Thoughts on houses, villages, and finding home

Though we were house-hunting in a million different areas, I didn't really think I'd ever leave this village. This lovely, hippy, coffee-sipping, book-wielding hood lined with 1920's bungalows and porch swings. Except, it turns out, we are. The reasons are many. a) The maintenance of older bungalows go beyond our abilities and slightly terrify us from stories our neighbors tell us [and as charming as puppies wrapped in ribbons of chocolate these homes may be, we are the polar opposite of handy]. b) Folks with kids move in and out at a rapid pace from one house to another here because the tight quarters and often odd floor plans while workable for some are not workable for most we spoke to. c) And we don't want to move multiple times. d) But tougher than all of these, this area is super-desirable and the good homes in our price point sold [literally!] within hours of going on the market. As time went on, we began to grow disheartened that this wouldn't be the long-term place for us, but we held on to hope as dim as the hope grew with each outing house-hunting.

We weren't expecting this when we sold our house. It's a buyer's market after all. We simply had to skip through the streets pointing out the homes we wanted and pick our favorite one at bargain basement prices. Not so much. The market is bad. And that means most of the homes are distressed properties you wouldn't really be excited to purchase. At least here in Atlanta. Foreclosures and short-sales in disrepair, and the others with sagging roofs, rotting wood, and other issues we were unwilling to take on. As we approached our sixth month of living in our condo, we began wondering if we simply wouldn't find a house, ever.

Then our agent called about a house ten miles north. Still in-town but more suburban in feel. You gotta see this place, he told us. Tell him we don't want to live anywhere but here, I told K. It doesn't hurt to take a look, he responded. Then we'll tell him.

And then we saw the house.

We looked at the rounded windows in the kitchen overlooking a deck facing a wooded backyard. The built-in bookshelf in the loft. The location, schools, all checked off, we made an offer. Negotiated counter-offers and home inspections and wondered every step of the way if we were making the right decision. 

Then, this past Friday, we bought the house.

And as much I was thankful for K's shorter commute, the lovely house, and the good restaurants within a five minute drive, I couldn't believe my days in this village were numbered as memories of my old home, where neighbors never said hello, where I felt alone on an island resurfaced. I felt afraid about what I might have lost.

After the closing, we picked up lunch and headed back to the house. Pulling into the driveway we saw neighbors standing outside chatting. They came over to say hello. They welcomed us to the neighborhood. Our next door neighbor's toddler raced over to Waleed, they stared at each other and in a split-second they were off doing laps around the cul-de-sac and then scrambling into her opened garage to play. The other neighbor, an older woman with a blonde coif, lowered her voice and informed us of the driving habits of each home-owner and the type of dogs they owned and promised to have us over for tea. And in that moment I felt that though this isn't the village, perhaps this might become my village.

K reassures me, this isn't a permanent anchoring to one ground. Should we find ourselves unhappy, we'll move. But this evening as I looked at the vegetable garden that will soon be planted, the playground that will go where the ivy now stands, and the empty walls that will soon fill with photos of the life we've built and continue to build together, I feel ever so hopeful that while this may not be the village I'm leaving behind, this is my house, and someday soon this will be my home.

The awesome Emory book reading. What was and what wasn't.

Today was my first reading. Ayesha Mattu, the co-editor of Love Insh'Allah flew in from California.  Ayesha is a breath of sunshine whenever our paths align and we are lucky enough to meet, so I was so thankful that Abby, a great local mom who works at Emory helped coordinate the event and made it all possible. She did a great job. We had a lovely turn out with lots of great questions, support, and my was it cool to sign books!  It was also so nice to see friends I see every day and friends I haven't seen in ages, all of whom are very busy but came out anyways [and my son's proud shouts of momma only helped make the evening that much more special]

But this book has not been without personal consequences for me and the lack of support from my Muslim community, startling, as I've had to endure silence and the not so infrequent hostile whispers. While this hurt, as people filled up the seats, asked questions, and my friends hugged me and my son ran up jumping into pictures because well, how do you take photos without him in it? I realized for the umpteenth time how blessed I was. The pain left a hollow crater, but in that moment I felt it fill up with love and gratitude for the beauty around me.

And yet, I want to figure out how to process what happened, or rather what didn't from those I thought were friends? Who heard the gossip and said nothing? Who have yet to say a word about the book, the reading, or anything close to it? Who've been in my home? Whose babies I held? Whose hands I held during difficult moments? What do I make of the silence? How does one proceed from here to protect ones heart? Is it simply the universe telling me its time to cull my friendships? Or am I making too much of this? This is not about those who supported me and let me know they couldn't make it because I understand life is busy, this is about those who couldn't even bother to say a word. Ever. It's the silence that unsettles. I try to treat people as I would like to be treated-- and while my son might prevent me from attending an event such as this, I would never simply lay forth a canvas of silence. I've written about my desire for, and my lack of community; this was never quite so starkly laid out for me as tonight. I'm thankful for my friends who are there for me, I'm thankful Waleed will have their love in his life but I had always envisioned him growing up in a large supportive faith-based community, and tonight I'm beginning to think this might be an area in which I ultimately fail him.

I don't normally lay it all out there like this, but I was hoping to get advice if anyone has ever experienced this, or in my shoes what they would do. Any advice appreciated.

On Saturdays, scooters, and italian ice

This is the first Saturday in a long time where we had the day completely to ourselves. The calm before the storm of a busy week to come and the months that will follow in a frenzy as we finalize our house [a post on that coming soon!] and so we spent it drinking in our little village, wandering over to our local coffee shop and letting Waleed weave in and out of the scooters lining the path.

Then off we walked to the nearby touch-a-truck event where he touched police cars, inspected fire trucks and 'drove' dump trucks.

After naptime we headed to our local dogwood festival to people-watch, listen to music, and examine art too expensive to purchase. Later, we settled onto the soft patchy grass in the center of the park with an Italian ice for me, and a frisbee for my boys to toss around. I used to take tons of pictures but lately my camera gathers dust. Today we took close to fifty and while I loved them all, this impromptu one is my favorite. Maybe its because he's so clearly a sugar addict connoisseur like his mother. Or maybe its because he looks less like a baby and more like a buddy digging in. Or maybe its because its been a tough couple of weeks with daggers thrown to my core as I've had to finally accept that some things just are what they are and instead of being upset about it, I have to make my peace with it-- and when I look at pictures of me and my son-- peace just comes easier.

Or maybe I love it because I just do.

Because when I look at it, I feel happy. Sometimes the reason can be as simple as this.

Aisha and the book reading! At Emory!

Ayesha Mattu the co-editor of Love Insh'Allah and myself are doing a reading, Q&A, and book signing at Emory University, Wednesday, April 25th, at 7pm! There's free parking in the deck, and more details here. If you live around the Atlanta area and are available it would be an honor to see you there!

Groceries and taking stock. Literally.

I go to the grocery store every day. Almost. In a seven day period, someone in our household steps foot inside of a grocery store at lease five times. Frequently twice in one day. We have our reasons.

1. We like fresh food and fresh food doesn't keep quite as long so like the French we tend to buy the ingredients for the meal we're making the day of the meal based on what we're feeling that day.
2. Waleed drinks a gallon of organic whole milk every 3 days [and my regular chai habit doesn't help in the frequent milk depletion either]
3. When I do plan meals for the next few days because I'm so tired of daily driving to the grocery store, strapping in the kiddo, unstrapping him, sticking him in the cart and making sure said kiddo doesn't reach out and topple a carefully created pyramid of pasta, I head to the store, shop for all the ingredients and then return home only to realize I forgot the gobee for the aloo gobee.

In all fairness I enjoy the grocery store. Something about it feels meditative. I love the possibilities that lie within, all the amazing food that could be made and I love seeing my son's eyes light up when the baker hands him a cookah, the consumption of which brings him pure rapture like nothing else. The only thing is while being there is great, its not always easy especially while living in a condo where I have no garage in which to corral my little guy and must take bags of groceries up flights of stairs while making sure my son doesn't actually dart for the squirrel playing chicken with a driver barreling down the middle of the road.

So my question to you is: How often do you grocery shop? How do you do your groceries? What logical plan of attack do you follow to make meals without having the UPS guy heading to Whole Foods to deliver your packages? What solid staple of foods do you keep around from which many meals can be made with ease minimizing trips to the store? Or--- is this just the way is is? We make daal with rice once a week, a great comfort food made of ingredients that keep for seemingly years. Just trying to figure out how to perhaps increase my stock and reduce my time perusing potatoes. Any advice much appreciated!

Portrait of Motherhood

It's been one week; the longest my little guy's ever been sick. Whimpering, crying, trying to find peace from pain and clutching me close with full belief that only I could help him find his way through. Thankfully the steroids the doctor gave him at the ER yesterday for croup are working and tonight is the first night I hear him sleeping without wheezing or choking on his coughs. As I looked at photos this evening I found myself staring at this one, a simple moment spontaneously snapped unknown to us as he crawled through a tunnel, hopping over gaps and winding past twisty turns and I thought to myself that this? This captures motherhood in a way words never can. Hope to always be there to help him through:

Happy Twenty Three Month Birthday

Dear Waleed,

On Saturday you turned twenty-three months old. Year two peeks directly over your shoulder. Not sure whether to smile for all the joy you've brought me in two years, more than I thought I could amass in a lifetime-- or whether to cry because its going by far too fast.

You speak a hybrid of Urdu/English; the latter rife with heavily accented words that make us giggle like vats thees? The word cookah [cookie] is referred to more than any other in your repertoire but you also sometimes hint at the depths of your soul like when we visited your grandparents and you sat quietly playing with your truck and said softly to yourself, miss you K. Once you were as simple to read as a picture book. Your tears meant an unfulfilled need. Your laughs, pure unadulterated pleasure in the given moment. But now, there are ever growing subtle depths forming within you and I'm beginning see glimpses of a day when you will have your own thoughts, feelings, and private wants and when I will know you but not quite as completely as you know yourself.

You're no longer as into independent play as you once were. Now you want to run, squeal, and dance, with others. You have a few friends like lovely little Z with whom you traded stickers as we explored the village, two moms with two toddling kids. At the playground you gaze longingly at children in packs. Sometimes you try joining. Sometimes they let you. Sometimes they don't. And when they don't--- you have not yet learned to be hurt. And it kills me that one day, you will. I wish I could watch over you always and grab you, protecting you from any slight that may come your way. . .

[blurry but one of the only pics of just us this month]

 but I'm going to trust in the confidence I'm helping you build; the one you effortlessly possess today to guide you through all patches, including the tough ones when a smile might not come quite so easily as it does today. 

But the biggest thing this month? Your first hair cut. We were heartbroken over how much we'd miss those silky curls and terrified you'd flee the scene or scream louder than a thousand koala bears, shattering every window in the salon but you were completely cool calm, collected . . .

. . . and I'm left with this child, less a baby, more a boy. Which, well, is what you are to the world at large though in my heart you will always be the seven pound dumpling that landed in my arms nearly two years ago.

Waleed, I've loved you since you were two lines on a pregnancy test, a tap within my womb, and a child in my arms. I've loved you more than I thought I could ever love another person. Happy twenty-three months my sweet. This month you loved. And you were loved in return. When it comes to life, it doesn't get better than this.

Waleed and his Khala Aamina

 Love,

Your Mama

On pockets full of gold

I long to find a sincere enclave of people. Not necessarily like-minded. Or same-faith. Or with children. Or without. Just a sincere community of people with whom to associate with and within which to raise my child. While others have found it the search for me proves elusive. Sure there are pockets of gold, lovely people I'm lucky to know who love my son and show him kindness I don't take for granted and who I consider my dear friends-- but the community? The enclave-- is missing in a way I somehow feel is not missing for others. I want to try to seek it out and yet I can't force myself to when I feel uncomfortable or unwanted. High school is long over. Trying to fit into cliques, emotionally drains me. And yet, it makes me sad that while I have friends to fill my weekends with and to listen when I need to talk, on the greater scheme of group community, I'm lacking. I worry what it means for my son.

Friday, the last day my sister-cousin was visiting. We wandered over to my favorite coffee shop and as I thought these thoughts I turned to see her sitting on the bar stool by the windows, my son perched next to her--- and my heart caught in my throat. It hit me with full force, as much as I want it, as long as I live here, I may never have the inclusive enclave I've longed for but I will have this community-- his enclave-- these people those lovely pockets of people who truly love him. Pakistani, Indian, Muslim, Christian, Orthodox, Jewish, Gay, Lovely, Funny, Kind and wonderful people who may not be a collective enclave, but if one must have pockets of friends and family, how can one complain when ones pockets are bursting at the seams with gold?

Aisha, the baby, and the toothbrush

My son loves putting his shoes on. He's a gem at diaper time. And sleeps a solid twelve hours most days. However. The toothbrush turns my sweet cherubic child into a cartoon cat faced with a tub of water and a bottle of soap. Screeches, squeals and twisty maneuvers? Par for the course. Every. Single. Day. I've tried different toothpaste flavors. Got a brush with Pooh Bear [his best friend] affixed to the handle. Opted for plain water as the the dentist [and some of you] recommended. I give him my toothbrush to 'brush' my teeth while I brush his. I sing songs. I showed him Elmo brushing his teeth so he could see that his beacon of all things awesome does said brushing too. And, well, our morning ritual still would make an outsider wonder if I'm attempting to feed him a bucket of squirrels what with all the yelling, twisting, and clamping of mouth [with exceptionally sharp teeth]. Truly, he's a slender little guy so corralling him isn't the issue--- I just hate putting him through such an unpleasant experience every single day, except, well, he needs to brush his teeth. Anyone reading have advice? Or commiseration?