages that were it not for the mild heart attack would never have been detected- until- well- I don't want to think about it.
He's still in the ICU. He's not officially out of the clear but the darkness that settled over my heart is lifting as I see him open his eyes, then speak, then sit, then stand. I apologize for the vagueness of my last post- somehow giving what was happening words made it seem more frightening- more real; but I wanted to tell you that your comments? They were like a hug, a shoulder squeeze a reminder that even in my darkest hour I wasn't alone. The fact that you reached out means more than you know. Its in your most difficult moments you see who truly cares, and it is in these difficult moments support of any sort is needed the most. Thank you.
Sometimes I get very bogged down when I consider the power of prayer. Why do some get answered and others denied. I cup my hands in supplication and wonder how to begin asking when so many others ask for the same and do not receive. While I still struggle with these questions I can no less pray for his recovery as I can choose not to breathe. Please keep us in your prayers, your support means more than you know- may things only get better here on out.
[I also apologize about the delay of the blogging give-away, I'm not in a place to mail things out but hopefully in a few weeks time I will get to that. Apologies once more.]
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