This here life

Baby woke at eight o'clock. But I woke at seven [because he's sleep-trained me thus]. Spent the morning putting on diapers [backwards], searching for glasses [on my head] and a phone call from a frantic friend wondering if I was quite alright what with the twenty-five missed calls from me with unintelligible messages [Waleed]

In good news he added a new word to his limited verbal repertoire this morning. In addition to highly necessary ones such as tractor, ducky, and doggy, he now stands at the foot of our bed, hands on hips, bellowing GREG! [our real estate agent who I assure you we do not speak to quite so forcefully]. We narrate all the live long day words like dood [milk], khana [food], and diaper-time, but he walks around gleefully shouting hathi [elephant], Jesus, and now, Greg. Which, while any new word is great, the words he chooses to pick up on are well, quite befuddling. Still, a word is a word. I'll take it. 

As I head to the park with Tigger on ten shots sugar my son, I take solace in the coffee shop next door. And the refills that will be had. Coffee, surely it was invented for days exactly like these?

On the arrival of terrible twos. And swatting.

My son while not speaking much, is advanced in other areas such as running, climbing, and throwing, and as it turns out, he's decided he doesn't need to wait for the big two point oh to jump right into the once-thought-to-be-mythical but now very real-so-very-real terrible twos.

To be fair, there's a lot of awesomeness. Like the mad-crazy-love. The curiosity at literally everything. The imitating [sometimes embarrassing when done in the company of others as your son finds tweezers and proceeds to 'do' his eyebrows], and the sleeping, oh dear God the sleeping is eternally beautiful and I will forever love this part of growing up.

But back to those terrible twos.

I'm okay with the new pickiness over all things food [and the tossing to the floor of all things food, which if you have advice, I will love you forever] but its the other new development that is getting to me: specifically, the swatting. My gentle little chipmunk who is usually the one beat upon at playgrounds and in livingrooms everywhere is now the one raising his baby hands at others. And this stern former-teacher who could stop children in their tracks with the look is absolutely baffled as to how to address this since my kid? He seems to think the look is the funniest thing ever.

In his defense, he doesn't go up to children to smack them, he does it when they enter into what he perceives as his personal space, such as entering the 'toy house' in the playground he was in first, or any other circumstance in which he feels like he needs to 'defend himself'. The swat is not hard. It could almost be confused for him patting the child on the head. And it has yet to provoke a cry. Most children just look at him with a confused expression and carry on their business. And while Baby Center tells me this is normal, it's still swatting, it could get painful when he develops more strength, and well, it's still not cool.

When the situation occurs, I get on eye-level, hold his hands firmly in mine and tell him no. I tell him we do not put our hands on people this way. I then take his hand and run it gently over my cheek to model gentle behavior and if we know the child affected, I take his hand and model gentle pat on the shoulder to show that if he must touch, this is how. He gets it in that moment, he looks down with puppy dog eyes, he models the behavior I showed him, and then ten minutes later, he completely forgets again.

He is not destructive or mean-spirited, but I don't want the swatting to lead to hitting or punching and want to stop it now at this particular phase. It's tough because I see in the moment, when a child is up in his grill, he doesn't pause to think, he swats, and well, I'm just confused as to how most effectively deal with this new turn of events in the ever changing parenting game.

How are you handling, or plan to handle, the discipline thing? Ever faced swatting? How did you successfully solve it? Or are you reading this with marker stained jeans and egg discards in your hair and are just glad to hear you're not the only one?

Waleed versus Crib. Waleed: 2. Crib: 0. Mama: Frazzled. [**Updated]

Just yesterday K and I had the following conversation:

K: When do you think we should transition him into a toddler bed?
Me: Maybe when he's three?
K: Not sooner? Like when we get a house? 
Me: That crib is the only reason he agrees to sleep. He can escape a toddler bed. He can't escape a crib.

Why did I tempt fate by having this conversation? Don't I know better? 

Because as of twenty minutes ago? He can climb out of his crib. Twice. I put him in for his nap. I leave the room. Two minutes later, grinning baby in PJs in the living room. I moved the rocking chair to the other end of his room. I took away his bumper. Two minutes later, the pitter patter of little feet on hardwood floors. K came home and Waleed eagerly demonstrated how:

And while its good to know how he does it. I also need to figure out how to stop it. Because this? This is bad. This is very very bad. I'm going to put him in his sleep sack for the next attempt since I'm assuming that might make things more challenging for him, but I can't transition him to a toddler bed yet since we're in a microscopic condo and we really want to stick with the furniture we have, and also because if we put him in a toddler bed how will we ever convince him to sleep since its so easy to jump out of a toddler bed? Though I guess its getting easy for him to jump out of a crib too.  

As I watch him stroll around the condo in his footed PJs inspecting books and relocating our shoes, I sense a self-satisfied pride in his gait. While I do want him to assert his sense of self, I do not want it asserted in Houdini-like-crib-escapes. Any advice, commiseration, sympathy will be rewarded in eternal gratitude from this very befuddled and quite overwhelmed mama.

Love Insh'Allah officially released TODAY [and a give-away] THE WINNER IS . . . . SHAWNA :)

Love Insh'Allah hit stands today! The same day the New York Times wrote this fantastic piece on it! And the book? It's already in its second printing! This is thanks to you. I know many of you already purchased the book but would you like an extra one to gift to someone? To celebrate release day I'm giving away one book. Want it? Leave a comment that say so. Contest ends 8pm EST 1/25/12. Proud to be a contributing author to the collection and as I revise my own novels, I hope one day soon I'll be sharing those with you too.


Based on Random.Org, Shawna you won the free copy!!! Please e-mail me by week's end with your address [aishacs at gmail dot com] and I will send it your way!

Where I'm From

I am from kinu fields and orange groves

From green bangles and crayola crayons

I am from Saved By The Bell and Garfield on childhood Saturday mornings.

I am from schoolyard bullies and sleepover slumber parties

From pizza and taco night and buttery potato parathas.

I am from Amelia Badelia, and Pele's Coat. From Sweet Valley High and Babysitters Club. From Judy Blume and Irene Hunt.

I am from library cards and backyard swing sets, from carvel ice cream, and constant make believe.

I am from notebooks filled with stories written not from want but insatiable need.

I am from chai cups, and dinner parties, from mixed tapes, and BFF heart chains.

From sandy beaches and long pants, from warm sunny skies and skin lighteners.

I am from Harpers Ferry and Days Inn. From Disney World and road trips.

And brothers, rotating in the same orbit of my universe.

I am from Hurricane Andrew that leveled my life and from the laughter at nail polish that remained unscathed as the world lay in fits of debris at our feet.

I am from farmers, and land owners, from Hindus and Turks. From converts and reverts. From a man who took a plane ride from the only place he knew to a place he never saw, and from a woman who also chose to do the same.

From the streets of Cordova, Costa Rican volcanoes, Blue Mosques and the crashing waves of Oahu, 

 From Midwestern snow days, Little Panda and sushi. I am from hookah, and Friday dinners,

and from my safe space to land.

I am from those that never were.

I am from the one that is. 

Thankful to Tracy for sharing this meme with me, one that was harder to write than I could have imagined but well worth the effort. As a Pakistani-American who is asked this question on a regular basis, it's therepeutic to consider where one is truly from, the experiences that make our life. I'm sure I will be revising and adding to this poem as time goes on. If you wish to do one to share on your own blog or to write privately, here is one of the links as to how to do it. Most don't follow the template, but no matter how you choose to write it, you'll be glad you did.

International Blog Delurking Week

It's that time again! International Delurking Week!!!! Okay, well, sort of. It may or may not have happened last week, but, I just found out about it now, and I reason, that if one forgot Valentines Day it didn't mean they couldn't give flowers and chocolates on some other day and make it just as special?  Its just a part of life after the 'RSS feed' that more people read your blog than actually leave a comment. Since there's a week set out out to delurk, I thought I'd ask if you're reading to stop and say hi! As the lovely Mel put it on her blog:

It is fairly easy. Leave a comment in the comment section below admitting you’re here. You can simply raise your hand and meekly admit you’re here with a simple, one-word “here”; or you can proudly raise your hand and tell us all a bit about yourself (my preferred method); or you can tell me what type of cookie you’d be if you were a lump of cookie dough. The point is I want to know about the people who read me.

Are you a blogger who also forgot about International Delurk-N-Say-Hi week? It's not too late to post this yourself! [and then I won't feel like the only one on date night at a fancy restaurant with a big pink bear on February 18th] Either way, if you're reading this [yes, you!] thank you for reading, and do say hello! please? pretty please? :)

Talking, and the fact that he's not.

Waleed flipped over at three weeks. He crawled at five months and took his first step in month nine. He ran by year one and races up and down stairs like he owns them. Was I one proud momma at these milestones reached earlier than the checklists stated? Did I boast as though I was personally responsible? In the words of a certain someone, you betcha. 

The other day at the playground, a cute 'Jerry Maguire' kid of four [I know, he told me] attempted to engage in a lengthy conversation with my son who stared at him like he sprouted three noses. Said child, turned to me:

Max: Why isn't he talking.
Me: Well, he's still a baby.
Max: How old is he?
Me: He's a year and a half
Max: My dad said I was talking by then. He said I talked before I could walk. He said talking is more important than walking. Walking isn't a big deal.

Touche.

It brought up again the nagging thought, like a kernel in my shoe, that my sweet little guy? He doesn't talk much. Don't get me wrong, he understands stuff. He understands when we tell him not to do something, he helps clean up, putting his bottle up on the table, and no one can convince me he didn't understand when I told him I was going to get a job. He gets stuff, but he doesn't say stuff short of a handful of words [15] none of which are really to communicate save bus [stop/done]. And I can't help but wonder: should I be worried? 

His doctor thinks its because he's bilingual though I know bilingual kids in his age range who speak quite a lot. My best friend thinks its because I didn't talk to him enough in the early months, which, I love her and it might be true, but ouch. My mom thinks some kids walk earlier, some kids walk later, and some kids speak earlier and some kids walk later, and at the end of the day it will be okay.

His doctor said if he's not gabbing it up by two, that's when the worry bells go off especially since in my case he's learning two languages simultaneously, but he's creeping up close to that special day, and while I'm not panicking, weepy, or wringing my hands, as a mother, I can't lie and tell you I'm not a touch concerned.

Anyone have any personal experience with this? When did your kids start chatting, bilingual or otherwise? Any advice to help further language? I sometimes feel tempted to switch to just one language in the hopes that it will help him speak sooner, but bilingualism is such a gift. Any advice, perspective, opinion much appreciated!

On motherhood. Presence. And the lack thereof.

I consider myself a very present mother.

I don't mean that I have this whole parenting thing down, because I most certainly don't. I don't mean I sit and play with him constantly, because while we do play, he's happy independently playing and I give him the space he thrives in. It also doesn't mean I watch him like a hawk, he's always in sight but I do cook, clean, or read a book sometimes and my eyes are only two.

My definition of present as I mean it is I am very attuned to my son. I am in a state of marvel that he's mine. I truly genuinely enjoy the moments with him, especially the cute ones that grab your heart and squish it like when he walks around in his father's shoes, or picks up a book squealing with delight. I even am present in the tougher moments when he won't sleep, or his tummy hurts, or he's just in a bad mood. In those moments I am no where else but there, in that moment.

It's been a rough few days, tissue and tears rough. Nothing life or death, but just difficult, and involving phone calls and inconveniences and worry and frustration and helplessness that's taking up a lot of mental head space. Mental head space away from Waleed.

For Waleed ofcourse, life is gravy. I envy the days that I had at his age, when surely my parents managed stressors and worried but as a toddler I was blissfully unware. [Ofcourse I was also unaware that I was unaware]. I'm doing everything I should. His physical needs are met, his naps are on time, we've played hide and seek and had piggy back rides and trips to the park and I read to him all the stories his heart desires.

But inside, in my heart, that precious mental head space, I'm not present.

As I hide Pooh for him to find, I think about the things plaguing me. As I spoon out his food, I consider the options. As I change his diaper, singing songs and chatting, I worry the options won't work. I'm physically doing but I'm not mentally doing. I'm giving him myself, but not all of myself. As far as I can tell, this is the first time this has happened.

When I was nine, my brother Ali, five, wanted to play with me. I still remember sitting on a lawn chair in our patio immersed in a book I just couldn't put down. Play with me, he begged me. When I'm done, I told him. You're always reading, he cried. I watched him leave and shrugged. Now? I don't remember the name of the book. But I remember the moment I was not present for my brother.

This isn't the same thing, but in some ways it feels that way. The way I smiled at him half distracted as he stomped about in his Abu's boots. The way I let him watch an hour of Sesame Street not for its educational value but so he could be absorbed in something while I addressed other things. The way I gave him a Cliff Bar when he fought me on his lunch because at least he could eat it by hand and I could attend to other things.

I'm always there for Waleed's bedtime rituals, but today? Today I forgot. And when K called me to Waleed's bedroom because he was going to sleep and didn't I want to give him his goodnight kiss? Waleed wrapped his arms around me and kissed me twenty-five times, and I left feeling like the worst mother in the world. He loves with everything he is, why couldn't I have done the same? He may not know it, but I do. And considering there are people who would lay their lives for my stressors if they could have their child, being distracted as I am hurts more.

I know guilt is part and parcel of motherhood but somehow telling myself this isn't helping. I feel like I've done a really bad job these past few days. I feel like God gave me the moon and I'm focusing on a misplaced pebble. One day these stressors will be a distant memory as will my son's childhood and I know what I'll regret between the two. I am so blessed to have him, and today I felt like I was redoing the mistake I made with my brother those many moons ago, I will forget these stressors but not the way I wasn't fully present.

Prayers for Tripp

I've been reading Courtney's blog for years, and now, her precious Tripp, battling EB, has days left. She asks us to pray that Tripp finds peace, something he's had very little of on this earth. Send her your love, and then go hug your kid. Because no matter how much they scream, or yell, or throw their food-- damn what a miracle it all is.

An announcement: The secret love life of this American Muslim woman

I met K while hiking along a cliff in Fiji. Our eyes met over the jagged shoreline and instantly we knew this was it. Two years of committed dating later in which we frequented live shows, spoke for hours on the meaning of life in various coffee shops and flew to Italy to determine our travel compatibility, we married under a hut on the island of Lanai. It was just the two of us, and it was beautiful and it made me complete.

It's also mostly false.

I met my husband in a way different than most, a way that prompted some friends to offer to help me plot my escape, and left me tongue-tied when coworkers or colleagues asked how this girl met that boy. I often evaded, mostly generalized, and told few the truth but as my marriage grows I feel less timid and more sure of my story, more free to lay open that vulnerable piece of me for the world to see and to think of it what they will.

Which I now am. In a book. Love Insh'Allah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women published by Softskull Press is hitting bookshelves nationwide January 24, 2012 but available for pre-order here and delivered to you by release day.

The editors of the book told me my story made them cry. Early readers told me it gave them hope. I don't know what my story will mean to you, or the story of the 24 other brave and beautiful women whose stories will touch you, shock you [oh yes, some will definitely shock you], make you laugh, and quite possibly make you cry, but I know in this book, in my story, I spoke my truth, and while I didn't meet my husband in a sweeping grand romantic way, I met him. And therein is what gave my Fiji story it's fundamental grain of truth: a girl met a boy. And through a marriage of upheavals, and loss, and trials, and tests, I found beauty, joy,  and love, so much love that completed me in a way I never thought possible.  Alhamdullilah.

Thank you, a million times over, for your support.

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

One. I love trees. There is countless poetry with odes to roses and daisies and while they're lovely in their own right, trees are the moon to their stars. Like the beautiful old oak outside my condo window. When we moved in it was covered in lush green leaves, within weeks they turned crimson, then barren and now, today, I looked out and saw small buds, the promise of renewal for another year. Waleed and I love settling down to our box seats on the couch to watch squirrels play, woodpeckers peck, and blue birds rest before moving on. I love seeing it at different times of the day and different states of being such as with wind raking its leaves, or rain pelting its bare limbs. It is one tree but it is never always the same. Admittedly as beautiful as this tree is, were I to have such a view from my owned residence I would worry about its proximity to the house, the branches that need to be shorn and the state of its flower bed come spring. But none of this is my responsibility, and while I certainly hope we're not still living in this condo overlooking this tree for too many more seasons to come, right now, it's a pleasure to have the company of this tree. I don't research trees, don't know a maple from a myrtle and I'm honestly just guessing its an oak. But oak feels stately, oak feels old and wise, and when I see this tree I see the quiet wisdom of one that has seen everything, that watches without judgment as it continues its branchy ascent to the sky.

Two. My parents love tea so I love tea so it seems Waleed loves tea, or at least the sight of us drinking tea together. In Florida, he deeply desired to join us with a cup of his own and no a plastic sippy cup just wouldn't cut it. I wish I knew why even in this day and age toys are gender identified for girls and boys. Like strollers, they're in the 'girl' section of Target and they're all pink. As are upon my research, tea sets with descriptions of your little girl will enjoy hosting tea parties. Regardless, I purchased one you can actually drink out of, made from recycled products [and in the USA] that I saw Waleed and Bean playing with at Baraka's house and though Waleed could care less about the colors of his pink and purple tea set and is far too young to read the descriptions of this perfect toy for a perfect little girl, I'm glad he can nurture his gentler side by making tea, and strolling his baby giraffe in the [yes, pink] stroller. When he's fully grown wouldn't I expect him to make his own tea or stroll his own baby? Why learn that lesson later when its so easy and so incredibly fun to learn it now?

Three. It's been cold, miserable, and rainy these past few days. I used to say I loved winter, but that was when I lived in Florida and winters consisted of a light parka and a chance to bust out the leather boots. Winter, real winter, is no such thing and while it's milder here than it was in my days in Michigan, bleak landscapes of gray clouds and soggy grass tend to put a brick in the pit of my stomach. Until, Waleed. Last year I attributed my cheerful disposition to nursing since oxytocin is said to elevate mood and dreaded the next winter  with the happy hormones out of my system. But so far, so good. I think part of it is that with a baby there is no time to sink into oneself and let the gloominess outside settle into you. There is apple sauce to pour, and 'piano recitals' to applaud. Studies show the more you move the less you brood and perhaps a baby helps force one to move more than they might otherwise. But the other part is it doesn't hurt to have Waleed to study from. It's cliche that I've learned so much from him, but the truth is I have and its not more clear than on gloomy dark days like today. He is the definition of living in the moment. Cognitively, for him, this moment is all there is. When he sees a squirrel flinging itself from branch to branch, he doesn't pause to compare it with other jumping squirrels or it's relative coolness to animals at large, he just sees something joyful and he smiles and he's happy because this moment is all there is. When he's happy about going on the swing, or strolling his baby giraffe,  he is in that moment the happiest he could possibly feel. And, well, me? I guess I'm affected by the company I keep:

Beautiful old trees, pink tea cups and joy, unbounded, limitless joy. Despite the bumpy rough parts to this particular day, these are the moments worth remembering. Hope you have a beautiful Thursday too.

112 in 2012

I've missed my listings and truth be told having these lists helps keep me mindful and focused on my year and living it beyond the monotony that can sometimes creep in on the day to day. Hoping to update it weekly as I cross off items on the list. Excited for a new year and new goals to look forward to! What are your goals and resolutions for the year? Please do share if only to motivate me so I can tell myself I'm not crazy for goal-ing as I do. [or well, you can tell my I'm crazy too].

1. 365 Project. Again. Last time I focused too much on perfection, this time I'm focusing on capturing moments and achieving my intended goal of mindfulness.
2. See the ocean. Indeed. We took a cruise. Twas ocean ocean everywhere.
3. See the mountains.
4. Lose fifteen pounds. I actually lost 24 pounds to be exact, but now, post-preggo its time to get back on the wagon again. Yay. [Sigh].
5. Run a 5K.
6. Then a half-marathon
7. Read 50 books. Thirty three books. Was fun trying to reach this one.
8. Get a pedicure.
9. Learn to make Roti
10. Use cash for all purchases for two weeks.
11. Buy a house.
12. And leave no box unpacked.
13. Donate stuff.
14. Quit the nail biting habit A twenty three year habit finally hopefully curbed
15. And get a manicure
16. Get an eye exam  updated here
17. And order contacts updated here
18. Get a physical updated here
19. Find a reliable, trustworthy babysitter updated here
20. Use said reliable, trustworthy babysitter. updated here
21. Don't turn to mobile device during times with family, friends, etc.
22. Find a cute pair of black shoes
23. See a movie in theater.
24. Buy a cool display shelf for Waleed's books
25. And fill it with classics
26. Complete the edits for my novel
27. Write in my moleskine every day [give or take five days]
28. Go sugar-free for one month
29. Take a vacation
30. Play air hockey
31. Make one of my detailed 'desi' drawings on white canvas
32. Try a new local restaurant/eaterie updated here
33. Find a new local park updated here
34. Have a picnic
35. Learn a new chocolaty dessert Took five hours but my was K's bday cake YUM
36.Keep the cell phone away from the bed and don't use it before sleeping for one month.
37. Do a beachfront condo/house rental: Was a hotel but it was beachfront which was the intent.
38. String lights up for Eid
39. Get Waleed a hair cut
40. And a new nose ring
41. Get updated sneakers
42. Lie down on a blanket on the grass and watch the stars
43. Find a new TV series [already out on Netflix] to enjoy.
44.Try 12 new recipes.
45. Take 25 great shots on my SLR camera
46. Frame two.
47. Buy a good bag for my SLR camera
48. Go to my local farmer's market.
49. Look into a community-bulk-local-produce-buying-thingie.
50. Make an Urdu English alphabet book for Waleed
51. Start updating my 101 Things To Do With My Child
52. And create the 101 Things I Did With You scrapbook
53-59. Read Harry Potter 1-7 through and through
60. Grow a plant and not kill it.
61. Create a recipe book
62. Celebrate Halloween with the babe
63. See a live show, play, fine art performance
64. Call Madiha
65. Remove facebook from my smartphone. updated here
66. Remove my notifications from my smartphone for at least one month.
67. Unplug completely from the internet for one complete weekend
68. Make and bake and take homemade cookies to a friend's house
69. Buy Waleed Crocs
70. Bake cookies from scratch for someone updated here
71. Find a new go-to sushi spot in town
72. Have a great sheesha hangout with friends
73. Play poker
74. Whiten my teeth
75. And get a cleaning. updated here
76. Create a skin, bath routine for downtime and relaxation
77. Meditate daily for one week.
78. Do yoga regularly for a month. In a class.
79. Read a book. In Urdu.
80. Cook ahead of time for the week, just once. To see how it goes.
81. Have a proper Thanksgiving meal. Even if its not on Thanksgiving.
82. Watch five Oscar nominated films.
83. Write six love letters- what a fabulous idea.
84. Get a haircut.
85. Get a professional massage
86. See a live sporting event.
87. Share four homemade recipes on my blog.
 88. Try a meal from a country I've never tried before.
89. Spend one weekend on a self-imposed writerly retreat writing, writing, and well, writing.
90. Draft my next novel, even if it kills me.
91. Read every unread book I've purchased.
92. Visit a Museum
93. Go to the botanical gardens
94. Review five places on yelp
95. Buy an Adele CD updated here
96. Update my Amazon wish list
97. Make five physical picture albums
98. Do five random acts of kindness for strangers like pay the toll of the person behind me, etc.
99. Do five random acts of kindness for people I love.
100. Venture into matchmaking territory again, at least once. updated here
101. Get a library card for my new county
102. Change my tags to my new county
103. Subscribe to a really cool magazine [suggestions?]
104. Read the magazine.
105. Buy a cute brewing teapot
106. Buy 100% organic, fair trade [when possible] food for one month.
107. Do a water based boating, rafting, tubing event. Well a cruise is a boat?
108. Eat Godiva
109. Order back up glasses
110. Do NaNoWriMo
111. Rewatch a TV series of choice that I've loved and missed like Gilmore Girls, Veronica Mars, etc.
112. Update this list weekly.

The Capital One Bowl Game and why I no longer hate football

It's no secret: I hate football. As in the NFL theme song spikes my blood pressure by twenty on first note. While I hate it for how it takes up my TV-time [we are a one TV household], the violence, and the droning screams of the fans, I mostly hate it because it seems absolutely pointless. A bunch of big dudes fighting other big dudes for a leather ball. Why does this game make little boys cry and some lucky big boys millionaires? Why do people paint their bodies crimson and tattoo the mascots onto their arms? Why does it matter?

I went to my first real football game today to support K and his intense love of the South Carolina Gamecocks and my jaw dropped upon entering the stadium. While I knew at a stadium capacity of 70K there would be thousands of folks, its one thing to know and a completely different thing to see such a mass of humanity some young, some old, some with shirts spouting biblical urgency and others with slogans better left unwritten and yet, all there for a common purpose.

Well, sort of. Opposing purposes is more like it as one half wanted the other half to lose, badly. I watched as some teammates on both teams kneeled, eyes closed in desperate prayer before kickoff and wondered if God is granting wins how does He pick between equally fervent requests? It amazed me the passion, the screaming until voices went hoarse, the tears [oh yes, so many tears] over victory and the lack thereof. And while some of it can be attributed to inebriation [I believe it was K, me, and kids under five who were sober at the game] the passion was at its root for the game, for the teams they loved so sincerely.

And yet how arbitrary this love is.

Nebraska fans are fans because they grew up there, or got accepted to college there, not any particular merit of the team and same goes for any other team under the sun [mostly, K is a redskins fan despite no proximity geographic or otherwise to the greater DC area]. Steve Spurrier coaches at SC because they offered him a job. He cared just as deeply for Florida when coaching the Gators. He'd get a tattoo of a corn on the cob if he was hired to coach Nebraska. His love and passion is arbitrary as is the love and passion of nearly everyone there.

But does arbitrariness mean insincerity or a love less worthy?

Most of what we hold most dear to us is a circumstance of where we were and who is around.  I love my son because I believe him amazing and also because well, he's the child God gave me. I will stand by my siblings through anything because I believe them exceptional and beautiful people and also because they're mine and the same blood courses through our veins. I'm a raving fan of Zaxby's because I like the chicken and relaxing atmosphere but also because in our previous suburb the eating options were slim. I think my local farmer's market is the bees knees but I'd probably feel different if my home was in the Noe Valley or by the Embarcadero clear across the country. I'm nor saying we only love certain things because its all we know, but I'm saying that in our lives we love certain things for reasons beyond carefully considered reason and more from a gut feeling, a subjective love that comes from a place perhaps not fully logical but true and sincere nonetheless and not worthy of my condescension.

At the game it amazed me-- so many people so fully vested in this one game from the the fans who spent thousands in travel, tickets and board, to the band members, referees, mascot, camera crew, doctors, conductors, water boys, cheerleaders, coaches, and teammates all in it for the sake of the team  and in the same exact breath all in it for themselves and only themselves because each person had something no matter how large or how small at stake and each person had a measure of glory at that game.

Football, I realized today, is in some ways, a small scale version of life. You win some, you lose some. There's 'good' guys and 'bad' guys [and who is who depends on which side of the field you stand]. You struggle, you cheer, you worry, you yell, and then ultimately, its over.

Until today I wondered what the point of it was but questioning that is questioning the point of living on this earth and enjoying almost anything. Who am I to judge why one person would rather watch a football game than read a work of fiction, or watch a film, or bike around a lake? And while you won't see me wearing a rooster on my head and screaming at the television screen anytime soon, I do finally understand the love of a game. Football matters, because it matters to people. It matters because it does. I finally understand.

2012 and bloggy changes

I gave up writing movie and book reviews last year. I miss them. While Good Reads is great and I'll continue using it, its not the same as writing my reviews on my own site. I was touched when some of you contacted me asking me why I no longer did them and suggesting I resume. So they're back, both sites and I'm starting off with The Patron Saint of Losers, book #1 in my 50 book challenge for 2012, and a review of the haunting, hilarious, perfect movie Young Adult. I've also restarted up my 365 Project, the first picture is a dark cell phone shot, but I'm going to have to let go of perfection if I want to succeed. Coming up soon? My 112 in 2012 because well, I miss that too since it was a great way to be mindful and focus on one's goals. Hope you enjoy reading them as I do love sharing them!