Drop the Broccoli and Put Your Hands Up!!!

BEWARE THE GREEN PLANET!!!!!!
ok, so usually i don't get all political with this blog. i generally don't discuss politics with anyone but my husband. our idea of a fun saturday morning is watching book tv or some obscure documentary we recorded on public television. i mean, i have strong political views, but like religion, it's just not a topic i care to discuss with others.

but, be that as it may, i have to chime in on this latest debacle. George W. Bush, our president, has taken it upon himself to authorize surveillance of American citizens suspected of having links to known or suspected terrorist organizations. turns out he's been allowing it for at least a year now. this does not surprise or upset me. in fact, it makes me laugh. why do you ask? because it's nothing but Cointelpro all over again. google cointelpro and it explains it all. the government has practiced domestic spying for years and this latest episode is nothing new.

King George has even authorized spying on environmental groups like PETA to counteract the effects of "environmental terrorism". environmental who? this is hilarious. even funnier than that last episode of Family Guy i watched. based on the good King George's latest assertions about the domestic terror threat, both environmental and otherwise, we are in a state of panic. better watch that vegetarian in the next aisle at Trader Joe's, she could be a card carrying member of PETA. mwa ha ha!!!!!!!!!

60 seat limo

On September 16, just 4 days shy of my 30th birthday, I crashed my car. Yes, me...it was all my fault. Driving westbound on a main street during rush hour traffic as the hot white Arizona sun blazed through my windshield, I hit the back of a Toyota SUV with my 1993 Chevy Lumina. The car was only worth about $2200 and the damages totaled out to $3880. So what does that spell? Altogether now: COMPREHENSIVE LOSS! The insurance company decided to total out the car and offered a cool $97 if I agreed to fork it over to them. I declined and my husband and I decided to fix it ourselves. It would take a little while but it would be 90% cheaper than the body shop. A friend loaned us her car to use until we could get our car fixed but, alas, it too broke down.

So after a weekend of staying home, agonizing over work week transportation, I took the bus to work yesterday. It was actually pretty cool, me having been a seasoned bus rider for many years. I took the commuter bus, which is all plush and clean with reclining seats and cupholders and overhead bins for laptops and briefcases and such. Yeah, it was cool to hit the freeway in the 60 seat limo, cruising in the HOV lane, glad that I wasn't stuck in stuck and go traffic in some gas guzzling SUV. I made it to work in 15 minutes with a short 5 minute walk to the office. It wasn't as convenient as driving, but it wasn't as torturous as I'd thought.

Then today came. And I missed the bus. Well, actually I was too afraid to take the commuter bus today. I take my son to work on alternate days and today was his day to go with mommy. I felt too self-conscious to lug the 20 lb. stroller and 15 lb. car seat on that luxurious 18 foot vessel. I was nervous, fearful that the well coiffed, suited and booted passengers would look upon me with disdain as I held up their smooth morning commute trying to find a spot that would accomodate a car seat, stroller, diaper bag, and backpack. After all, commuter buses are made for business folks, not young working mothers with infants in tow. I know that was foolish thinking and insecurity on my part, but I had to honor my feelings. And so, my husband agreed to ride the bus with me all the way to work and we stood on the opposite side of the street and watched the 60 seat limo pass us by.

It took 2 buses to get to work. The first one was narrow, the kind I hate, with all the seats facing each other in parallel rows that run the length of the bus. It's awful because you have no choice but to spend the entire bus ride pretending to look out the window while the person across from you does the same and you just end up staring at each other. I scraped a few kneecaps trying to maneuver the stroller and stepped on a few toes, literally. But we made it to the transfer point. There, we boarded and our fellow commuters made way for all 3 of us to sit together, me clutching the stroller, fearful that it might roll to the front with each sudden stop. Along the way, my husband made me laugh and regaled me with stories of his bus riding adventures. He is a happily unlicensed adult who is perfectly content with mass transportation. With that being said, he has lots of stories to tell. We grinned and I laughed until my stomach started to ache. I felt more secure having him there and felt good when he said he'd ride with me and the baby every day until the car is fixed.

Once at our final stop, he walked me all the way to my building since the bus driver ignored our initial request and let us off 2 stops down the line. It was nice, taking in the cool morning air, looking at all the new construction, marveling at how much downtown is changing. The baby fell asleep as we made the 3/4 mile trek to the office. I almost reached out and grabbed my husband's hand to hold it for the remainder of the trip, but I resisted. Stroller driving is a complex task and I didn't want to surrender good steering hand. But our walk was nice. My husband and I used to take walks all the time when we first married and during my first and second trimesters. This morning took me back to those days.

When we reached the corner where my office stands, he turned to me and gave me a gentle kiss. We exchanged salaams and he was off, headed toward the bus stop. As he walked away, I could still smell his musk oil in the air and I smiled. Taking the bus for a little while might not be so bad after all.

Nobody's Perfect

At the age of 17, I had it all planned out. I knew what I was going to be, where I was going to go, and what I was going to do in my life. It's amazing how much clarity a 17 year old has when faced with the prospect of one's life work. But I had a plan. The PhD, the 2.5 children, the historic 5 bedroom home, the closet full of designer digs-all by the ripe old age of 30. Yeah, that was supposed to be me. But what I've learned now that I've crossed the three decade threshold is that "supposed" is another one of those words that should be banished from the language, like "should" and "maybe".

See, now that I'm 30, I have no clue what I really want to do with my life. Most days I am just content to live it, knowing every second that my next breath is not promised. I sit in my office, staring at grant proposals needing to be written, talking to needy clients on the phone and wonder "how did I end up here?". Then I hear a gurgle of sound and look down to my right, where my son, my first born, the begnining of my "supposed" 2.5, sits in his little blue rocking chair amazed at the colors in front of him. I stop typing for a moment and watch him struggle to get his hands to do what his eyes and mind want him to: grab the pink pig that dangles from the toy bar on his chair. With the determination of a scientist, he fiddles with his poorly coordinated hands and eyes until at last he swats the pig with his tiny hand. He lets out a squeal of laughter and I look at his little face aglow with a sense of accomplishment and joy. For this and other moments like it, "supposed to be" doesn't exist. You see, at times like this, it doesn't matter what kind of car I drive, what designer (or lack thereof) I wear, and what letters (or lack thereof) are printed behind my name. The only thing that I know for sure is that at moments like these, I am awestruck at the perfection which is my life.

My mother used to always say, be careful what you wish for. I had no idea 13 years ago when I wished for "a perfect life", that I would get it. I also had no idea it would be such a stark contrast of what my idea of perfect was at the time. That's not to say that I don't still want some of those things that I wanted then. A doctorate in some complex subject like Comparative Literature or Ethnomusicology would indeed give me fodder for tons of dinner party conversation. It might even make me a sought after talk radio guest or at the very least earn me a spot as an adjunct faculty lecturer at some out of the way college. But those things seem a bit superficial and can't compare to the joys of securing grants for grassroots non-profits and the worn-out pair of flip flops that I wore throughout my pregnancy that now sit on my shoe rack as cherished mementos. No, perfect has taken on a whole new meaning in my post-20's world. It's the pot of "light soup" my husband makes for me on warm summer afternoons. Its the sound of the athan on Sunday mornings, rousing me from a good Saturday night's rest, when the baby only needed one midnight nursing instead of three.

These days when I imagine my life, I stick to more realistic time frames. In a nutshell, I worry less about what I'll "be" in 10 years and more about who I am right now and how I can be better. I've resigned myself to the fact that I may never be all those things I wished for way back when. And you know what? It's ok. I'm healthy, I'm focused, and most of all, I'm loved. I'm becoming more of "me" everyday and that's a good thing.

Instead of longing for perfection these days, I pray that my life continues to be whole and complete. I only wish I could go back and tell my 17 year old self to do the same.

Somebody's Mama

It has been one month since my son was born. 33 days to be exact. His birth was something that I have yet to fully process, considering he was born at home, unassisted and 2 days early. The midwife denied my own pre-maternal instinct...I knew my son was coming. We had developed a psychic prenatal connection and when it was time, we both knew and nothing could stop our beautiful, perilous journey. But that's another post for another day.

I still have yet to wrap my mind around the fact that I am this child's mother. Every morning when I wake up and see his little face peacefully snuggled close to my breast, I am dumbfounded. How did I get here? What do I do? I am not always as patient as I should be, who would be after screaming car rides, hour long comfort nursing and waking up 3 or 4 times a night to nurse a fussy, active newborn? Yet in still, I can't bear the thought of not seeing his smile upon waking and kissing his cheek, nuzzling my nose in the folds of his soft brown skin.

My husband and I cannot imagine what our life was like before him. He has completely changed our world for the better. Things are different, things are hard, things will never be the same. But if this is motherhood, I'm ready for the challenge. I am so thankful that I was chosen to be somebody's mama.

Why I Must Persevere...

HIJAB is...

commandment

faith

ibadah

choice

will

determination

prejudice

fitna

beauty

blessing

protection

covering

witness

strength

home

love

rebellion

haya

gheerah

mind

jihad

testament