On squeaky floors and monkey feet

Me: Hi, I'm Aisha.
Bob: Hi, I'm Bob. I live right below you.
Me: Oh! I've been meaning to chat with you. We have a toddler and he likes to run and--
Bob: I know.
Me: I'm so sorry. It's really rough to get him to be still. He's used to having his run of an entire house.
Bob: Rugs can muffle some noise. Do you guys plan to get a rug?
Me: Um, yeah, we have two.
Bob: Oh.
Me: Well, hopefully you work a 9-5 and he sleeps around 7 so it shouldn't be too bad.
Bob: I work from home.
Me: Oh.

Bob's a nice guy. Don't stop him from running around, he urged I've got plenty of white noise to fill the air.  He has a daughter and understands toddlers do as as they wish and usually they wish to run and toss things. The heavier the better. Despite his kind reassurances, if you know me, you know, I do feel badly that each step on our creaky floor boards is reflected below and that each run, skip and hop from our precocious toddler, registers far higher on the richter scale. White noise notwithstanding the floor boards are creaky. Very very creaky.

I do my best to head out as much as we can. Each morning after he wakes, we eat breakfast, and head to the park for a few hours [which as far as he's concerned is the epicenter of the Universe] and then its time to go home, snack, and nap for a few hours only to head out once more to run errands or explore our new hood. The weather's been good and the sights are still exciting so this isn't an issue at all.

But.

I don't want to be uncomfortable in my own home. And as much as I am making the most of my outdoor space, I do sort of miss those quiet moments where he ran about with his 'vacuum cleaner' and pretty much did his own thing while I could sit down and get some writing done or read a book peacefully. I want to keep the downstairs neighbor from being driven to making voodoo dolls of us but I also want to feel at ease in my own home. While I don't want him stomping about and throwing bowling balls at the ground, I don't want to stifle his curiosity and the rambunctiousness that is part of who he is. I'd also like to not feel guilty for living in my home.

And while I can take measures to stifle my own sounds:

I'm not sure what I can do to stifle his.

I know this isn't forever [and on the bright side, this does help us rule out condo-living as a permanent situation] but I don't want to rush house-hunting simply because I worry each day we live here we're driving our downstairs neighbor closer to the brink of noise-induced insanity.

Ever lived on an upper-level and found successful ways to curb the noise? Do slippers really help tone down any noise or am I just walking around in monkey feet for no reason? Any advice, tips, ideas [or commiseration] much appreciated!!

Closings, Close Quarters and other random thoughts.

On Monday we closed on our house. I expected our last weekend to be filled with bittersweet nostalgic reminiscing [of which I'm an olympic champion] but this did not happen as our buyers kept us on the edge of our seat so much so that had BRAVO known they'd have offered full reality TV rights to the whole debacle. Until late afternoon Monday we did not know with full certainty if we would close. 

But we did. We closed. Yes it took an entire day. Yes it was one of the top ten most stressful moments of my life. But its done. It's now insh'Allah behind me.

It's a strange free-wheeling free-floating anti-gravity sort of feeling to no longer be chained to a home and to not feel the burden of trees to trim or heaters to service. I feel like I can go anywhere. We could move to a suburb. Stay in the city. Move to San Francisco. Alaska. Fiji. Really, anything could happen. And while home ownership has its benefits [privacy for starters],  I feel liberated.

The liberation comes with a 1940's condo in the heart of the city overlooking a courtyard with a fantastic old tree which fascinates Waleed as he watches the squirrels jump from branch to branch from our living room window. Liberation is also 897 square feet. It's not the physical space that's tough to adjust to, its the lack of storage space. We gave away quite literally half of our belongings. And stored nearly everything else. We brought as much as could fit in our cars and yet its difficult since space is just so sparse. I'm reading up on tiny living and though its a challenge, its not permanent so it does not feel frustrating- instead it feels like a sort of adventure.

The storage issue is only second though to the fact that we reside on the second floor of a condo in which the floor boards creak. A lot. I worry about the downstairs neighbor, a kind piano teacher, who must be wondering why we brought our three show-ponies into the condo with us as what else could account for the hopping, skipping, and galloping noises to be heard overhead? Either Waleed's louder here, or because of the living space, I notice more. I want to be a good neighbor, but I fear creaky floor boards and fiesty toddlers make a difficult combination for peace and quiet downstairs. 

Hopefully he's not too bothered as we're hardly home. Unlike suburb living in which cars are critical, here, we walk. Today I walked to the bookstore, the library, the fro-yo shop and the doctor office down the street. I walked to the park. To dinner. I walked until my feet hurt and yet I didn't want to stop walking. There was too much to explore. To much to see. Too much I missed all these years. Time I can't get back.

And the people? They smile. They say hello. At the park someone asked how old my son was. She said he was cute. We made small talk. Later as the sun began to dip we sat at the steps of our condo as a lady paused laughing at Waleed's complete jaw dropped expression at the white puppy she was walking. Want to pet him? she asked. You have to understand, this never happened where I lived. I know this is not everyone's experience and I can only wonder if perhaps I was just the wrong color and by default most likely the wrong faith as well that I mostly felt invisible. Whatever the reasons, how nice this change is. I feels like I've come out of an abusive relationship and think every other guy will be the same. Except this new guy? He buys me flowers. He opens doors for me. I'm starting to like this new guy. I'm beginning to think he might be the one.

People ask me why I'm doing this all so backwards. Have no kids and own in the suburbs. Have kids and rent in the close quarters of the city. Honestly? The urgency hit because of our child. K's commute? 15 minutes as opposed to 60. The saved time is more precious than any interest bearing account. I don't want a large home for him that floats on an island alone. I want what I've always wanted: For his home to extend beyond the four corners of his walls. Will this place ultimately provide that? Can't say for certain yet but so far its promising. So far its worth finding out.

Hello. Goodbye. Thoughts on turning a chapter.

We put our house on the market three months ago, never thinking it would really sell. The market! It's awful! We heard nightly on the news in ominous tones. We did some research. They're right. Each year we wanted to move and each year these dire warnings held us back. Finally we went with the motto that guides me in most of my life if you try you're not guarunteed to succeed but if you don't try you're guarunteed to fail and decided to see what would happen. The worst case scenario? We stayed right where we were. With a roof over our head, food to eat, and clothes to wear. Not so bad in the global scheme of things. Our sign broke the first week. We never put it back up. That's how little we thought our chances were for actually moving our property.

Until someone called. And came twice. I baked cookies. Swept and mopped. And waited.

Can you move out in thirty days? They asked.

Sure, I responded.

Okay.

Wait. What?

It's easy to promise things when you don't actually think anything is going to happen, but I am now on the other end making good on a promise I didn't think I'd be asked to keep. With days left to go we just today leased a place in the heart of the city's most charming section and are packing an entire house and doing all that's involved in moving out of a house I lived in for 7.5 years.

I love my house. The mexican tiles. The chestnut hardwoods we installed just this Spring. It was warm. It was comfortable. But it was so far away from the city. Burdening us with long commutes and distance from the rich culture and vibrant walkable communities I've longed for ever since I experienced it on the streets of Brazil. I don't love living in the South. I wondered, if I lived closer to Atlanta's pulsing heart, would I be happier with my adopted city?

Since life is of finite quantity, we decided not to wait any longer to try and find out.

Though we made this decision carefully, considering it from all angles, now that what we hoped for is here I wonder: how do I say goodbye to my house? This is where I cooked meals for family and friends, where we kicked back and smoked sheesha into the late hours of the night lounging on floor cushions, eating far too many brownies, and contemplating the meaning of life [Though I think those sorts of moments are the meaning of life]. This is where I brought my son home from the hospital and watched him smile, laugh, crawl and take his first steps. That hill out back? It's my hill. The walk-in closet? It's mine.


But it's not. Not for long anyways. Once we sign the papers, to so much as tiptoe without consent on the grass we laid down as sod with our own bare hands will [technically] constitute trespass. That's weird to wrap my mind around. To want something, to be so thankful and joyful about it-- and yet to feel tears of the sad sort spill down your face just the same.

Change is never easy for me, even when the change promises good things like a toddler park down the street, and a Pilates studio, co-op garden, weekly local farmer markets, coffee, the post office, library, cafes and book shops and well pretty much everything just steps away from my front door. And the neighbors? I heard they stop and say hello.

It's what I've always wanted.

And while I feel a cornucopia of emotions-- its mostly happy. Mostly hopeful.

We're moving Sunday. Closing Monday.

And we're downsizing from 2400 square feet to approximately 800.

Close quarters? Um. Yeah. Kind of.[More on that later]. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers [since nothing is certain until it is] as we inch closer to the end of an era stepping foot into what is entirely unknown but filled with glimmers of hope for goodness to come.

Because beggars can be choosers. Apparently.

Homeless lady with baby outside Target today:

Bobina: Please. We are so hungry. We have nothing. Please help us.
Me: I'm sorry I have no cash but I just bought some baby food, here I'll give you some.
Bobina: What kind of baby food?
Me: Let me see. Earth's Best strawberry oatmeal, chunky orchard fruit, and split pea soup.
Bobina: Anything else?
Me: Um. No.
Bobina: pause. You know, she's not really that hungry. But thank you.

This is is far from the first time this has happened so I'm beginning to wonder:  Is it me? Am I missing out on some Miss Manners rules of etiquette in proffering items to the homeless? Because honestly, I'm befuddled.

Aisha, the stressed out jitterbug

To make a long story short: I'm feeling a bit stressed out lately [Long story coming as soon as I can find time to sit here and write about all of it] and when one thing after another piles up I tend to resemble a jittery person who may or may not have had ten cups of tea [which I have] and though I can tell myself that it's all going to work out [because no matter what, it will] and everyone I love tells me this too [because short of life or death matters nothing is as difficult as it seems present matter included] I still feel like a puppy with enthusiastic tendencies who hasn't had a walk in like a month. So why do I share this? Because I want your advice: What do you do to handle your stressful moments? What are your go-to relaxation tools and techniques that time and again work for you beyond anything else? Or tell me a joke. That might work too.

Happy Seventeen Month Birthday

Dear Waleed,

Just last Friday you turned seventeen months old. You climb chairs and jump onto the breakfast table stomping about making my morning tea distinctly less peaceful and though you have a new found affinity for nachos, you still only have six teeth. This was a whirlwind month with hardly a weekend spent home with trips to see grandparents [both sets], your mamus, your cousins, and khalas.

It's dizzying to keep track of all your changes while trying to keep track of which flight we're taking and where. And speaking of flying? After each flight someone inevitably approached us to tell us your child is a darling on the plane, so quiet and happy. To which all I have to say is while we did our best to maintain your shiny image of model-flying-child, the jumping on our knees, head bumps, and diaper explosions that made us go through every last outfit change until you were down to diapers [on a flight without a changing table] to greet your family post-flight? You and I both know how the flights really were and-- you owe me.

Still, the flights were worth it, like our trip to your Mamus. I felt struck again with how quickly you change. Just this past February you were afraid of sand and horrified at the sight of the limitless expanse of ocean before you and now? You took to the warm Miami water like a fish and played in the sand for hours examining the grains of sand as though within them lay the answer to every question you ever had.

We attended your Mamu Showieb's wedding in Baltimore this month and stayed with your Mamu Hasan and Mami Christina. Years ago, your uncles made my visits interesting by stealing my journals to recite aloud as I chased them through the house or imposing boys only clubs complete with signs, chairs and sheets to protect their exclusive VIP status. It was hard to imagine we could ever be friends-- and yet we are now-- and you? You became friends slowly, cautiously, with your own cousins. At first I worried about renewing the cycle of childhood angst when I saw distress over toys shared and playpens used for purposes some were not accustomed to but the camaraderie grew until it broke into an all out running-chasing frenzy in the empty prayer halls of your uncle's wedding. Maryland summers spent with my cousins are among my most cherished childhood memories.  You had a blast with your cousins and I hope it will be the first of many weekends to come.

This month I read babies believe themselves one with their mother. Only with the onset of language do they realize they own a distinct and independent space. I sense we're on the brink of this realization but right now? You point at your reflection in the mirror and grin mama. Soon this will change, just like everything else seems to be changing these days. One day you will realize your fully separate self.

This realization that you are on the brink of a distinct sense of self, the development of your id and ego and all that comes with it just a breath away, made me think of a conversation I had this month. A friend dealing with a broken relationship asked me when will my wounds heal to which I almost responded time heals all wounds except I felt struck by how smugly self-assured these words were. To simply let time do the work of healing wounded relationships with those we love is to believe we are immortal, and that we have an eternity of tomorrows. This isn't true Waleed. You are young and are loved by so many, but love is a precious commodity and to spurn loved ones is to spurn the greatest gift we are given. Time may heal wounds, but time is not guaranteed. Don't leave time to heal your hurt feelings with those you love. Drop the ego because before the face of love, ego for the sake of pride alone has no place. It's the single most important thing I learned when I became your mother.


Love,

Your Mama

Those days you really wish someone stole your wallet

Me: Excuse me. Has anyone turned in a black wristlet and purple phone?
Clerk: Did you lose your wallet?
Me: I had it on the top of my car while I loaded my groceries and when I looked up it was gone.
Clerk: Are you sure you had it on top of your car?
Me: Yes, I put it there to free my hands. I distinctly remember it. Then I closed the door. And it was gone.
Clerk: Did you check your car thoroughly?
Me: Ofcourse I did!! I checked the trunk, my diaper bag, everything!
Clerk: Maybe you can double check, just to absolutely rule it out.
Me: No. I distinctly remember putting it on the roof of my car and now its not there.
Clerk: Yeah well, you wouldn't believe how often people come here saying they lost their wallet but they never even brought it to the store with them.
Me: WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?! I HAD MY WALLET. I BOUGHT GROCERIES WITH MY WALLET. I'VE LOOKED EVERYWHERE FOR MY WALLET. MY WALLET IS GONE.
Clerk: Okay. Sorry. Fill out your information, if we find it we'll call you.

Forty minutes later after scouring the aisles, parking lot, and under the bottom of my car, I get in and on the bottom of the passenger seat? My wallet, and phone.

I take some comfort in the memory of a moment years ago when I insisted to mall security that I knew I parked my car by Dillard's and yes I am quite sure and no I didn't forget and park elsewhere how rude and why aren't you filing a stolen car report the perps might be in Alabama by now only to pull up in the mall security golf cart to the Macy's- and see my car. Yes, my memory sucks-- but it appears to be a constant thing staying steadily bad over time. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this on a [sadly] regular basis.

Unplugging: lessons from failure

Sometimes its good to be bored my father said to me when I complained as a child of endless summers of nothing to do and the television quota met for the day. I didn't realize it at the time but the musicals, skits, and stories written to allay the idleness were the most beneficial things I could have done for myself. I needed those quiet moments of nothing to reflect and grow creatively. Steve Jobs, may he rest in peace, despite being the man who brought us the ipod, smart phone, computers and all the other means to perennially distract ourselves credited his creativity to boredom:

I’m a big believer in boredom. Boredom allows one to indulge in curiosity and out of curiosity comes everything. All the [technology] stuff is wonderful, but having nothing to do can be wonderful, too.

Last week I wrote about my desire to unplug. Though I failed at my mission to kick the internet out of my life for a week as planned, I did learn a great deal, including just how seamlessly it has woven itself into the fabric of my life and how difficult it has become in this day-and-age to be bored. I listen to NPR streaming as I do morning chores. I read blogs on my smartphone as I put Waleed to sleep. Small things I never noticed until I tried stopping. Meth addicts might have handled their withdrawal with better dignity than me.

As much as I wanted to share how unplugging changed my life and I now sit by a zen garden each morning whilst doing yoga- I can't. The good thing though is I did learn about my habits. I became aware of how much I use the internet and in learning this I can learn to tone back. In particular I learned that:

(1) Facebook is a time-suck. It's purported benefit of connecting you with others is mitigated by the fact that if you're not connecting any other way, what relationship are you nurturing? The new format, the way it throws everyone's business in my face on a nonstop stream makes me feel sick. I was off FB for a week. I don't miss it. My posts auto-post to my account, but I'm debating deactivating and being done with the whole thing, especially after Ruby pointed out FB is quite the "Big Brother" I can't help but wonder is having an account worth it?

(2) I know some people thrive on twitter, and social revolutions perhaps stemmed from it but I've never fully understood it and time apart makes it seem even more disconnected to my daily life. The more I'm on twitter the more it matters, the less I am, the less it does. It feels like high school again. And I don't want to go back to high school. [though this applies to facebook as well I guess] and [does anyone else have these weird nightmares where they dream they found out they actually didn't graduate high school because they missed one credit and have to go back and start all over again? Just me? Mkay] And  while I know twitter is  beneficial for many, for me its more time-wasting than time-enhancing.

(3) Julia said it best, moderation is key when it comes to smart phones usage and connectivity in general. How insulting to those in the flesh before me if I'm clicking my phone responding to e-mails, texts, and reading updates effectively dismissing the value of those before me? How distracting a life to live doing three things at once? Now, while I enjoy my NPR as I do dishes, I put my phone away for meals. While I read blogs while waiting at a doctor's office, I close the laptop when I'm not using it to simply surf mindlessly.

While I plan to completely unplug at some point, at least for now, all or nothing doesn't work. But maybe with moderation, I might find a way to actually succeed in the long-term. The key with wanting to stop, is not to prove that I can, for the simple sake of a self-challenge- but to allow my brain some room to breathe, to think, and to create. And to teach my son to the same. He's growing up faster than I can blink, and no screen is beautiful enough to miss a moment of bearing witness to the person he is becoming. I hope when it comes time to give him his internet quota for the day, like my father and my TV quota, I will tell him to do as I do, and not just as I say. If that's not motivation to moderate, not sure what is.

Note to future self: thoughts on sleepless nights

There was a time, approximately one year, I spent more time awake at night than asleep. Where we rushed upstairs every ten minutes post-baby-bedtime to address tears and recriminations. Where I thought it just would never ever get better and against my better judgment began purchasing books upon books on baby sleep and felt worse than ever about my parenting skills which these books informed me were intrinsically tied with my child's sleep and the lack thereof. I finally resigned myself to a lifetime of wakings imagining my college-age son demanding a hug at 3am and told myself you know what? That's okay. And then-- it stopped. One day like a light switch, he turned off at 7:30pm and woke up exactly twelve hours later. A fluke we first thought. But no, it's continued this way with nary an interruption for the past four months. Until last night.

Last night at 4am we heard shrieks and instead of nudging the other we both sprang up and raced to his crib. He clung to me, his heart racing and then, after examining my face in the still of the night, kissed me and rested his head on my shoulder, the tension leaving his body until he was limp in my arms, fast asleep once more.

And I found as I rested my cheek against his fine baby hair and felt his arms wrapped around my neck, his head heavy on my shoulder-- I couldn't put him back down. He's almost halfway to two. Less a baby with each passing day. Man I'm going to miss him. The sleep deprivation. The toys that stick under my feet. The food tossed to the other end of the room. I'm going to miss it all. My cousin commented on what a good sleeper my son was while we were staying with him this past weekend. I had to smile as I realized he is a good sleeper. Now. Sometimes its hard to imagine it was any other way.

This is a note to my future self, should I be blessed enough to find myself with another little one someday, who also requires extensive night wakings and rockings, that this too shall pass, and that one day I'll have a night like last night where I'm awake at 4am actually feeling blessed for night wakings such as these.

It's a small world after all

At an out of town Baltimore area post-wedding hangout, talking to the lovely bride. . .

Me: I'm a lawyer but I'm home with my son now. I love it, plus I get to work on my writing.
Bride: Oh you write?
Me: Yes, multicultural fiction. Hopefully to one day be a published author.
Bride: Wait, what? Pause as she stares at me. Begin wondering if she finds publishing dreams akin to discussing the secret spiritual lives of koala bears.
Me: Yeah well, I wrote this book and I. . . Aw man, she must think I'm being pretentious like I'm a hoity toity?! Aisha why can't you just shut up and compliment people's dresses, and leave it at that?
Bride: Your name is Aisha?
Me: Um, yes.
Bride: Aisha Iqbal?
Me: Well, yeah, kind of. . .
Bride: I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
Me: Well we did just meet. . .
Bride: I READ YOUR BLOG!

If that isn't cool-- I'm not sure what is! [And incase you read my last post-- yes didn't do so well on abstaining from the internet for a week-- a post in my defense coming shortly]