Moonaburu

Even Sparrows Pray

2009-08-16T15:54:00.008-05:00

I moved. Oh yes I did.

I sat on this new title and design for two months to make sure it would weather time and changing moods and taste. No promises that this is the one, but for now and hopefully for a long time, I love it:

http://evensparrowspray.blogspot.com

All of the archives transferred, but unfortunately I lost the comments! :(

Burrito Babies

2009-06-10T17:27:00.010-05:00

I always swaddle my babies at night before sleeping. Very tightly. Until their eyes bulge out and they grunt from the pressure. It helps Baby Meem know that it's nighttime now and that she’d better not wake up until at least six hours have gone by. Supposedly it helps the baby feel cozy and secure, and prevents her from being startled by her own movements. I think it also works as some kind of cue if only used at nighttime. Even though she's an extremely light sleeper during the day, waking up if I so much as sneeze in the same room, when I swaddle her at bedtime, she sleeps long and sound alhamdulillah.

Moona and Buru love watching me swaddle the baby, and I show them how to do it with their dolls.

Yesterday as I was laying them down for their nap, Moona asks, "Can you wrap me like you wrap Baby Meem?"

And Buru seconds the request, “Mama, aa aa aa Ana Beebee?”

And so I wrap them one by one, rolling and kneading them as they giggle like they’re indulging in a guilty pleasure. Around their stomachs and onto their backs, one-two-three corners of the blanket come together until they are tightly wound up like a burrito. Arms bound to their sides, staring at the ceiling, they try very hard not to move so they don’t loosen Mama’s swaddle. It won't happen again tomorrow or the day after, so enjoy it while it lasts. I tried not to laugh at their looks of solemn reverence, as though swaddling children is the cleverest idea in the world.

Dreaming of Photography

2009-06-08T17:19:00.010-05:00

Since college, I have planned on getting into photography. One day. Some day. When I had the money. Or the time. Or the courage.

This blog is about to get a lot more visual as I record my photographic dabblings here. Oh, and I'm going to be moving, again. No! Not in person, we're stuck in the hot, humid south for a while. Online I mean. Moonaburu, now with baby Meem, doesn't seem fair anymore, y'know? I can't just keep adding my kids' pseudonyms: Moonaburumeem.

(No, that's not it really. I'm undependable this way, it's like rearranging furniture. I get bored of the same thing. But I'll be sure to let you know where I go.)

So Blessed

2009-06-08T14:46:00.003-05:00

I am so often overwhelmed by Allah's mercy. All of the blessings that He has granted me. So overwhelmed that my eyes brim with tears and my heart fills my throat, and I have to rush to do something tiny, insignificant, anything ... to show thanks to Him.

I am painfully aware that I cannot just sit back and enjoy those blessings until the end of my days. They are not for me, they are for me to thank Him and serve Him. For all of the blessings I have, for all of the joys and sweetness that fill my life, I should be at the forefront of those who are trading their time, their pleasure, their energy for Allah's cause. I am so scared that I will fall short.

Actually, I will most definitely fall short. And for that, I have to beg for forgiveness.

"Work, sons of David, with thanks," Allah (swt) says in Surah Saba'. I know I've written about this before here, but it is such a recurring theme in my life. Thanks is not something to be felt and spoken only--it has to be performed through action.

Optimism

2009-06-06T14:37:00.006-05:00

I’ve been feeling optimistic about America lately. So used to the conspiracy-theory, all-going-down, corruption-everywhere thinking, it has been refreshing to feel some mainstream hope.

Obama is part of it—but more so it’s that a majority of voters chose someone like him. The fact that there is a black man leading America is grounds for rejoicing in itself. I am happy for minorities in this country, for Muslims, for Hispanics, for Blacks, for everyone. It is so revitalizing to hear someone talk and make an iota of sense, especially after hearing Bush for the last eight years. I agree with a lot of people that there is only so much one man can do, especially in a political system filled with landmines, but I like to think of Gladwell’s The Tipping Point at times like this.

Maybe Obama will not be the one to create the change, but he will create enough hope and excitement that Americans will know that principled stands and peace are within our reach. The hope will become mainstream. And there will be more indignation the next time someone like Bush or Cheney walks center stage. More anti-war activists. A movement starts.

One man would not be able to create a climate of hope and optimism unless there was a groundswell that came from the bottom up. Witnessing that surge is what makes me dare to hope.

Cynicism is so entrenched in the Muslim community, and I don’t blame us. We’re used to being under fire, accused, tried, vilified. The alienation is worsened when we see ourselves as a self-contained subset of America, neither part of it nor outside. But that cynicism and isolation actually give us an easy break. When we see nothing but a massive, sinking ship, it gives us an excuse to be paralyzed and contain our Islamic work to serve just the closest circles within the Muslim community.

Optimism, I think, may help change that. When we see good struggling to break free in front of our eyes, how is it that we can we just watch?

Mental Block

2009-05-25T01:18:00.001-05:00

It happened again this morning, a week later! She is subconsciously blocking the "snake" and using, well, fuzzier replacements.

So, what happened when Allah swt commanded Musa to throw down his stick? What did it turn into?
Moona (without missing a beat): A caterpillar.

Headed for the Trash

2009-05-23T01:39:00.010-05:00

I found what I thought was a great bargain on craigslist. A vintage, child-size play refrigerator for $35. It's big, almost taller than Moona, painted white, metal handles and real wire racks and bins on the inside of the door. Something that realistic would cost over $150 new. The girls loved it and it made their kitchen so much more interesting, opening and shutting the door and arranging cans and food boxes on the shelves.

They had it for about three weeks. The paint was peeling in a couple places, so I went to the hardware store to pick up a lead testing kit just in case. It turned bright red--heavy lead content! I just dragged the refrigerator into the garage to be thrown away with the trash and am sitting, a little shaken, and alhamdulillah thanking Allah (swt) that I actually went out and got the test. Lead poisoning is a very scary thing, especially on a toy refrigerator (the girls would likely put play food in their mouths, etc.).

Now I have to figure out what to say to them when they wake up in the morning and notice immediately that their fridge is gone.

Role Playing

2009-05-16T13:28:00.008-05:00

I am trying to guide Moona and Buru into saying “Please” and “Thank you”, not only when we are in the home but outside as well. Moona struggles with saying anything to strangers, and I wanted to help her work through some of that anxiety.

So I walked out of the bedroom one day with a scarf draped over my shoulders and some cards in my hand and trilled, “Hello! I’m Miss Teresa!”

Miss Teresa is the librarian who tells the stories at the library’s preschool storytime.

The girls froze mid-action, a little confused at hearing the name. A smile started to twitch at their mouths as they watched me take a seat at the play table with much flurried animation and exaggeration.

“I wonder who’s going to come today to ask for a ticket for the storytime. I hope they remember to say please and thank you!”

And so we went through all the motions, the girls’ giggling and excited as they asked for a ticket, please, thanked the librarian, went in the kitchen and sang the storytime song. Moona got a little lost somewhere between reality and make believe, and started chatting Miss Teresa—aka me in disguise—away in English, telling her about her baby sister and that she doesn’t want mommy to cut her hair ever.

Then we switched, and Moona and Buru took turns wearing the shawl and being Miss Teresa. Buru, who hardly says ten words, dropped her guard and pronounced, “Hel-lo!” and “Ok-kay!” with serious perfection.

Over and over and over again, we went through the motions about a dozen times. Finally, I couldn’t restrain myself and, after they took the tickets and sat primly for the song, I came roaring in with the scarf over my head, “GIVE ME BACK MY TICKETS!”

The shock on their faces was priceless, and the game disintegrated into a game of shriek-tag-and-tickle, which these kinds of things often do.

Lumpy Sugar

2009-05-14T01:37:00.005-05:00

There's this kid's song, "You're my honey bunch, sugar plum, pumpy-umpy umpkin..." It's really cute and the girls like to hear me sing it to them. You can listen to it here.

Here is Moona's version of the song that she was singing today while getting dressed:
"You're my lump, lump, lumpy sugar, lumpy, lumpy, lumpy sugar..."

Blank

2009-05-13T16:05:00.005-05:00

I was seated at the computer when Moona softly tiptoed out of her room. She was supposed to be asleep, but I was used to the half-hour or so of coaxing it takes.

“فقط أسألك شيئا “ “I just want to ask you something.”

“Mm hmm, go ahead.”

She will pull anything out of her brain, just to prolong the moments before going back to bed. Maybe she will retell part of a story we read earlier, tell me exactly what color she wants for her hairpiece next Eid, or remind me that we need to call her grandmother later. Sometimes she will ask me how big Allah is, or if she can hold her baby sister when she wakes up. You never know what random question she will think up when she is dodging sleep.

“Yes, habeebati?”

She took a deep breath … and held it. And held it. And held it. She stared at me, eyes wide, mouth half-open. I watched her frozen face and realized that her mind completely blanked on her. The seconds ticked by…

“Moona, go to sleep.”

Her breath whooshed out.

“Okay.”

What They're Saying

2009-05-09T17:32:00.007-05:00

و لكن يدي صغيرتان لا أستطيع أن أنظف
"But my hands are too small ... so I can't clean up!"

Me: Prophet Musa had a stick. What did he use it for?

Moona: ! كان يهش بها على الغنم
(He used it to guide his sheep)

Me: Yes! And then Allah swt commanded him to throw it down to the ground. What did it turn into?

Moona: ! تحولت إلى دودة

(It turned into a worm!)

-Moona, 4

The Difference a Preposition can Make

2009-05-09T13:47:00.015-05:00

I’m reading ScreamFree Parenting—the title is self-explanatory. There are a few interesting points in the book, and some strange concepts as well (such as giving your kid “space”). But the first chapter gave me a leap-off-the-couch-and-shout-for-joy “aha!” moment.

I am not responsible for my children. I am responsible to Allah swt for how I give and behave towards my children. This tiny word substitution created a totally different mentality in my mind. On one hand, it relieves the stress-inducing pressure of getting my children to behave a certain way, often because social norms say they should do so, and instead trusting in Allah swt to guide them. On the other, it allows me to focus on the one variable that I can control, and that is how I behave towards them. If you think about it, this approach should create much better results in the long run, because it helps a mother be calmer, more controlled, and focused on the one factor that will have the deepest impact on her children-her behavior.

Think of any scenario with the kids—it’s 11 p.m. and we’re still struggling to get Moona to sleep. Normally, I would focus on my child’s behavior and try to change it at almost any cost. It would start gently but possibly end in arguing, bribing, yelling, or a time-out. However, if I remember that I am responsible to my children, not for them, I will stop focusing on the behavior and instead focus on the “tarbiyah” and guidance I am giving them. So, in this case, it’s not so important that she be in bed at a certain time or that she listen to me as remaining calm and patient with her, in the teaching and tarbiyah mode. This doesn’t preclude being firm and disciplining, so long as the disciplining is based on clear, calm thinking and not panic or anger.

I am struggling in trying to help Moona understand how to count. I ask her to give me five pom-poms, and she gives me six, counting "One, two, seven, eight, four, five!" Sometimes, I panic a little and think, "She's four and still can't count?!" Because I'm in a result-oriented mindset, she senses the pressure and resists my efforts at teaching. In this case, I need to shift my thinking: I'm not responsible for teaching Moona her numbers, but I am responsible to Allah swt for interacting with her in the most patient, empowering manner. Similarly, I can make my child memorize Quran, but if she doesn't enjoy it, then I may be getting one set of results but I'm missing out on something possibly more important and need to revisit my approach.

I am responsible for the words I say, the methods I use to teach and parent, my tone, my voice, my words, my perceptions. Instead of becoming fixated on getting my children to do something or stop a behavior by yelling, threatening, or offering rewards and punishments, I need to focus on myself. I must learn how to be deeply aware of the moves I make in the thick of loud, stressful tantrums and messes. In many ways, the core of this idea is connected to the Islamic concept of tarbiyah and responsibility before Allah. I am responsible for my behavior alone, and I will be held responsible before Allah for how I tried to guide my kids into being pious, self-directed adults, not ultimately how they turned out.

Hajj Vignettes #2

2009-04-26T16:41:00.004-05:00

We left home at about 8:30 a.m. Friday morning. More than 30 sleepless hours later, we were sitting, clueless and bleary-eyed, in the Jeddah Airport, waiting for our passports to come back.

A random airport guy comes back instead. He looks as though he’s been electrocuted, hair standing up, frenzied eyes, compulsively drinking a cup of something. He talks with the men in our group who are trying to understand where our group leader is, when we can be on our way, and where our passports went. A few minutes later, the airport guy is shrieking and throwing up his hands. The group manages to stay calm as the man with our passports breaks out into a primal panic before our eyes. Egyptian, of course.

38 hours later. 50 tired people are sitting on a bus parked outside of Jeddah airport, waiting for one person to sort out an issue with his hajj fees. The bus is eerily quiet, amidst the honking of migrating buses and shouting, stressed-out, non-Saudi drivers around us. Our driver steps inside every half hour to count us… seven, eight, nine. No one is allowed in or out of the bus.

39 hours later and 3 a.m. Sunday morning. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five… My father-in-law mutters quietly, “No one left the bus. How many times are you going to count us?” The driver’s head practically shoots off his body and hits the bus ceiling. He raves like a madman for two minutes. Then he spats, “And now you made me forget where I was!” He begins counting again. Egyptian, of course.

My husband, next to me, is gasping for air, laughing uncontrollably, exhausted. I join him when I find he is still laughing hysterically, several minutes later.

40 hours later. We’re finally on the road to Makkah, normally a one-hour drive, but I have a feeling it won’t be that short. Paperwork, checkpoints, inspections, plastic bracelets, funny, little rules that you better not mess with. We stop every twenty minutes it seems. We’re stuck in traffic. My stomach growls loudly with hunger.

44 hours later. The bus stops at a “Welcome Station for Pilgrims.” I try to sleep, but can’t. I need to lie flat. I can barely smile at the awkward, sign translations: “The Ministry of Salutations is Joyful for Your Coming and Serving You.” A uniformed worker who looks like someone who works at Wendy’s steps onto the bus with boxes filled with colorful packages. FOOD! Oh yes, oh yes! I’m getting tired of our pasty power bars. We are all handed a confection-like rose, wrapped in cellophane, stuck onto a green straw. That’s all.

In the dark, I stare at the rose in my hands. I look at the other people on the bus to see what they will do. It looks like candy. Maybe a little too perfect. What are we supposed to do with it? I quell my urge to eat the rose—it’s foam; just a cheap little souvenir.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch an exhausted gentleman sniff, take a furtive nip, then quickly lay it down before anyone saw him trying to take a bit out of a pink foam rose. A hysterical laugh rises like a lump in my throat. My eyes tear up and the corners of my mouth ache as I try not to snort.

A few seconds later, my hungry husband nibbles the rose. Exhuasted but oh-so-tickled, I break out into that uncontrollable, suffocating laughter that only happens when you have reached the limits of human endurance. Muhammad laughs along with me, if only that he doesn’t get what was so funny and is wondering why my eyes are streaming and I’m laughing so hard I can no longer breathe.

Hajj Vignettes #1

2009-04-14T18:11:00.001-05:00

I wondered several times during Hajj if I would ever write about my feelings and experience. Maybe I would write poems. Poetry would provide just enough elusiveness that a reader would realize there was so much beyond what was written. Writing about hajj fills me with sorrow and longing—sorrow that the intensity of those days has faded, and longing to be one of those people who still have a visit with Allah (swt) waiting sometime ahead in their lives.

It never crossed my mind to bring a camera to Hajj, but everyone was snapping photos right and left. We stood at the top of the jamarat before Maghrib, watching the millions of people flocking from every corner of Mina to throw stones. I wish I had a picture to show my kids and friends what a magnificent sight that was.

This hajj was the first occasion in three years that I was completely kid-free. While my mind often drifted to my children, wondering if they were safe and how they were feeling, the peace and freedom of responsibility allowed me to withdraw completely into myself. No matter what the surroundings were—the crowds, the hot tents, the rattling, steamy buses—I could be quiet, look ahead, my body relaxed, my mind and heart somewhere else. Unlike many people around me, I tried not to worry about where we were going, when we would get there, whether my bags were lost, how clean the bathrooms were, or how many people I’d be rooming with. I did worry a little about the little person inside me—I was six months pregnant and my second priority, after fulfilling the rituals of Hajj, was taking care of myself.

Here is my hajj experience in short, descriptive paragraphs now and then, whenever I am feeling reflective or want to record a memory.

##

A useful piece of advice someone gave my husband was: stay away from people who complain. Many times, I felt like I walked into a “Who is more miserable?” game show. Go for Hajj prepared for the worst. Then, when you meet it, smile and remember that it is part of the package whether you paid $4,000 or $9,000.

You will have endless cause to complain. You will wait at least eight hours in the airport for nothing in particular, you will have to go through senseless bureaucracy everywhere you go, you will be often haggard, lost, and confused and no one will tell you what’s going on or why you are in one bus and your husband was assigned to another, your group leader will stay in a hotel room while you and twelve other people share a bathroom in a stuffy two-room apartment, you will be counted and stamped and ordered around, it will be hot, you will sweat, your bus will break down a few miles from the hotel after a 20-hour bus ride, your bags will be misplaced and maybe your passport will be lost. Your group will turn off the AC and keep the windows shut, so you will sleep on the floor in the hallway. Plus, you might be pregnant with swollen feet.

Close your eyes, breathe, relax. Refuse to let anything bother you. Be like water, praising Allah, flowing peacefully through whatever gulley or jagged rock stands in your way. Smile, say “Alhamdulillah,” make dhikr, and when the complaining around you doesn’t stop, find the first polite excuse to walk away.

##

Tawaf--rhythmic, blissful worship. Circling the kabah, peacefully, whispering remembrance, in a sea of people moving like waves. Smells like musk, black sky, white clothes, fresh breeze cooling our sweat, doves circling overhead. Ears filled with voices of praise, prayers, and pleas. The words drift from every direction, “O Allah, accept …. All praise…. wronged myself … Lord of the worlds… Merciful … I’ve come to You… Creator … Only you.” Glancing to kabah on the left, tears in the eyes, heart is full, mind drifts to the sky, up, up, above our heads, where angels are glorifying in parallel, circling the kabah of the heavens.

I am here, Allah, I am here.

##

Four Weeks Later

2009-04-09T17:06:00.005-05:00

For three weeks after M was born, we enjoyed the company and help of my mom. The girls were entertained and got to do exotic, creative things like play with the garden hose and sort pom poms. I sat all day in the rocking chair and nursed.

Now, we are on our own, and I sometimes imagine what it would be like to look down at this mom-of-three?

M is crying, squirming, arching her back, the beginnings of colic? Moona is waiting on the toilet, "Umee, I'm DONE! ... I'm DONE!... I'm DONE!" Buru is out to poke M in the eye or yank her out of my arms, cooing "Bebeez" behind gritted teeth. When I put M out of reach, Buru reaches for a plate on the breakfast bar and a bagel with cream cheese lands on her hair and the plate shatters on the already sticky kitchen floor. It takes every ounce of restraint not to scream at the scheming toddler.

"Umee, I'm DONE!"

I shout at Moona, "You're going to have to wait. We have a baby now." I grab a kicking and screaming Buru and toss her into her crib for a few crisis-free minutes. I sit on the couch and think about what to do next. In my arms, M continues screaming.

I really hope this baby isn't colicky.

Remembering

2009-04-09T16:56:00.008-05:00

Maryam on 3/11

There is a culture of sharing birth stories among women that I think is fascinating. I smile, because a pre-child me would have winced at the thought of talking freely—no, writing online—about mucus plugs and placentas and amniotic fluid. Now, I love hearing and reading other women’s birth stories and love telling my own—but only if you’re willing to listen to the long version (as opposed to the polite, 30-second synopsis). Sharing stories and creating a vocabulary around childbirth is a way of celebrating motherhood and recognizing our bodies’ reserves of strength and endurance—miracles that Allah swt blessed women with. Maybe I'm sounding like a hippie, or a feminist, but then again, I’m happy to be a little bit of both.

I started writing a post called “Birth”, but I hit a dead end before I even started writing. Can’t seem to find the arrangement of words that would capture the exhaustion, thrill, intense pressure, and emotional freefall. Writing out a birth story creates a sort of anticlimax for me, much as I love reading other women’s birth stories—telling it, it can always be retold, but writing it is too final. In the midst of contractions, I wished with all of my being that it was over—didn’t care about the baby, just wanted it out. And afterwards, the further back into my life the memory slips, giving birth becomes this explosive, out-of-body experience that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

The high of those few peaceful hours immediately after birth is indescribable. A new, baby wheezing, hiccupping, wet against my chest, eyes closed tight, fists curled. Nurses quietly bustle about the room, cleaning up, bringing pillows and warm blankets. All I have to do in the world is rest my head back on the pillow, soak up the baby in my arms, and thank Allah (swt) for His blessings and mercy.

Closest thing to heaven.

Planting Wheatgrass

2009-02-10T00:18:00.007-06:00

This was a fun activity, but I spoiled it at the end because I was so uptight. After running around to Walmart and PetSmart (for the wheatgrass seeds), laying out the supplies in little containers, explaining the instructions as clearly as possible, the girls finally got to work planting the seeds in the jars, layering sand, soil, and then the seeds. With their little spoons they scooped the sand into the jars and I gave them tweezers to insert the seeds on top of the potting soil.

Then the wind started blowing and the sky turned dark and we needed to hurry because it looked like a storm was coming. Moona asked to carry the jars into the house, so I said OK, but be careful, don't drop or shake them.

I picked up all of the odds and ends of supplies left outside and came in to find Moona smiling and jumping up and down, rattling the jars unkowingly.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO SHAKE THE JARS NOW THEY ARE ALL MESSED UP AND THE SEEDS WON'T GROW WHY CAN'T YOU LISTEN TO WHAT I SAID LOOK THE SAND IS AT THE TOP AND THE SEEDS ARE UNDERNEATH IT'S RUINED NOW--"

*Sigh.* I wish I had the presence of mind and patience not to blow up at my child for a harmless, innocent slip. So what if the jars were messed up? Nothing was worth seeing the downcast face after my short-tempered explosion. My daughter didn't "mess up" the activity, I did.

I don't have any "after" pictures, but here are the "befores":

Insha'allah, Chapter 2 of this activity, when the wheatgrass sprouts (if it does), will be more enjoyable for all of us.

Entertaining

2009-02-06T12:17:00.011-06:00

The only time we do formal entertaining is when we invite my husband’s colleagues from work or school. By formal, I mean getting out the good dishes and setting the table. I’m usually the paper-plates, eat-on-the-floor, serve-yourself type.

I discovered last night, however, that any vestige of formality and dignified hospitality that may have existed in our home is long gone, thanks to a runny-nosed, curly-haired, squealing posse.

Sitting across them at the table, I watched miserably as they put up their greasy hands to show off how messy they could be, as they tossed their half-eaten drumsticks back on the chicken platter, as they munched noisily on puff pastry with open mouths, and as they scraped the tops of their pastries clean with their teeth and reached across the table to hand me the crust. Any attempt at conversation had to compete with requests and complaints by Moona and loud, wordless intonations by Buru.

“JUICE!”
“Ooos!”
“Look, I finished my rice!”
“AAAAAH?”
“Baba? Baba? Baba. Baba. Bab—“
“Can I have cake when I finish?”
“AA haa AA haaa? Aaaa aaaah.”
“Look what Buru did!”
“More cake!”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

We ate cheesecake and honeydew melon on a table scattered with rice and dirty dishes because I didn’t have the energy to clear it. I figured it was a little pointless by then anyway.

But in lieu of a civilized hospitality, Moona and Buru devised their own. The girls screamed in excitement when the doorbell rang, very audible to anyone outside the house. They stared unabashedly for the first half-hour, but soon decided their father's co-worker was interesting enough and wondered why he didn’t speak Arabic. Buru asked him a very important question, using one of the only words, English or Arabic, she knew how to say,

“Cuyus Geoge?” The answer sent her scurrying promptly to the bookshelf.

After dinner, our guest was treated to a tiny, warm body curled up in his lap as he read “Curious George Goes to the Aquarium” and “Ten Little Ladybugs.” Moona watched over his shoulder, remarking sulkily after several books, “I don’t understand English.” And when it was time to leave, Buru clung to his pant leg and put on her shoes, ready to walk out the door with him. Moona watched the attachment with growing anxiety, moaning fearfully, convinced she was losing her sister forever.

Two lifted arms, outstretched, asking to be picked up and taken home—what a compliment!

Buru threw herself on the coffee table and sobbed, then stood at the window as our guest drove away. I watched as Moona put her arm on her sister’s shoulder.

“You can’t go with him,” said Moona. “He’s not your father, you know.”

It’s not perfect, but as long as their messy table manners still qualify as ‘cute’, I think their sense of hospitality beats mine.

Dua from the Depths of the Heart

2009-01-13T19:34:00.004-06:00

Sitting today with a dear sister, I understood a little more the power of our dua for the people in Gaza and people suffering all over the world.

Our supplications may not stop the conflict, or end the terror—this will not happen except when Allah swt wills it or sends His soldiers and victory. So where are our sincere dua going? The tears, the night prayers, the fasting?

Maybe to places we don't see or realize, but if we only knew we would never stop the fervor by we call upon Allah to help those who are suffering. Maybe to a mother who has lost her child but feels the inner calm and tranquility that can only come from Allah. To a man who is proud as he looks upon the face of his martyred brother. To the family who cannot imagine how they will survive on what they have, but find that it keeps them going. To a people who are systematically tortured, terrorized, and massacred but are still able to smile at one another, hold the hand of someone suffering, share the food they have, and praise Allah the Almighty who chose them to walk earth perfumed by innocent blood, the frontlines of His mercy and forgiveness.

There are dimensions of relief and peace we do not know of that may be descending on the people of Gaza because of your dua. Maybe your dua tonight will make someone stay strong in his or her faith, stay brave, find peace in knowing Allah is by her side amidst all of the darkness.

A small suggestion is to make qunut an-nazilah a special supplication in times of need every day until the crisis has passed. It is performed in the regular obligatory prayers in the last rakah before going down for the prostration. Here is a description from islamonline.net of how it is done.

A Song for Gaza

2009-01-09T13:03:00.001-06:00

This touching, piercing song for Gaza is going around on Facebook and Youtube. Very fitting.

A Cleaning Routine

2009-01-08T22:20:00.006-06:00

FlyLady will give you a lot of tips and good ideas (see last post), but it’s basically about building a simple morning and evening routine that will keep your house reasonably clean and then having 15-minutes of decluttering and deep-cleaning a day that will allow your house to progress from terribly messy to organized and comfortably clean over the course of several weeks or months.

Here is what my morning and evening routines have looked like for the last two months, to give you an idea:

Morning Cleaning Routine
1. Wake up and make my bed as soon as my feet touch the floor
2. Wash, dress for the day, put on shoes
3. Swish and wipe the master bathroom in under 60-seconds (Keep a sponge and small spray bottles of vinegar and water—because they’re kid-safe—in every bathroom and a toilet brush next to every toilet. While you are brushing your teeth, spritz the counters, wipe the sinks, and swish the toilet. This will be enough to keep your bathroom disinfected and pretty clean in between monthly or biweekly deep-cleanings. If there is a spot or some fingerprints you miss in those 60 seconds, you’ll get it tomorrow)
4. Get the girls out of bed, change diaper, dress them, and put a load of laundry in the washer
5. Put a Quran cd in the computer and play it throughout the morning
6. Empty the dishwasher while preparing breakfast
7. 5-minute hotspot (every house has a hotspot, an area that if not given daily attention will quickly get out of control and spread throughout the whole house—mine is the kitchen floor)
8. Eat breakfast, drink water and vitamins
9. Figure out what’s for dinner
10. 15-minutes of decluttering

For the decluttering, I basically choose an area of the house that needs organizing work (a closet, my sewing table, the kitchen pantry, a drawer) and only work on that for fifteen minutes. Only take out as much as I can do in 15-minutes, set the timer, and work furiously for those 15 minutes. Once the timer goes off, I’m done for the day and walk away. It may not seem like much, but two months of 15-minute decluttering sessions have completely organized and sorted my master bedroom closet, the bathroom cabinets, the girls’ dresser, the girls’ toy bins, the kitchen pantry, the laundry room, our file cabinet, and the hallway closet.

The whole morning routine, including the 15-minutes of decluttering, takes about a half-hour. If I have an early morning appointment, I occasionally skip the decluttering and just pick up the next day.

During the day, I am free to do whatever I want, my only housework assignments are:

1. Fold and put away the morning laundry
2. Keep the sink empty and shiny, all dirty dishes go straight into the dishwasher that I emptied in the morning
3. 15-minutes of deep-cleaning. I find that often I am feeling so good about the house and myself that I actually want to do a little extra cleaning, organizing, or decorating (really, seriously!) so I indulge. FlyLady has assignments and zones, but that is only after your morning and evening routines are down pat.
4. Exercise! (not cleaning, so it really shouldn't go here, but oh such a chore!)

My evening cleaning routine looks like this. It is very simple and short, takes no more than ten minutes, because by the end of the day I am exhausted.

Before Bed Cleaning Routine
1. Wipe the kitchen table
2. Shine sink
3. Run the dishwasher
4. 5-minutes of tidying before bed—I make the girls do this with me.
5. Swish and wipe girls’ bathroom while brushing their teeth

All in all, I spend about an hour total on my routines and housework a day. I have my routines posted on my refrigerator, but now many of the items have become ingrained habits that I do automatically: very cool.

Now to apply what I learned here to other areas of self-improvement... like memorizing and reviewing Quran, maybe? I hope I can work other aspects of spirituality and self-development into these routines and build those gradually too until they become habits.

The FlyLady Method

2009-01-08T22:08:00.004-06:00

I think my post about two months ago on FlyLady was adequate introduction on how much I love this method. It is a home cleaning and management method (online and free at flylady.net) that really goes deep in attacking the paralyzing mindset of the perfectionist slob.

You might not know whether you are a perfectionist slob, but you’ll pretty much have the same behavior patterns I did:

Only clean if you have a good two to four hours ahead of you
Let the dishes pile up and don’t bother wiping the countertops because tomorrow you’re going to deep-clean the whole kitchen (right)
Do all of your laundry in one day. You planned to do all of the folding and putting away too, but you were distracted and so the big, daunting pile of dirty laundry in your laundry room becomes a big, daunting pile of clean laundry in your bedroom
Spend one day (a week or a month) cleaning, scrubbing, and mopping for hours at a time, and then collapse on the couch at the end of the day, freaking out when your child empties a bin of blocks in the middle of your living room
After mega-cleaning day, the house stays clean for about four or five days, and then the kitchen floor crumbs appear, the blob of snot in the bathroom sink, and the never-ending trail of toys and instead of doing the little habits that will keep the house clean, you feel so demoralized because you think you have to go through another grueling, exhausting six hours of cleaning sometime soon
Dream that one day, you will get your house so clean and organized, that cleaning will be much less of a chore

For a lot of people who had cleaning habits ingrained in them while growing up or just are naturally organized, a lot of this is going to seem like totally common sense. Since I was pregnant with my second child, I struggled desperately with managing the housework. I had tried FlyLady on and off a couple of times, but always skipped ahead and went straight to scrubbing the kitchen floor—who needs baby steps? I wanted my house clean and my problems fixed now! What I didn’t realize is that the approach is not about getting your house clean, but about building small habits into your everyday routine that will make cleaning light and effortless, and—oh yes,—even enjoyable.

Today, my house is definitely not spotless (this is about beating perfectionism, not reinforcing it, remember?). There are areas that will always need work, but I feel in control, I know what to do everyday in order to keep my home well-managed, and the whole family is more comfortable and happy in a pleasantly clean and organized home.

I won’t summarize FlyLady, since you can go on her expansive website and read for hours, but I will break down what I benefited the most from her:

In the beginning, your house will not get clean overnight. Take small baby steps, stop when you are done, and pat yourself on the back each step of the way.
Housework worth doing is worth doing haphazardly or incompletely. What you don’t get today, you will get tomorrow.
Small, 2-minute habits are extremely powerful
Housework is a form of loving your family
A simple morning and evening routine can change your life

If you’re interested in doing the FlyLady method, I’d recommend reading the Welcome Letter (it’s about ten pages long) and then starting off very devoutly with the baby steps, one a day, no jumping ahead. If you mess up or miss a few days, don’t play catch up, just jump back into your morning and evening routines which you will build gradually over the course of four weeks.

Shattered Thoughts on Gaza

2009-01-06T12:58:00.002-06:00

You have to hold your kids closer, smell their scent for a few seconds longer, let your fingers linger in their hair. Thinking of a place where life is cheap and frail souls are extinguished every minute. Thinking of what it must be like for everyone there, but especially the mothers.

To see your child suffer while you watch hands at your sides, powerless to relieve their pain or hunger, is something most of us have never experienced. I go about my comfortable life knowing out there in the expanse of human consciousness are people, mothers, children crying out in terrified agony on amidst the bombing, trembling earth, and stray bullets. These soul-shaking cries call out everyday, and in many places of the world, but I am more aware of it today. The silence of my living room echoes with their voices.

I try to patch the ripped consciousness of my lazy day, to look away, to forget. The humiliation of having nothing to give them is too much. Shame. Weakness. I cannot bear to watch the dehumanization of a people but I also must not look away.

I can think of only feeble gestures to help—donating to relief organizations that give aid indirectly for fear of being branded terrorists, standing at demonstrations that no one sees or hears, appealing to representatives who do not care, writing to a media that propagates a language that does not recognize innocent casualties, talking to people with a collective memory so short that they are like babies spoon-fed poisoned information. It feels better to do nothing than to do something, satan whispers in my heart. He soothes the disgrace with indifference and gives me a counterfeit license to feel good again.

Although we grapple with the indifference, the shame, the powerlessness, we cannot allow every last battle to be lost, even the ones in our hearts. Edmund Burke said, “Nobody makes a greater mistake than he who does nothing because he could only do a little.” And we know that even if our efforts counted for nothing in the scope of world events, Allah is the witness and allows no deed to go uncounted.

If anything, I must continue to work and fight for Gaza to save my own soul, to forbid myself from being comfortable with apathy and to keep my heart tender before Allah. I’ll stand in the rain at those sparse, Houston demonstrations in front of an empty consulate. I will write a letter that I know will never be read. In every prayer, raise my hands for a few seconds before the last sujood in supplication to ease the pain and end the suffering of Gaza. Maybe if every Muslim takes those sad, small, useless steps, Allah will raise our ranks, cleanse our sins, and open for us the door to more.

After all, whoever said victory would come at our hands? Our job is to get to work in the best way we can muster. Relief will come only from the skies.

Good to Be Back

2008-12-27T11:07:00.008-06:00

It's been a long time since the last post here! My husband and I went for Hajj alhamdulillah and we left the girls with our families. We're now recovering from the exhaustion, the long sequence of plane rides, bus rides, and walking from place to place, and the inevitable Hajjitis--an assortment of super-resistant viral bugs and infections (part of the Hajj package) that have since spread to our kids. There is also wistfulness-once you have experienced being the guest of the Most Merciful, living with no obligations and no appointments except with Him, nothing to fill your hours but prostration, praise, and circling His House, I think you will always ache to return to those few dreamlike days.

Our next big life transition is due with Allah's permission in mid-March. I have plenty of time until then to act pregnant, sore, and hungry after sucking it up and subsisting on apples, processed cheese, and bread for several days at a time. Meanwhile, I have so much to write about, including the sequel to the I Am Flying post for friends awaiting a secret formula to a clean, organized home (more or less). As for Hajj reflections, I think those will come slowly, unworldly memories surfacing now and then. The hajj experience is too enormous to be captured in a few words, a half-hour conversation, or a single essay.

I hope all dear friends and their families are in the best state of health, faith, and happiness. I tried to make dua for many of you by name, and all of you in spirit.

Vote!

2008-11-03T22:34:00.003-06:00

I'm FLYing

2008-11-02T23:08:00.011-06:00

My life is transformed. I dare not breathe too much lest it prove to be just one of my ups, a phase, or some weird hormonal surge. But I’ve been going steady for three weeks, so I can allow some of my exhilaration to escape.

My house is CLEAN! I am getting ORGANIZED! I have a ROUTINE! Alhamdulillah!

Housework has always been this horrible, dreaded noose around my neck, the bane of my marriage and motherhood. It is a mindset--something in my mind feels humiliated and frustrated to have a job description of such menial, boring, and never-ending tasks. My house has been so dirty at times that I won’t even attempt to describe it out of embarrassment. Let’s just say if you dropped by for an unexpected visit, I might have put a plastic bag over your head before walked in. The guilt, depression, and listlessness that a messy, out-of-control home can create puts a damper on everything, including the quality of time you spend with your kids.

On Friday, when I reach the 28 day mark, I will share this journey with you. I am not exaggerating one bit the impact that this process has had on my home atmosphere, mothering abilities, moods, family, and personal peace of mind.

I called a friend (who is my role model in cleanliness, among many other things) about two weeks into the program to gush my excitement at having a house that is staying clean and getting cleaner by the day. I confided I was worried that maybe I had an overactive thyroid that was cleaning my house instead of me.

I hope my friends who are disorganized, lazy, sloppy perfectionists like me can get some hope out of my experience. A well-oiled, consistently and comfortably clean household (but not spotless) can be ours by following a program that dismantles perfectionist and internal negative attitudes towards housework and helps you build small habits and routines over the course of several weeks. It’s no big effort—between 20 minutes to 90 minutes a day is all it takes.

And I will stop here because I am now sounding like an advertisement.

I pray to Allah that He helps me to maintain my gains, continues to provide my family with a clean, warm, comfortable home, and grants me the sincerity to make all of my actions and habits for His sake. All thanks is to Him.

How to Get Your Kid to Stop Nagging You for Sweets

2008-11-01T20:46:00.002-05:00

Moona and Buru know there is a bowl filled with Skittles and Smarties on top of the refrigerator, leftover candy from yesterday in case our neighbors' children came to our door. Today, there is incessant nagging, searching, trying out different stools and chairs to see if they are high enough, and racing to the kitchen, falling over each other, every time they hear the crinkle of a wrapper (and a mom secretly getting her sugar fix).

I need to get these dye-filled, chemically spiked, artificially flavored sugar cubes out of our house somehow. In the meantime, I gave Moona an illuminating lesson on what candy will do to her teeth and her gums if she eats too much of it. She learns well through experience and demonstration, and often becomes a more fervent and disciplined believer than I after a revelation.

"Come, Moona, let's look at what too much candy does to little kid's teeth."

We went on google and searched for images of decaying teeth. Ewwww, I could barely look, and squinted through one eye. Moona was transfixed.

"More, Umee, I want to see more."

So we looked at a few more pictures and talked about how we should only eat a little bit of sugar, and always brush our teeth very well. Moona jumped off my lap and ran to the bathroom. I heard the faucet turn on, and then rigorous brushing.

She came back and asked, "Is there any black on my teeth?"

"No, very white."

"Umee, make sure Buru doesn't eat any candy. You too. No candy for you too."

Score for Healthy, Crunchy Momma-side. Hopefully, Moona's policing will help keep the Junk-Food, Indulgent, Craving side of me in check.

Good Ol' Fashioned Tea Party

2008-10-15T00:34:00.013-05:00

There is a lot to be said for simple, old-fashioned play and games. I try, as best as I can, to resist the overwhelming tide (see my post on climbing trees). So many children today are overstimulated in one sense and understimulated in another. A trip to the toy store is like walking through a blaring video arcade. Do you know there is an aisle in Target for virtual pets? Brrrr, shiver.

Anyway, about our tea party. I boiled some peppermint tea and waited for it to cool, trying in the meantime to teach a three-year-old and one-year-old in pajamas how to set the table for a tea party. A tea party is totally Moona's piece of cake; I could tell because the whole time she had this strange, dreamy, kind-of-dopey smile on her lips. Buru, on the other hand, saw it as an opportunity to make a mess and eat sugar with a spoon.

They sipped and stirred, poured and served each other, and I wisely held my tongue when the tea overflowed onto the tablecloth and the sugar spilled on the carpet. The peace lasted maybe seven minutes. Unfortunately, a catfight over the sugar bowl escalated and half of the dishes were swept off the table in a good, ol' fashioned temper tamprum, so all the guests had to go to their rooms to cool down.

But I will definitely be inviting them again soon.

Gotta Get to the Playground

2008-10-15T00:14:00.007-05:00

As the weather cools and my children get antsy indoors, we spend more and more time at the playground. It’s usually a pressure-cooker effect—I have things to do around the house and the morning starts out OK, but as the day draws on, the kitchen table gets coated with its third layer of grime, the screams grow louder, bodies fly off the walls, the veins in my legs start throbbing and aching, and suddenly, the steam bursts forth and I bellow out to the universe, “Let’s go to the PLAYGROUND!”

The atmosphere suddenly quiet and purposeful, the girls scurry like little oompa-loompas to put on their crocs, the one-year-old chanting incessantly, “Heya? Heya? Heya? Heya?...” (“Let’s go? Let’s go? Let’s go?”)

Because the trip to the playground is as much a treat for me as for them, we are always in search of playgrounds on lakes or in forests, places where I can close my eyes, take off my shoes, stretch my feet out on the grass, and feel the breeze on my face. I ignore pleas to push swings or help climb or hold hands (“if it’s for big kids, then try something else!”). I try not to feel self-conscious when other mothers shadow their children, sometimes older than my own, and cheer for them at every ladder and slide. I need this time for myself, to be a better mother and a better person.

My kids come up to me after 20 minutes, bored or hungry. I pull out some rice cakes or apple slices and tell them, “Go, do something, run, throw leaves in the lake, this is Umee’s time.” Sometimes they sit beside me, but I close my eyes in meditative silence and do not respond to questions or whining.

In that peaceful hour, I reflect. I don’t call anyone on my cell phone. I recite some Quran, remember Allah, contemplate, read a light book, plan out my week, and think about my personal development. Disconnected from computers and telephones and dirty sinks, listening to the children play and the leaves rustling, I thank Allah for my life. For my children. For being able to sit out here in nature and remember Him.

Before we leave, I get up to help the kids on the swings. They giggle and laugh and throw their heads back in drunken delight. Now, refreshed, I can share their exuberance and be in the moment, watching their reactions and loving it. After the playground, my head is clearer, our home is calmer, and the steam is gone.

Of course, a great end to the day is when two oompa-loompas fall asleep on the ride home.

To Watch in Peace

2008-10-08T01:22:00.008-05:00

I am sometimes surprised at how Arabic touches me in ways that English doesn't, but it also goes the other way. Even though I speak classical Arabic now at home with my kids, the language I spoke as a child--English--still strikes the deepest chords inside me. This simple music video of the 99 Names of Allah always makes my eyes brim with tears. Even though I know the meaning of a name of Allah, and read it and hear it over and over in the Quran, seeing it expressed in simple, contemplated English words almost brings me to my knees.

Am I Unmuted?

2008-10-06T02:12:00.018-05:00

It used to be my greatest fear on conference calls: being caught unmuted. We used to laugh about it nervously—the three moms on the call out of seven team members.

“What if they hear me scream my head off at my kids?”

“Did seven people just hear a toilet flush?” (It wasn’t me, I promise! I was taking my kid to the bathroom)

I could never quite relax while on mute during conference calls. So I would (and still do) conduct compulsive safety checks six or seven times an hour: *6 This line is now unmuted *6 This line is now muted. All quiet on my front.

Every so often, one of us forgot to mute after making a comment, and the others tried to alert the unsuspecting dragon-lady before she breathed fire or blurted out something totally irrelevant to meeting agendas and event publicity. One time I was all sing-songy at the dinner table trying to get two kids to eat up. At least I was in a good mood.

After a silence that is not so unusual on our calls and some vague comments on a lot of background noise, one brother gently dropped the hint.

“I think… the person who I had the pleasure of visiting ... and whom I ate a delicious meal at her house …”

*6!!!

The one time a mom scolded her kids loudly on the call, she dropped off the call and sent a frantic email to the other moms kicking herself and asking how bad it was. Um, not so bad? Beware of the two-edged-sword that is the mute button, conference-call moms. Yeah, we shouldn’t be shouting at our kids in the first place, but it can be pretty rough juggling a bunch of kids during an hour and a half conference call. Don't sing any lullabies either, you know, just in case.

I cuddle with my attention-craving girls on the couch, storybook in one hand and phone in the other. Trying to follow the gist of a conversation on fundraising strategy, I slowly read a story about farm animals waking up early in the morning. Mid-sentence, I freeze.

*6*6

Whew! I did not just mooooo on a conference call.

Journey of the Heart

2008-09-24T10:53:00.005-05:00

For all my friends with small kids, here is a reflection told to me by a friend. There is only one day left... no, maybe only a few moments ... but I hope maybe someone who reads this will be inspired as I was to take a journey with their heart.

With our children and homes and meal preparation, the diapers that need changing and the babies that need nursing, the meat that needs cooking, the teasing and fighting and the ever-present messes to clean up, it can seem almost hopeless that we will ever be able to sit down for a stretch of time, as we once used to, and read some Quran with deep contemplation and inner peace. Prayers are cut short by brawling children--and forget about the extra nawafil! After the kids' bedtime, it takes every last ounce of strength to stay up to worship in the quiet of the night.

When I compare what I am doing these last ten days to what I used to do in college or before I had kids, I feel discouraged. I always envisioned my life as an upwards curve, increasing in worship and discipline and understanding as I grew older. Instead, my spirituality had a head-on collision with motherhood and is entangled now with distraction, nerves, and a trace of mental incoherence.

But I was encouraged by a friend and mentor to try as hard as I could, while keeping in my mind that it is the journey of the heart that counts, not the number of prayers or the long hours spent reading Quran. While the physical acts are required and essential--they are the legs upon which our heart walks and without them we are paralyzed--in the end it will not be the large quantity of good deeds alone that will get us where we need to be.

If we can let our heart flee, fly, reach to be with Allah, even if our mental and physical state is outwardly pathetic, then maybe, in His Mercy and Generosity, we will be excused and allowed to catch up with the righteous ones.

Holding Myself to Account

2008-08-26T15:50:00.002-05:00

Motherhood must be the most complicated form of worship on earth.

There is no room for reflection, no time outs, no lunch breaks, no helpers. It requires such stamina and draws upon every reserve of strength in the soul. Constantly on duty, watching, protecting, nurturing, holding, feeding, staying awake--I can make all of this a lifelong act of worship to the One Great Creator. Or, I can be oblivious, go through the very same moments of sweat and tears and joys, and end up with no reward in the end. It is my choice.

To make motherhood worship requires a tremendous exertion of mindfulness and watchfulness. That mental and spiritual state requires such courage and necessitates so many changes to my habits that I resist and fall into habit. It is so much easier to go with the flow, react instead of initiate, live second by second and just wait for bedtime.

But, in this time of reflection and preparation for Ramadan, I am trying to think of ways to improve that aspect of my life; ways to increase my watchfulness, dedication, and self-awareness as a mother.

I can't let all of this to go to waste.

What happens?

2008-08-09T01:29:00.011-05:00

I was reminded by my sister-in-law of this poem. One of my favorites.

Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Please, Poppa, Come Home

2008-08-01T18:16:00.002-05:00

This morning, Moona marched into the kitchen, opened the dishwasher, pulled out a soup spoon and a ceramic bowl, and marched out. I was on the phone but was cut off by some terrible clanging from the front at the house.

I ran to the dishwasher, pulled out a small frying pan, and replaced the bowl with a more suitable, less breakable clanging item. Moona commented as I walked away,

"I am helping Abee. I need to help abee." She had opened the blinds in the living room at the front of the house and was looking expectantly out of the window. BANG. CLASH. WHACK. CLASH. SMASH.

Still on the phone with my mother, I did not try to make sense of this and moved away from the clammering.

It continued interspersed throughout the day. In between dancing, reading stories, dumping the bathroom wastebaskets, lathering little sisters' dry hair with conditioner, and baking bread, Moona every so often told me she had to help abee. And she picked up the frying pan and spoon, walked to the front of the house, and started clanging.

"I have to help abee. So abee comes home."

And then the seemingly meaningless activity dawned upon me and became the cutest little gesture I had seen in a long time. Two weeks ago, at my parents' home, we watched a very clean, nice movie Love Comes Softly about a family living on the prairie. In one of the scenes, the father has to go out in a blinding snowstorm to find his wife. He gives his daughter a gun and tells her to shoot it in the air if he doesn't appear in ten minutes (so that he can find his way back to the cabin through sound). The daughter waits ten minutes, then opens the door and shoots the gun into the air until there are no more bullets. Panicked, the girl runs into the house, grabs a frying pan and the spoon and starts frantically banging into the wall of snow outside her door. The father, carrying his unconscious wife, appears a few moments later.

I started chuckling, called my mother to tell her the story, and we had a good laugh. Then I pulled Moona to me and explained to her that Abee knew how to find his way home.

I was surprised that she understood the meaning of the girl's actions in the movie, and that two weeks later it was so pressing in her mind.

Aqeeda and the Bird

2008-07-31T16:46:00.002-05:00

We found a dead mourning dove on the other side of the glass door. I remembered hearing a thud earlier at the front door but didn’t bother to see what had caused it. Moona was saddened and fascinated at the same time. She knew the word “die” but did not understand the concept.

“Poor bird. It died. Poor bird is dead. When will it wake up?”

I explained to her that it wouldn’t wake up, that it was now somewhere in the mercy of Allah. Only its body was left but its soul went up into the sky. All animals—lions and tigers and birds and dogs and cats—live for a while on this earth and then they die and return to Allah. (I don’t think she’s old enough to learn that human beings are temporal too)

“Can we give it some honey so that it feels better? When is Allah coming to take the bird away?”

We got in the car and my mind was preoccupied with how to talk to a three-year-old about life and death. I finally noticed Moona, in a soft, high-pitched plaintive voice, making dua.

“Ya Allah, ishfi al-usfoora. Ya Allah, limadha? Limadha matat al asfoora? Ya Allah, a’ti al-usfoora asal kay tarja’ ila baytiha…ila ushiha. Limadha Allah? Ya Allah, ishfi al-usfoora.”

O Allah, cure the bird. Oh Allah, why? Why did the bird die? O Allah, give the bird some honey so that it goes back to its house...its nest. Why Allah? Oh Allah, cure the bird.

That night, Moona and her father buried the bird in our garden. I think it gave her some closure. Two days later, riding in our car, I heard her making dua again in the same high-pitched, soft, sing-song voice,

O Allah, cure the butterfly when it dies. O Allah, cure the lion when it dies. O Allah, cure the … other birds when they die. O Allah, cure the …rhinoceros when it dies.

And then, a few minutes later, she started repeating some dua we had taught her, adding her own touch,

Ya Allah, let us into jannah. Ya Allah, let my mother and father and grandparents into jannah. Ya Allah, let us into jannah so I can ride a white horse in jannah…and a brown small one for Buru.

O Allah, please make all of our children those who call upon You, with love and reverence, and humble themselves before You.

Stranger in a Familiar Land

2008-07-29T12:58:00.010-05:00

Outside of California, it’s a big, bad world out there. I am getting tired of dealing with it—tired of being watched, objectified, oriental-ized, and foreign-ized because I cover my hair. I don’t know whom I dread running into most: rich female Republicans, rednecks, or "cultured" elderly, white women who discuss pressing social issues such as burqas and female circumcision at their needlepoint associations.

I dread being asked where I am from, because I know the answer will spark such discomfort. I respond, very truthfully, that I am American. I ascribe to no other culture, my mother is from New York, one glance from an Egyptian and one word out of my mouth will dismiss me as certainly not Egyptian, and I have known no other place as home. Often, I am greeted with a look of repulsion, as though I were a criminal trying to unsuccessfully to blend in with good, law-abiding people. One woman asked why I wouldn’t admit where I was from and why I was ashamed of it. Another actually snorted.

When someone drives by and shouts "Go home!", I find it kind of defensive to shout back the standard, "I am home." Maybe I should mock them, "Oh, how cliché." Unfortunately, in my current state of mind, I would rather throw a rock at their windshield.

I find some people hate me even more for being the mother of two lovely, happy little girls, thanks to Allah. To have “oppressed, evil, terrorist” and “smiling, children, or American” in the same equation results in some kind of mental dysfunction for some ignorant, intolerant people. I was recently in Macy’s, and was gently disciplining my daughter for wiping clothes off the racks as she walked by them. I was on my knees, holding her shoulders, maintaining eye contact, and firmly talking to her in a low voice. I notice a tall, middle-aged white woman, talking on her cell phone, walking towards me.

“Don’t you yell at her,” she spat. “Don’t you lay a finger on her.”

I gave her a disgusted look, told her to shut up, and faced my daughter.

“Don’t you yell at her you stupid b****. Go back to your hell of a country.”

I did not flinch and continued to address my child, although my voice was borderline-shaky and my eyes stung. A few minutes later, I was dashing through the store, looking for that woman so I could give her a piece of my mind. I never found her but I prayed that one day she would deeply regret what she had dared to say, because it struck me so deeply and it was many days before I didn’t glare at every random cashier and passerby daring them to look at me the wrong way.

A white woman would get looks of good-humored sympathy when her kids act out in public, but I get looks of icy disapproval. Once I was in Hancock Fabrics picking out colors for a quilt and my daughter started sauntering towards the door. I had my eye on her and when she got close enough to the door I walked after her. A woman passing us by muttered that she’d love to see me lose her.

After this incident, I received some coaching from the queen-of-hijab-self-esteem. Hold yourself up high, don’t look so meek, look people in the eye, stay collected. She recommended that I shout out for everyone in the store to hear, “Excuse me? DID YOU JUST SAY YOU WISHED I WOULD LOSE MY CHILD? WHAT A DISGUSTING THING TO SAY!” I imagined the lady retreating ashamed between the bolts of fabric, embarrassed by the stares of surprised onlookers.

Next time, insha'allah, next time I will pull it off and do more than stutter. Oh, I have soooo many comebacks now. Often, we only have those fantasies of perfectly timed responses and the assailant’s speechlessness to comfort us. In reality, I’m the one who’s rendered speechless.

Long, gentle responses never work and I’ve completely given up on them. People will not change their prejudices after a few words in an elevator. A woman, who had been eyeing me for a long time in a Safeway, maybe even stalking me, finally walked up and asked, when my children grew long hair, and got older, and wanted to take swimming lessons, or go to the beach, if I would make them cover. I tried the patient-education approach, and we even walked out into the parking lot together. This woman was so entrenched in hatred which revealed itself progressively throughout our conversation. Let's just say I wish I had never wasted my breath.

Tired of it all, and only days after the Macy’s event, I had no energy to respond when a Pakistani cashier at Whole Foods told me that za woman in hees country stopped vearing za scarf because zey vanted freedom.

“Hmmmmm,” I answered disinterestedly, and took my change and walked away.

Once in a while, the insults are completely innocent. This was my one and only negative incident in California in five years. I sat once in the very ritzy Stanford Mall just minutes away from our student apartment, a sleeping baby at my side in her stroller, drinking a latte and writing a press release on my laptop. An elderly, wealthy woman gave me a charitable smile and said, perfectly well-meaning, how beautiful my baby was and how ironic it was to see a woman in a burqa working on a laptop.

“It’s a very interesting picture,” she said. “Good for you.”

The wheels in my head turned in ruminative silence for several minutes. I then closed my laptop, tossed my latte , and walked up to the woman at a nearby table and proceeded to lecture her in front of her friends, very calmly, on how offensive her well-meaning comment was. I listed my accomplishments, how Islam had empowered me to achieve them, and how my dress signified my submission to God and not my imprisonment.

That was one—long ago and very rare—point for me.

Colorful Quote

2008-06-27T22:34:00.002-05:00

"Awww MAAAAN!"
"Ta'akharna ala ashams. We were late for the sun."

The Great Communicator

2008-06-25T14:16:00.004-05:00

Buru is a late-talker, considering that she is eighteen months and hasn't said a word, but she communicates very well. Today, she walked up to me as I was wiping down the countertops and handed me the diaper rash cream.

She lifted up her dress, pointed to her diaper, and nodded with a quick grunt. Then she scurried to her bedroom, lay down on the quilt I use for diaper changes, and waited patiently for me to get the message.

Poor baby was dry but had a terrible rash.

Woodworking

2008-06-25T11:37:00.011-05:00

Monday night I got out the toolbox and tried to repair the dishwasher. Moona is inexplicably drawn to screwdivers, plyers, and hammers. We first noticed this fascination a year ago when we had just moved to a new apartment and were putting together a desk.

In order to keep her out of the dishwasher, I assigned her the task of unscrewing the knobs on the cupboards. Surprisingly, that enchanted her although they were too tight for her to succeed. The dishwasher repair session failed too unsurprisingly, but I realized I needed to encourage Moona's interest before it fizzled away. Several months ago I spent $30 on a high-quality wooden toy toolbox, complete with wooden screws and washers, but she took one sniff and turned away in disgust.

So we went to the hardware store and picked out a variety of knobs, knockers, and latches; two 80-cent screwdrivers; and a wood panel. I drilled holes in the wood for her and she spent the afternoon screwing the knobs and latches in, all by herself. Even Buru took an interest. It is very, very rare to see this peaceful self-occupation in my home.

Today, she unscrewed the knobs, removed the screws, and is putting them all back in again. Hmm, I wish I could say our days were filled with creative projects like these. I try.

Spilling Over

2008-06-18T16:28:00.008-05:00

The Prophet (saw) narrated the story of the Pharoah's hairdresser who was combing the hair of Pharoah's daughter and dropped her comb on the ground.

"Bismillah, in the name of God," she blurted as she bent down to pick it up.

She and her four children were burnt to death because of this slip of tongue and then her refusal to deny her belief in Allah. Her baby was one of the few who spoke in infancy, reassuring her in remaining steadfast, before she was killed.

I heard a beautiful reflection by Amr Khaled about this story. The heart is like a container filled with liquid--thoughts, feelings, whatever it is that we focus on and fill our lives with. Sometimes when we let our guard down or act subconsciously, that liquid spills over, and we glimpse what our heart contained. The hairdresser's heart spilled over when she dropped the comb. She forgot herself and the secrecy, and the purity overflowed.

"Bismillah."

When the Prophet (saw) ascended to the heavens in israa and miraj, he smelled an unworldly, beautiful scent. The angels informed him that it was the smell of the hairdresser and her children--Allah replaced the smell of their burning flesh with a glorious scent that could still be detected centuries later.

I wonder what my heart holds and how much it has been polluted by waste. What spills over when I am not paying attention, when I am struck with fear, when I am on my deathbed, when I lose my patience?

I must be careful--oh so careful--what I pour into my heart's container.

Odd One Out

2008-06-13T17:17:00.007-05:00

Buru: “Thfffbtthffbth.”

Moona: “Tee hee hee.”

Buru: “Heh heh. FFFTHFFFTBT!”

Lots of whispered, clandestine giggling.

(Buru's impersonation of me shushing them at naptime.)

* * * * *

Moona just learned that flowers die when we pick them and plants die if we don't water them. Recently, she was combing her hair for a good 20 minutes in front of the various mirrors around the house.

"Ahtaju an asrah sha'ri kay la tamoot." I have to comb my hair so it doesn't die.

Translation Please!

2008-06-12T17:50:00.007-05:00

Buru's only sounds consist of the many variations of the words "eh" "meh" "mehmeh" (that's me!) and "nyaaaa." Apparently, her sophisticated language is much too advanced for me to understand.

Screaming, whining, squirming in her high chair, I chalked it off to fussiness. Buru had a bowl of warmed-up spaghetti in front of her, usually enough for bliss.

"What's wrong?"

"Nyaaaa!" she whined, pointing to her sister, who was slurping her spaghetti and quietly observing the scene.

"Do you want water? Do you need a change?" I sniffed her bottom. She must be teething.

I waved her sippy cup in front of her. "Nyaaaaa!"

Fussy, fussy baby. Standing at the sink and attempting to ignore, I heard this matter-of-fact revelation from the three-year-old kitchen table sage.

"Sigh. She wants a fork."

"What was that?"

"Tureedu shoka. So she can be big like Moona."

I went to the drawer and pulled out a fork. The whining instantly stopped and was replaced by a toothy smile and a vigorous nod.

Be My Mirror

2008-06-12T15:05:00.005-05:00

I'm reading a fine book, recommended to me by my mother who told me I had to read this parenting gem. I hope to share some more reflections about Your Child’s Self-Esteem, written by Dorothy Briggs in 1970, but this week I'm mulling over the quotation that Briggs selected for the opening pages of her book.

Man wishes to be confirmed in his being
By man, and wishes to have a presence
In the being of the other…secretly and
Bashfully he watches for a Yes which
Allows him to be and which can come to
Him only from one human person to another.
–Martin Buber

Trying to understand how this quotation, which strikes a chord, would fit in with Islamic teachings has been like staring at a cloud drifting under the moon and waiting for the moonlight to shine through. The first time I read this, red lights flashed in my head. Alhamdulillah, I’ve come a long way from viewing things as black and white, true and false, and I often manually override those red lights and take time to think and listen before reaching conclusions.

There are principles in our faith that we know are true and overarching, such as sincerity and living solely for the sake of serving Allah, and there can be other truths that exist simultaneously, reinforcing, adding depth, complexity, and wisdom, and never contradicting. These multiple perspectives do not dilute or weaken or confuse those principles, but rather they illustrate the profound depth, flexibility, and humanity of Islam. We have only scratched the surface in appreciating this and have a long way to go in opening our minds to this wisdom.

Allah, who created us, designed our minds and bodies, and breathed into Adam’s soul, also designed for us a way of life that would complete us as individuals and as a community. In Islam, we find core teachings of brotherhood, trust, deep love and selflessness, and mutual advice and support. The Prophet (saw) said, “The believer is the mirror of his brother.”

I’m just reflecting and pondering, not trying to explain. You are a mirror for me? What does that mean? This hadith has always been explained as, and assumed to mean, that our brother or sister reflects back to us our faults, like a mirror, offering advice and helping us to improve. Buber’s quote however made me wonder if there is a deeper significance to this mirror.

A human mirror, another soul worshipping God, where we can see ourselves reflected, draw encouragement in our mutual journey, where our emotions and our feelings can be protected, heard, and validated. A human mirror would give empathy—not pity. A mirror would gently reflect back to us our weaknesses but also reflect back our strengths. My sister, my brother in Islam, is a fellow human I can go to, pour out the entangled feelings, thoughts, and internal struggles, and through listening, empathy, and gentleness, he or she acts as my mirror, helping me to see what is going on inside me, understand it, and sort myself out so that I can continue in life.

Maybe Allah swt, who knows the innermost depths of our souls, knows of our need for validation and confirmation in others around us, and so made it an obligation on us to grow closer to each other, to draw support from each other, and to be reflections of our brother and sister. This mutual empathy and reflection of each other makes us stronger, not weaker, and may make us all the better to worship and serve Him.

Mother Privileges

2008-05-27T00:41:00.001-05:00

I stared long and hard at the box of Fla-Vor-Ice freezer pops in the store. Why not?

Somehow, an aura of wrongness surrounded the 100-count box. What was it? They are fat-free, dirt cheap, and it’s hot outside. Why had it never occurred to me before to buy a whole box just for me? I love those artificial chemical-filled flavored ice pops—the last vestiges of a surrendered junk food addiction—and when I visit the rare friend who has them I take just one but can’t help staring longingly at their freezer. Maybe I feel guilty because being that happy can’t be right. Maybe the guilt is residue from my childhood (if my mom got a box of 100 chemical pops, we would never give her a moment of peace until we had wolfed down every last one within 24 hours—so the answer was always no).

Why not? I just never thought about it before. Looking at my two kids, I decided I still had a year or two to sneak a big box of freezer pops into the house just for me and get away with it.

It is past midnight and I’m working on a program guide and wolfing down freezer pops in peace. I’ve lost count how many I’ve had, and I’m eating all of the red and blue ones first.

City of Orange Lights

2008-05-25T13:33:00.003-05:00

My family and I enjoyed a visit back to our home of four years, the San Francisco Bay Area (home of seven years for my husband). I have never been so attached to a piece of earth. I tried throughout my visit not to pause and think for too long, or else I might have gotten all teary and depressed.

The brisk air, the people, all things healthy, hippie, and green, the looming skylines of the green Santa Cruz mountains to the West and the San Jose mountains to the east, cradling the Silicon Valley and all of the rolling foothills in between. The wonderful, dear group of sisters whose friendships insha’allah will continue for the rest of our lives. Watching our children growing and playing—with occasional hair-pulling—and loving each other. The rugged, breathtaking Pacific coast that, for four years, I visited whenever I wished. Driving down highway 17 again, the 45-minute windy, scenic mountain route to Santa Cruz I drove for every single one of my prenatal appointments. I think it was California that made me love America.

The night we arrived I noticed the yellow-orange street lights illuminating the empty, midnight streets. I knew about them before, but the orangeness really stood out after having been away for a while. They radiated miles out from the highway into every neighborhood and shopping plaza. Back in the eighties, San Jose switched all of their street lights to a low-energy alternative, largely to minimize interference with the Lick Observatory high up in the surrounding mountains. That’s San Jose; putting up with sickly orange lights in order to be able to see the stars.

Meditation

2008-04-24T11:52:00.011-05:00

A few months ago, I heard Imam Ahmed ElKhaldy from Iowa make a reference to meditation in a talk. I thought it was interesting, because he was talking about khushoo’, concentration in prayer, but he kept referring to it as meditation. He asked the audience to take off their watches, turn off their cell phones, and throw them on the floor in front of them. Time seemed to stop. A fellow MAS Youth Connect Mentor—formerly called an usra leader—in the Bay Area also assigned her group regular meditation sessions (or so I heard from her fascinated audience). I was very intrigued and added to my to-do list ‘learn and study meditation.’

I picked up a couple of books from the library and started learning. I really enjoy yoga (what I learned in yoga, with Allah’s help first, walked me through two long, drug-free labors) and there is a similar foundation.

I used to get a kick out of the disclaimer “Yoga is not a religion” that was always posted at the end of the flyer for yoga classes at the Bay Area MCA. It is funny because actually arts of yoga and meditation have so much overlap with the Islamic concepts of self-awareness, concentration, contemplation. In fact, I think we have lost the art of concentration and meditation in modern society and meditation can actually restore a deeper understanding of the how-to for a lot of Islamic acts of worship that our minds are not trained to engage in: how to concentrate in prayer, how to contemplate creation, how to ponder the Quran. Our minds stream with constant thoughts and chatter, even during prayer, and we don't know how to free ourselves and focus on worshipping God. The best advice we can give people struggling with this is keep trying.

What meditation does is it teaches and trains the human mind to release all negative feelings, extraneous thoughts, and material distractions. Then, according to the books I read, you connect yourself with creation, look deep into yourself, and concentrate on being. But, what if, we can modify this meditation to become what is exactly meant by khushu', focus and concentration:

Gradually, you build up to a point where your thoughts stop buzzing around in your head and your mind and heart are quiet and clear. Free of all distractions, you look into yourself and focus on who you are in the real scheme of things. A soul enclosed in a body vessel, a soul that has no appearance, no possessions, no companions, a soul created solely for the worship of One God. You listen to your breathing and realize that it is Allah who enables every breath, every beat of your heart: total, absolute reliance and dependence on His sustenance.

Your awareness pierces the limited landscape of the visible world and you are cognizant of dimensions that you cannot see. Over them all is One Supreme God, The Bestower of Peace, The Almighty, The Originator, King of Judgment Day, The Most Kind. Your forehead rests in His hands.

Mind, heart, soul are flooded with something unreal, a sensation that cannot be described. Awe. Peace. Fear. Love. All the dwellings of your mind, the complications of life, the to-do lists and the he-said she-said wash away. Clarity and perspective, even if only lasting a few, fleeting moments.

Insha’allah I will write more posts about meditation as I learn.

Wonder GIRL

2008-04-14T17:07:00.022-05:00

Another everyday Moona story:

We were in Target, or rather trying somehow to get out of Target. I push the stroller holding Buru daintily picking raisins out of a tiny box, nested amongst the assorted shopping bags, purse, and diaper bag hanging from the handles (we had walked a half-mile, stopping at different stores, me trying to get my exercise and shopping done all at once, with a single stroller instead of the double. Poor, foolish umee.)

I trek to the children's sock section, our last stop, which seems ever so far away because every fifteen seconds I must stop and coax Wonder Girl to keep up. She stops at every mirror and corner to do a heel click, sweep some shirts off a rack, or stroke a mannequin's hand. With all the times I threaten to leave her, my dear child could have abandonment issues when she grows up (mental note: STOP threatening to leave her in the store). For the time being, however, she seems to care less.

I always leave grocery stores and libraries thinking one thing, "Why? Why? WHY DID I COME HERE?"

The guilt at trying to yell out of my eyes and threaten her with no more milk kicked in as we were looking for a checkout lane, and I started thinking of something nice to do for her--or was it for me? I remembered the promised hairband.

Moona has been wearing what used to be a pink beaded hairband, a rediscovered gift from Khala Geena, but she peeled the ribbon off, lost the beads, and it became a murky piece of grey plastic with globs of dried yellow glue stuck to it. She wore it everyday for two weeks, and even slept with it. Then she left it at someone’s house a couple days ago.

“TOKA!” she gasped, jolting in her carseat, twenty minutes after we left the house. I promised to get her another one sometime, thankful the cherished plastic scrap was gone.

So we run together quickly to the hair accessories aisle, Wonder Girl suddenly complacent and cooperative, focused on our quest. We find a set of five pastel headbands and, yes, one of them is pink.

$2.50 buys me a happy kid and a guilt suppressant with good-mommy feelings, all perishable of course.

In the parking lot, Wonder Girl skips at my side; the breeze blows through her hair and makes her dress balloon out. She suddenly exclaims, “Umee, Ana bint! Umee, I am a girl!”

I am used to these random, dawning realizations. “Yes, you are!”

But I don't quite realize what she is thinking until we are in the car. She tears the plastic off of the headbands, unwraps the five, puts three on her head, one after the other. She sits back in her carseat, three hairbands on her head, looks out the window, and declares contentedly,

“Alaaan asbahtu bintan.” “Now, I am a girl.”

CAM Hiatus

2008-04-10T13:15:00.009-05:00

After two weeks of running around like a madwoman, and if I wasn't running around, of feeling like I should be, CAM (the Central Annual Meeting of MAS Youth Workers) is over.

So now I have to figure out what to do with myself. Back to blogging, and hmmmmm ... I feel a new creative project looming. Stay tuned for details.

There is one small update. I am now a mom. Literally.

"Mom!" my sponge-brained child shouts. "Moooommmmm!" She hollers it like a fourth-grade boy.

Where did she pick that up? CAM. A couple hours in babysitting, and all of a sudden she decides I'm really "Mom." Not "Mama" or "Umee" or "Umeeni" or "Mamatuna" or "hilwa" or any of the cute little names she's composed for me over the last few months. Mom. Splat. Plain. Old. Mom.

The Proper Care of Snails

2008-03-18T21:01:00.008-05:00

A halzoona* lived with us for five days this week. We found it on a rosebush, put it in a bug container with some lettuce and a cucumber slice. Moona, chin on her hands, observed our new mollusk friend for a few minutes then asked, "How does the snail eat?"

This was a question after my own heart. We packed up, grabbed some pretzels and raisin boxes to keep the baby quiet, loaded ourselves into the minivan and headed to the library. For the first time, I didn't have to threaten and coddle and bribe while I located a book. Moona watched intently as I searched for books on snails. When I pointed to the right one, she pulled it out and her face lit up. "A snail!" she exclaimed.

Kiddo, you don't know how long I have been waiting for you to have an attention span.

We sat amidst a pile of snail books until Buru finished her raisins and pretzel sticks and of course started whining. We picked a few out and came home. The snail stayed with us for a few days until it stopped moving and I was afraid it was dead from a cucumber binge. So we let it go. Moona, narrates the story in her own words, with lots of thoughtful pauses in which she asks me what comes next, then answers her own question:

"Al-halzoona jalasat ma'na fi baytina. Thumma man? Akala khas wa khiyar thumma nam. Thumma man? Thumma qulna lil halzoona: la, hadha laysa baytuk. Baytuka fil hadeeqa ma ummuk. Thumma man? Hadha baytuna, wa baytuka fil hadeeqa. 'Salam 'laykum halzoona. Salam 'laykum fi baytik."

"The snail stayed with us in our house. Then what? It ate lettuce and cucumber then it slept. Then what? Then we said to the snail: no, this is not your house. Your house is in the garden with your mother. Then what? .... This is our house, and your house is in the garden. Salam 'laykum snail. Salam 'laykum in your house."

*Halzoona is fus-ha Arabic for snail. I think. Maybe. At least it means snail in our house.

What is Moonaburu?

2008-03-10T15:44:00.012-05:00

I renamed this blog Moonaburu mostly because it sounds better than Muslimmommyworker, a name I picked quickly because I just wanted to try out the blogging thing. It was meant to be "MuslimMom & MYWorker,"—the MY stands for MAS Youth, but maybe that wasn't so clear. My children call me many things but I draw the line at Mommy.

Moonaburu is a euphemism for two insatiable, wall-coloring, energy-draining, barefoot little girls in one-and-a-half diapers, desperately in need of a good scrubbing. Kind of, but really, no. It's named after the blog's two main characters:

Moona
Moona is almost three years old. She is bouncy, giggly, and ready for an adventure all the time alhamdulillah. Her black curly hair cannot be combed and the only way I know to untangle it is with a haircut. She only wears cotton knit—no sweats, corduroy, polyester, or brushed cotton please. Moona is addicted to attention—she will do anything for it and does nothing the entire day except sit at my feet and wait for me to look at her. She has mountains of toys but hasn't the slightest clue what to do with them.

If Moona was a cartoon character, she would be Dora the Explorer. Her favorite food is blueberries. Her dream come true is to sit down and read stories about little girls. And that's it, because, man, she already gets way too much attention for her size.

Buru
Buru is one year old. She is nicknamed after the Nyumburu Multicultural Center at Univ. of Md, where I was an undergrad—huh? What can I say? It stuck.

Buru is our cuddlebug—she nuzzles and snuggles against your shoulder and makes you feel all warm inside. When I can't hold her, she makes do with holding onto the hem of my skirt or resting her cheek on top of my feet. When we sit down to play, and her sister is bouncing off the wall with excitement at the prospect of my undivided attention, Buru would rather put her head on my lap, look into my eyes, and suck her thumb. Buru is also a gifted whiner, and her whining in my opinion poses one of the formidable challenges in my experience as a mother —Nyaaaaaaaaaa!

She can say a few words: Iman, Umee, food, and water. They sound like, "Imaa? Emaa? Maaaaaaaa? and Ma`?" Buru hates bathtime and shrieks and yowls like a feline. She has a mischievous streak, we can tell, because her eyes twinkle when she pulls her sister's hair.

Buru could be the Downy Teddy Bear, but with shrieking capabilities. Her favorite food is bananas. She can down a whole banana in less than a minute. Her dream come true is to lie in my arms and eat bananas.

Umee & Abee (That's me and my husband)
Our family lives in Texas and we are working to create a family home that is warm, encouraging, healthy, creative, and rabbani—entirely devoted to God. We sorely miss our previous home and friends in California, but are doing our best to make do in Texas.

We are members of the Muslim American Society, and as you can guess from my postings, it is a huge part of our life. I believe it is the best way to bring about positive change in American society and the straightest way for me as an individual to earn Allah's pleasure. There are several chapters in Texas, as in almost every state, so we're covered.

You will also notice that we speak to our children only in Quranic Arabic, a form of the language that is only used in formal settings, literature, and the Quran. So, yeah, our kids are going to sound like Arabian Shakespeares. We made the decision so that our kids would be able to connect on a deep level with the Quran, and also because I grew up speaking only English and the formal, academic dialect is easier for me.

I would like to consider myself a writer. Although I include other topics, especially related to Islamic activism, self-improvement, and parenting, I love to write about my kids. The doting might be tiresome for some readers I suppose. I hope my kids don't grow up and feel embarrassed that I wrote about the ins and outs of our family life, their thumb-sucking, and tantrums. Instead, I hope one day I can compile these writings, place the pages in their hands, and say:

"This is what I was thinking, feeling, learning, and doing while I was raising you. I made many, many, many mistakes. But you—and your father—were my treasures, my loves, the blessings of my life every single day. You shaped me in so many ways, and my hope is that through you I gain Allah's pleasure."

A New Look, A New Name

2008-03-10T15:44:00.002-05:00

Insha'allah I will be renaming the blog and redesigning the page. The renaming is because it sounds like there is a Mommy in the middle of the blog address. My children call me many things, but I draw the line at Mommy.

I also want to keep my kids names anonymous on the world wide web, just in case. The revamped blog will be at:
moonaburu.blogspot.com

And why the redesign? Because there is this pesty artist inside me that is forbidden to see the light of day, because I'm getting old and there is no time. But we've agreed she can come out on the blog from time to time (did that just sound like I have Multiple Personality Disorder?)

May Allah reward you all for your loving support.

Ueland's If You Want to Write

2008-03-07T16:40:00.000-06:00

At some point, I will have been writing in this blog for long enough that I will forget about a post I wrote, be too lazy to check the archives, and go ahead and publish a post with a twinge of a feeling that I’ve written about this before. It's bound to happen--have I written about my favorite writing book yet? The hazelnut coffee is brewing.

If You Want to Write, A Book about Art, Independence, and Spirit by Brenda Ueland. This is one of the books on my bookshelf since middle school, but I was too young to appreciate. Written in 1938, it is a poetic, short, inspiring work that moves you to pour your creative energy into what you love to do or make, whether it is writing, art, cooking, or building. It’s the kind of book that is so deep that you need to come back to it a few times.

Her main premise, which I believe about everyone else but sometimes forget about myself, is that everyone can write and everyone has something original to say. Once you tap into your core, your true self, thoughts and raw feelings, what you write is beautiful, freeing, and original. Ueland remarks early in the book that the two most vital writing principles are: only write when you want to and only write what is absolutely true. By sticking to these, she says, we can crawl out of a shell of artificiality and stunted expression and write originally.

The book is punctuated with chapter headings such as, “Be careless, reckless! Be a lion, be a pirate, when you write,” “Why women who do too much housework should neglect it for their writing,” and “Keep a slovenly, headlong, impulsive, honest diary.” I truly hope some of my friends and family who might read this will be encouraged to write freely.

Some favorite passages from If You Want to Write:

“There is that American pastime known as “kidding,”—with the result that everyone is ashamed and hang-dog about showing the slightest enthusiasm or passion or sincere feeling about anything.”

“Yes, I hate orthodox criticism. I don’t mean great criticism, like that of Mathew Arnold and others, but the usual small niggling, fussy-mussy criticism, which thinks it can improve people by telling them where they are wrong, and results only in putting them in strait-jackets of hesitancy and self-consciousness, and weazening all vision and bravery.

I hate it not so much on my own account, for I have learned at last not to let it balk me. But I hate it because of the potentially shining, gentle, gifted people of all ages that it snuffs out every year. It is a murderer of talent. And because the most modest and sensitive people are the most talented, having the most imagination and sympathy, these are the very first ones to get killed off. It is the brutal egotists that survive.”

“…All people who try to write (and all people long to, which is natural and right) become anxious, timid, contracted, become perfectionists, so terribly afraid that they may put something down that is not as good as Shakespeare.

And so no wonder you don’t write and put it off month after month, decade after decade. For when you write, if it is to be any good at all, you must feel free,--free and not anxious. The only good teachers for you are those friends who love you, who think you are interesting, or very important, or wonderfully funny…”

“When a child is taken somewhere by his parents he is not thinking nervously: are they late or early? Is the furnace running at home? He is at rest and looks out the window and sees and thinks. He lives in the present. That is why children enjoy looking and listening so much. Why they are such wonderful mimics of grown-ups. They have tremendous concentration because they have no other concern than to be interested in things. Later they are trained to force concentration and become as imaginatively muddy and uneasy as the rest of us.”

“And so now I have established reasons why you should work from now on until you die, with real love and imagination and intelligence, at your writing or whatever work it is that you care about. If you do that, out of the mountains that you write some mole hills will be published. Or you may make a fortune and win the Nobel Prize. But if nothing is ever published at all and you never make a cent, just the same it will be good that you have worked.”

“This quiet looking and thinking is the imagination; it is letting in ideas. Willing is doing something you know already, something you have been told by somebody else; there is no new imaginative understanding in it. And presently your soul gets frightfully sterile and dry because you are so quick, snappy and efficient about doing one thing after another that you have not time for your own ideas to come in and develop and gently shine.”

When Momma Cracks

2008-03-03T11:43:00.000-06:00

I’m singing to her, the cereal is coming!

“Nyaaaaaaa.”

Yummy-yummy-oatmeal, cooked-on-the-stove--

“Nyaaaaaaa!”

I’m cool. I’m in charge. Yeah. YEAH.

"NYAAAAAAA!"

This is the freaking calm before the storm.

Whining is the bane of motherhood. It really rubs moms the wrong way, pulls at this string in us and we end up doing things we never would have done before kids. Mothers don't get whining, a pointless, utterly annoying, entirely dispensable form of last-resort protest. There is the background whining “Awwwww. Mmmmmm. Wehhhhh.” Then there is “Mooommmmmyyyyyyyy.” And finally, “NYYAAAAAA!”

Ten, maybe twenty, minutes of whining that graduates to something more like shrieking can bring any mom to her knees. My youngest daughter, bless her, is a gifted whiner. Her sister throws her arms around her and tells her she loves her, and “nyaaaaaa!” The moment she finishes the carrots on her tray, she doesn’t give me a second, doesn’t skip a beat: “nyaaaaaa!” I take a little too long unstrapping her from her carseat--

“NYAAAAAAAAA!”

Almost done, almost done. A steaming pot of oatmeal sits in front of her on the table. I’m pouring cool water on it, fanning it frantically with a pot holder, trying to make it cool down as fast as possible.

Nyaaaa! Nyaaaa! Nyaaaaaaaaaaaa! Nyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa--It’s coming, it’s coming. Mmmmmm, look--Nyyaaaaaaaa!--Hungry for--NYYYAAAAAAAAAAAA! NYAAAAAAAAAAA! NYAAAAAAAAAA!

And then, the storm. “HUSH! HUSH! HUSH!” I bang the table with every word, completely cracking.

She stops and puts her little hand over her eyes, the pathetic gesture I know too well whenever her feelings are hurt. It’s my defeat, not hers. I try to ignore the guilt. In a few seconds, clumps of fresh steaming oatmeal are on her tray table. She attacks them and stuffs her mouth, the sensitivity melting away. I retire to the living room to breathe. It's only 10 a.m.

My not-yet-three-year-old, who watched the scene quietly, follows me, waits for me to settle, then says softly,

“Umee, Noor sagheera. Hiya la tafham.” Umee, Noor is little. She doesn’t understand.

“What did you say?” I couldn’t have heard right. She says it again, gently, with sympathy, like a parent.

From the mouths of babes. I want to scream, hit my head against the wall, laugh deliriously, and pull my hair. Instead, I kiss her forehead and thank her.

It's tarbiyah, every day, from the most unlikely little people.

Magic Words

2008-03-02T14:27:00.001-06:00

These days it’s impossible to be in a bad mood around our house. Moona keeps chirping that she loves us.

“Umee, I love you,” she gushes while I’m putting her shoes on.

“Uhibbuki Umeeeeeeee,” she sings to me while I’m standing at the stove cooking.

“Hibbuki!” she blurts out in the middle of a conversation with my husband.

And, “I LUB you!” as I toss a loaf of bread into the shopping cart.

Maybe she’s just found the perfect words to get my immediate attention, to put me in a good mood, and to get me to beam at her lovingly. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing or how distracted I am, those words I can’t ignore. She wields her new power with her father too, and it has the same melting effect on him.

She's not manipulating. Children aren’t purposely insidious and what appears to us as manipulation is actually much more innocent when you dig deeper. She’s found a way to draw out loving looks and attention—to access the part of us that she loves most.

And I’m thankful to her for bringing that part of me out a little more often.

Aha! Moment: Two-Way Risk

2008-02-20T14:48:00.000-06:00

We have lots of Aha! Moments in MAS Youth. And they’re happening all across the nation at different rates and different points in time. So a map of the MAS Youth nation could look like this:

(Okaaayyyy. I have a little too much time on my hands)

Aha! Moments happen when something that seemed scary, obscure, or impossible suddenly becomes a crystal-clear matter of course. Consensus is built, people converge. Sometimes, these moments come on suddenly. It’s a thrilling experience, washed in relief, excitement, and new-found confidence. You have a conversation with another youth worker, he or she makes you think really hard, and …CLICK! Other times, it is the tipping point of a cumulative mass of information, exchanges, observations, and drilled-in messages.

I caught a recent Aha! Moment at the MAS Youth Directors’ Meeting in Detroit in January. Dr. Souheil Ghannouchi, the president of MAS, spent many hours talking with attendees and clarifying the national vision. I learned to think in terms of two-way risk, and Aha! I spent the entire trip home wondering why I hadn’t seen it this way before.

We usually think of risk in one direction. When we approach new directions in MAS and MAS Youth, we become fixated on the risks. We weigh the risks of the new approach with a hypothetical risk-free scenario. We worry that we will dilute the understanding, compromise on development, spread ourselves thin, or give the wrong message. We worry about what people will say or think. These risks, formidable and sobering to every single worker, often make us settle back into the status quo.

Risk, however, is a two-way street. There is a risk of moving forward, but there is often a greater risk of staying where we are. The risk of not doing something should be scaled and measured with equal apprehension. We become desensitized and blind to the greater risk of remaining in our current situation, only because we are used to it. The risks of staying still and confining ourselves to a comfort zone are actually enormous—falling short of our mission, not conveying Islam to everyone we could, losing momentum because we are unable to replace ourselves, and ultimately not earning the pleasure of Allah. When I see risk as a two-way street, it is better to move forward and deal with the risks, working to minimize them in every way and take precautions, than turn away from them all together succumbing to uncertainty and hesitation.

Concert tours, MAS on campus, attracting non-practicing crowds, taking our message to gang members or inviting a drug addict to a MAS Youth usra, trying new methods and pushing new leaders forward—yes, there are risks! But there are even greater risks of turning away from those opportunities in order to protect a perceived 'safe' situation. By doing so, we are only driving in the other direction, towards another set of risks just as daunting and perhaps of greater consequence.

This Aha! Moment was inspiring and empowering for me. Instead of working to avoid risk, we should move forward in the direction that has the greatest potential, holding in our hearts the highest, greatest, sincerest intentions we can muster. And all the while, we anticipate the risks and design creative solutions to the new problems that will undoubtedly arise. I pray that Allah swt guides us to what is right and makes us always aware and humbled at how deeply we are in need of His guidance. Our eyes must always be open to new alternatives and better solutions, but meanwhile we have to make sure we are heading in the right direction on a two-way street.

Ammu Toot

2008-02-15T18:49:00.000-06:00

6:18 p.m.
“Ammu Toot! Umee, Ammu Toot!”

I switch to my new-word-detective mode. Say who? Uncle Berry? A nickname for someone? Some memory involving a brother and blueberries? She is jumping frantically up and down.

"AMMU TOOT!”

I follow her around the corner to the bathroom and she points to a little speck on the floor.

Aaaaaah. Of course. A spider.

Ammu Toot. Ankabut.

6:25 p.m.
I try to adjust her pronunciation a bit. An-ka-boot. An. Ka. Boot. Some progress. Anpatoot. Antaboot.

6:32 p.m.
"Umee! Ayna 'A la patoot'?"

Hilarious?

2008-02-07T15:08:00.001-06:00

Ever think something was so hilarious and you laugh so hard the tears roll down your cheeks, but no one else is quite as tickled as you? It happens a lot to little kids. The nice part is, they don’t care who in the world laughs with them. It is FUN-NY.

Today Moona laughed and hooted and choked because I walked away from the sewing table and out of the room with a spool of thread trailing from my skirt. When she saw my tail of green thread, she pointed and squealed and started giggling like crazy.

When I turned around and said, “Oh!” that was the end of it. Shrieks of sidesplitting laughter. I laughed with her, surprised at her exaggerated response and belly laughs.

Tears in her dancing eyes, she was crestfallen when I picked up the spool and put it back on the table. Ah well.

Family Life

2008-02-03T12:26:00.002-06:00

Driving through downtown, whizzing by a million sights and sounds in our silver minivan. The finger points, and then the question.

“Marhadha?” “Whatsthat?”

I try to follow her gaze, see where her finger is pointing, as the car sails across an overpass so high I don't look down. Billboards, parking lots, dilapidated buildings, glitzy blinking signs, towering overpasses, crisscrosses of telephone wires and poles, gaping highways. All of the unplanned miscellanea that make Houston so unsightly and distracting.

“Skyscrapers? That’s the city. Look at all of those tall buildings.”

“Whatsthat?”

“What? Where?”

“Whatsthat? Therethat. WHATSTHAAAAAT?”

Turning around, I only see her gazing intently at something. “Buildings. They are buildings.”

“Whatsthat?”

“I’m not sure what you…buildings.”

I don’t want to frustrate her attempts to discover more about the world, to ask questions, articulate her observations in a jumbled, mispronounced vocabulary. I hope she is never afraid to ask and never feels discouraged that we don’t understand her.

But sometimes I really don’t understand and can’t figure out what her little head is thinking. I try to hide it.

* * * *

Plastic cups with water for the girls, warm tea for me. Blankets. Moona makes sure everyone has a pillow, fetching them one by one from the different rooms in the house.

"Can you close the door, Moona?"

"This door closes by itself." She pauses, mesmerized, as the open door slowly, eerily, drifts closed. The only door in the house with a loose hinge, and she knows it.

Curling up in bed with the whole family. There used to be a time when Moona would watch the show in silence. Taking it all in, occasionally making an observation.

“Camel?” “Mountain?” “Bear wants her mama?”

Our peaceful Planet Earth sessions are done for good, however. Buru, delighted that we are all smooshed together in one place in a dim room, squeals, pulls Moona’s hair, sticks her fingers into our noses, nosedives into our laps and screams when she can’t wiggle out. And Moona asks questions.

“Marhadha? Ew. Marhadha?”

A glowworm excretes drops of mucus onto a thread of silk that dangles to catch insects hypnotized by the light on the worm’s tail.

“Uhhh.” I grope for the right words in Arabic. “It’s a worm. He’s hanging the string to …”

Blink. Glowworm is gone.

“Marhadha? Marhadha, Umee? Marhadha? MARHADHA?”

Now it’s a swarm of bats and a mountain of cockroaches eating... you don’t want to know. Gross. Why am I watching this? Oh right, family time. I look at my husband. He’s lost in action, snoring, and Buru is reaching for his eyeglasses.

Riding Airplane with Abooni

2008-01-28T13:26:00.000-06:00

“Ana arkab at-ta’irah ma’aki wa ma’… Abooni?”
[a funny pronounciation of the generic “my father”]

It is well-known among toddlers and babies that the best time to fall asleep on an airplane trip is just as the airplane is touching down. If you fall asleep before, you miss the opportunity to spill your apple juice and kick the seat in front of you, play peek-a-boo with other passengers, grind up Fritos, and totally wipe out your parents.

If you know how to ask questions, ask them constantly. Ask about the airplane wings, ask about the seatbelts, ask about the airport, ask about the escalators. Ask in a way that minimizes verbalizing, so you can produce the maximum amount of questioning power to outlast your parents’ energy reserves.

“Whatsthat? Whatsthat? Whatsthat? Whatsthat? Whatsthat? Whatsthat? Whatsthat? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?”

Don’t worry that other passengers snicker or comment on what a little chatterbox you are. Don’t worry that the airplane or bus is silently waiting to unboard and the only sound is your piping, overly amplified voice. Be absolutely confident in your cuteness.

When your voice starts to give, you become tired, or you don’t know how to ask questions in the first place, just whine.

If you ever have trouble understanding what’s going on around you, just put it in mommy-daddy context, since it is a framework that can be applied to most situations.

"At-Ta’irah tanzil ila al-matar…tureedu umaha?"
[The airplane is landing because it wants its mommy?]

“Al-Hafilah Abu Sayaratuna?”
[Is this bus the father of our car?]

Finally, when you hear the landing gear coming down and the airplane roars into its final descent, you may at last curl up and go to sleep. Resist all attempts to wake you up, and make Abooni carry you off the airplane.

Empty Dumpty

2008-01-23T17:59:00.000-06:00

Umee, Umee, what do you see?
I see two babies looking at me
…Wait, help! I can’t see anything else.

Writing fits perfectly with a stay-at-home mom’s routine, and it’s the one craft that actually got more fun after kids. Writing is my therapy, escape, morning cup of coffee, contribution to human consciousness. When I really want to enjoy myself, I buy an inspirational writing book from the bookstore, because those repetitive little mantras make me so excited about clothbound notebooks, textured paper, and ballpoint pens. I start to dream in yellowed pages and pretty, stately fonts.

Almost every book on writing starts out with beating writer’s block, getting over the self-doubt and perfectionism that hinders writers from sitting down to perform their painful magic. But I confess—I rarely have writer’s block. I don’t resist writing or put it off. Revved up and ready, when I have a topic in mind I can’t wait to sit down and scribble away, no matter how disjointed it comes out. I have fun doing it because I know writing is a process and I have to go through many, many rewrites before I will ever produce something winning.

But it’s not all good. My head is a quarter-of-a-century-old piggy bank with a couple of dimes rattling around inside. Experience, adventure, in-depth knowledge have been very sparse with their allowances, and I struggle to find the rich, colorful words and objects and emotions to weave into my work. I might like to write, but my life is too shallow for the words to live there.

So, when I sit at the computer all psyched, this is what happens:

Hm, let’s see. (hee hee, I’m so excited!)
.....
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I end up writing about green popsicles. Or about a telemarketer for Wyndham Resorts who wouldn’t let up even though my kids were screaming in the background—do you really like whiny little kids at your luxury resorts? Sometimes I write about my own circular thinking traps, or about the hunky-dory life of a lonely housewife, or try on a writing style that isn’t my own--trust me, no one wants to hear those threads. The only promising vein of imagery in my head is along this line: leather-soled baby shoes, dimpled toes; sippy cups of every material and shape; felt squares, sequins, and Elmer’s Glue; The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Blueberries for Sal.

I love writing about my kids, but I doubt my friends enjoy hearing about them constantly. You would think, given my resume (oh YEEAAH, haha, remember those?), that I would have a lot more junk sitting around in my mind. But I can’t seem to dig it out. I’m not the well-rounded hip mama who will chit chat and smartly put pop culture in then out of diapers.

When I get a rare non-child-inspired writing moment, I will keep it on life support as long as I can. Until then, I'm afraid the only nourishment here for your mind are smooshed fries and fish crackers.

One Bosico, Two Bosico

2008-01-22T17:51:00.000-06:00

My eldest daughter is not yet three years old, but she is already mastering her negotiating skills. We make rules, and she does not like it.

“You can have one popsicle, and then that’s it. OK?” Silence.

“One popsicle.”

“Ithnan.” [two] She holds up two fingers, concentrating hard to keep the other fingers down and the two staying up.

“No, one. Do you want red or green?”

“Ithnan bosico. Wahid ahmaw, wahid akdaw.” [Two bosicos. One red, one green.]

I sigh. We go through this routine a dozen times a day, naptime, pottytime, mealtime, bedtime. When she wants something to drink, she attempts to negotiate the best option between what she would most prefer and what she would least. Milk in sippy cup-juice in sippy cup-milk with a straw-juice with a straw-just milk-just juice.

And finally, after tears and me turning to walk out, surrender comes. Ma bil shafata…. MAAAAA. Ureedu MAAAAAA FATTAT!

So with the popsicles, I wanted her to see that just one was a treat. Two was a long shot. And I’m very good at sticking to limits.

"One only."

"OK." Whatever.

She relished her red bosico. “Mmmmmmmmmmmm,” she said with the exaggerated animation of a kid on a cereal commercial. Grinning, red juice running down her chin, dripping onto her shirt which would now have to be pretreated with Shout. Smaller, smaller, smaller, then the last piece of red ice slipped off the wooden stick into her open mouth.

Mouth still full with popsicle, she says expectantly, “Ukhwa.” [Another.]

Green is the color of grass, the flavor of limes. These popsicles are just 100% fruit juice, and I need 10 servings of fruit a day. Wouldn’t you like another serving of peace and quiet? I’m sure she would have said all of this if she could.

Instead, she begged in her two-year-old vocabulary and pleaded seriously with her juice-stained cheeks. When that failed, she resorted to wailing the virtues of green popsicles for the next three minutes, when she promptly found herself in time out.

Like I said, I have no problem sticking to limits with our world-class negotiator.

A Book Review on the Quran

2008-01-08T12:41:00.000-06:00

The New York Times printed a book review on the Quran on Sunday. Beautiful.
It was written by Dr. Tariq Ramadan, one of my favorite English-speaking writers and Islamic thinkers.
I hope anyone who reads the article, whether Muslim or non-Muslim, will race to discover the Quran or return to it.

Perform Thanks

2007-12-05T16:13:00.000-06:00

“I’malu aala dawooda shukra…”
"Work, people of David, with thanks."

There is an activity that has been suggested so many times, but I never actually sat down and did it until recently. The exercise is to write down all of Allah’s blessings upon you, starting from the obvious then working your way to ones you never thought about. Write down the blessing of sight, health, loved ones, and possessions. Write down Islam, the ability to comprehend the Quran. Write down the name of that friend or person who is the love of your life, your best friend, your parent, and your child. And then dig deeper and write down your abilities, talents, the thoughts in your soul that comfort you when you are sad and keep you company when you are lonely.

If this activity overwhelmed you, as it did me, and you felt your throat choked and paralyzed with shame at how you have fallen short of thanks, wondering how on earth to begin, the answer is always to move forward. There is no negative, fearful, humbling feeling in Islam that is not accompanied with an overwhelming sense of hope and a call to action. Until the final moments of life, we are never powerless, never doomed. We always have the Hereafter itself literally a footstep away.

“I’malu aala dawooda shukra…”

Perform thanks. Do not merely say it, feel it, reflect upon it. Perform it.

We cannot expect only to be polite with Allah, and then win His pleasure and salvation. It is not enough to offer token words of thanks, and then move on with our lives. We are His servants, His vicegerents on earth, entrusted with a mission and gifted with such blessing and ability. All that we listed on that sheet of paper, all of those blessings that we managed to count as well as the innumerable ones we left out, those are tools for us to serve Him with. We will be held accountable for them if we don’t.

Uniqueness of Every Child

2007-11-21T00:06:00.000-06:00

A friend and I were laughing because we both felt we are wonderful mothers
--while our kids are asleep. During the short pause in whining, screaming, and cleaning after, the ideas and inspiration and excitement begin to well up. It's almost like I want to shake them awake and read them a story ... almost.

Here is a short, inspiring clip to watch while your kids are asleep.

Knitting the Dishes

2007-11-19T17:51:00.000-06:00

Sometimes we wash the dishes, and sometimes we knit them.

I’ve started my on-off habit of knitting again, because of the distant prospect of moving to a cold climate someday. Then, I hope my family will be happy for the thick, warm, homemade socks, hats, and mittens. For now though, the knitting habit serves to keep the housework from ruling my life.

A sink filled with dishes taunts me all day, laughs at me, and pulls me away from my kids. Every night, my daughter drinks two cups of milk before bed, and now that we are doing away with sippy cups (I’m tired of cleaning out milk that has turned into sour cheese), she sits in her chair and chats in her two-year-old vocabulary.

Normally, I would be unable to ignore the dishes. I would wash and scrub the sink clean with my children babbling in the background. But now, anchored to a ball of yarn and knitting needles, I can sit at our new kitchen table late at night, listen, and enjoy my daughter’s exploration of her newly acquired language.

“Ana ashrab balan. Ashrab balan. Ana ashrab balan. Balan min…al-baqarah. Ashrab balan min al-baqarah. Ashrab…aseer. Ashrab aseer. Ashrab aseer…min al-baqarah. Ureedu aseer min al-baqarah. Ana ureedu aseer min al-baqarah. Umee, ureedu aseer min al-baqarah. Umee, ureedu aseer min al-baqarah. Umee…”
“I drink milk. I drink milk. I drink milk from a cow. Drinking milk from a cow. Drinking milk … juice. I drink juice. I drink juice….from a cow. I want juice from a cow. I want juice from a cow. Umee, I want juice from a cow. Umee, I want juice from a cow. Umee, …”

I smile, knit, and ignore the dishes. And explain that only milk comes from a cow.

“Ana khayyat? Ana khayyat…ma’aki? Khayyat ma’ umee? Ana khayyat…kabeeeeeeela. Khayyat kabeeeeeeeela. Oooh, umee, jameelah. Jameelah jiddan umee. Khayyat ana jameela?”
“I sew? I sew…with you? Sew…with umee? I sew…when I’m BIIIIIIIIG. Sew when BIIIIIIIIIG. Oooh, umee, it’s pretty. Very pretty umee. I sew pretty too?”

Yes, Insha’allah you’ll sew pretty things too when you are bigger. The house is quiet and still, little sister and father are asleep. Our bedtime milk chat is almost done, and the sink is still filled with dirty dishes.

“Hibbeeni Umee? Hibbeeni?”
“Do you love me Umee? Love me?”

Yes, my love. And Alhamdulillah that I am knitting right now, not washing the dishes.

Creepy, Crawly

2007-11-12T22:02:00.000-06:00

Several months ago, I posted a story about a snail, and how I was trying to teach our two-year-old daughter to love all things in nature, including the creepy crawly stuff. Even though mom is not too tolerant herself.

Here's a little update on our progress (it's a cockroach):

Well, we'll keep trying.

If We Grow Old Alone...

2007-11-11T17:43:00.000-06:00

I hoped to work on this a little more, so as to be a more presentable piece, but it's not happening. So here are my loose thoughts on a very broad topic:

The scene still haunts: an old Asian woman, tiny, frail, her back hunched over, a kind-looking face, digging in the trash cans of a San Francisco park. She must have been at least 70 years old, perhaps a mother, maybe a widow. She pushed a shopping cart in which she stored the bottles, cans, and recyclable items which she would then exchange for a few cents apiece.

While we sat in the park enjoying the community picnic, we saw four or five such elderly women foraging the trash bins. One of them looked self-consciously at us and other people in the park before putting her latex-gloved hands in the trash, ashamed.

The older I grow and the more of a "woman" I become, in terms of experiencing the various stages of a woman's life, the deeper my understanding of Islam's honoring, protecting, and empowerment of the female half of mankind. I always knew that Islam honored women, uplifted them and appreciated them, but the longer I live the more I am wordless to describe the harmony of this system with the human being's natural constitution. I am sure many other Muslim women journeying through life share that same realization.

The American discourse around the rights of Muslim women is largely dominated and addressed to the needs of the young, educated, middle-class population, only we don't see it. It is perfectly fine to discuss the rights of women with status, youth, and education, but some provisions in Islam just don't make sense unless they are considered from the viewpoint of all women and from the perspective of all stages in a woman's life. The presence of this discourse specific to our circumstances is good, but should not ignore the needs of all women.

Islam says to all women, "I don't care if you are elderly, poor, or unknown. I don't care if you are 15 years old or 90. I don't care if you had ten children, or none. I don't care if you are a businesswoman or are illiterate. I don't care if you are a divorcee, a widow, or unmarried. You do not need to be loved by a man to be valued. You, as a woman, are to be honored, respected, and provided for if you wish, and all society is responsible for ensuring that you are so."

Sometimes, we—and I'm assuming the few who will read this are American, educated, middle-class Muslims—look at Islam's provisions for women as overbearing. We go out of our way to demonstrate that a woman can work, that a woman is as competent in the workplace as a man, that she doesn't have to stay home with her children, that polygamy is not the norm in a society like ours. We forget that, for the overwhelming majority of women in the world, those provisions are life-savers and incredible sources of mercy and relief. Those provisions may not be the choice of every woman, but their existence in Islam is a source of empowerment for our gender, keeping women out of the dog-eat-dog struggle for survival alongside or against men.

I sometimes picture myself as a single mother, wondering what it's like for the millions of American mothers out there. Ya Allah, the job of motherhood is tough enough as it is, what if I had to play the role of breadwinner too? And then I imagine that I didn't graduate from college, that I didn't have a family to help me, that I was all alone—like most single moms. That I was forced to work a 12-hour workday at minimum wage, so that I could afford our rent in a dingy apartment and be able to pay the tuition at a dismal daycare with substandard health conditions. I could not watch my kids grow, nurture them, because I was so busy trying to feed them and clothe them. Because in her culture, it is survival of the fittest and no one, not even mothers or grandmothers, are entitled to more than any one else.

Most women are dealing with those issues. Many African American women don't marry period, because it is so difficult for them to find men who will care for them and provide for them (read this article from the Washington Post). Should women who are poor, unable to find a suitable husband for whatever reason, disabled, or widowed just give up on marriage and raising families? Or does Islam give them a way out?

By shifting our framework and forcing the discourse to take into consideration the situation of all people, maybe we can understand more deeply the way the Islamic system works for women. We can begin to appreciate that in Islam, a woman is entitled to provision by the closest male relative, and if he refuses, the government should take her right from him by force. If she has no relations, then providing for her becomes the responsibility of the state, which must ensure that she is safe, sheltered, and honored.

I know the Islamic system is not being implemented in totality anywhere in the world. But how comforting to know, that if it ever is, women would not be reduced to the situations they find themselves in today. And even within our daily lives, Islam intervenes to make sure we are living a full, valued, meaningful life. Islam's got your back, sista.

Bringing the Sand Monsters Home

2007-11-07T16:12:00.000-06:00

In spirit of my last post, my daughters and I spent this morning on the beach, which is about a half hour away. (Actually, I left a stroller in the trunk of a rental car, which is the real reason I drove down to Galveston, but you don’t need to know that)

There are moments when I close my eyes and think about how blessed I am. Blessed to be a mother, blessed to have the luxury of staying at home with my children, blessed to be able to come to the seashore whenever I wish, blessed to have the wherewithal to appreciate these moments of peace and contemplation. There is something about the cool ocean wind that cleanses me and gives me clarity, sets aright my priorities. No other place reminds me so profoundly of the power of Allah (swt).

Oh, the joy of watching children taking in the seaside. Observing them is refreshing. The exuberant big one runs up and down the beach, chasing the sandpipers and throwing seashells into the waves. She runs as fast as she can, her short legs flailing and arms outstretched, face beaming. The little one, the scientist, picks up various shell fragments, delicately fingers them, turns them over and over again in her hands, daintily puts them in her mouth. Sand in her hair and on her eyelashes, she squeals in delight when the waves come close or the gulls flap their wings.

Then, when their hair becomes too tangled with the wind and their hands are too caked with sand to finish their sandwiches, I carry my sand monsters to the car. They sleep all the way home, and sleep for another two hours in their beds, with sunburned noses and sand between their toes. Usually, I can only be aghast at how difficult this job of motherhood is. But times like this, I think, oh, so blessed alhamdulillah.

We need to visit the shore every week.

Climbing Trees is Boring

2007-11-04T16:13:00.000-06:00

When I was little, we used to climb trees. That was not fifteen years ago. When was the last time you saw a child climb a tree?

In his book Last Child in the Woods, Richard Louv argues that American kids may have everything, but they are tremendously deprived. They suffer from what he deftly calls Nature-Deficit Disorder. Not only do they not know how to appreciate nature, relish it, explore it—they don’t even realize it’s there.

The evening of Halloween, I realized there were kids in my neighborhood. Lured out of their homes by promises of entertainment and sugar, I saw them in their costumes. I drive down my street everyday, at all times of the day, and I never see kids in the yards. There are swing sets and sandboxes, bicycles in the garages, lush backyards, but no kids.

Stimulated, indoors, overfed, entertained, overscheduled, and told how to play, children are losing their childhood. Many children, Louv says, cannot identify a single plant or bird. Few have ever held an earthworm, listened closely to a bird call, or observed animals outside of a zoo. What they are missing out on, what only contemplation of Allah’s creation around them can teach them, is humility. Wonder. Knowledge.

The Quran is crystal clear on the role of contemplation, thought, and observation of nature as a path to connecting with the Creator: “Do they not look at the camels, how they are created? And at the sky, how it is raised high? And at the mountains, how they are fixed firm? And at the earth, how it is spread out? Therefore remind, for you are only a reminder.”

Children are born with an overpowering sense of curiosity and desire to learn about everything around them. For young children, you only have to let them free and they will pick up sticks, squat in the dirt and watch the ants, and point in delight at birds flying overhead. For older children who are accustomed to being electronically entertained, this intrinsic curiosity and at-home feeling in nature must be awakened and revived. Somehow, in the process of growing up in the modern world, that creativity and curiosity is squashed. In the San Jose Children’s Museum, there was a quote on the walls that resounded with me, minus the part about the good fairy, “If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life.”

I have always noticed, during our visits to area parks, out-of-the-way of the typical touristy places, that the people we find there are peaceful, friendly, and plain nice. The hikers we pass walk in silence for miles, no ipods or stereos within miles, watching in wonder, thinking. Their kids sit by a lake, waiting for the fish to bite, comfortable with silence and the buzzing of dragonflies. Maybe a better place to be present as Muslims and meet people is in such places, in addition to the city corners, lecture halls, and subway stops.

The finest education for a child is tiny plot of wilderness, be it in a backyard, a balcony, or a forest. You do not need to live in the Rocky Mountains. Find a creek where he can turn over rocks and watch what scurries from underneath. Place a pot of soil that she can tend and touch and feel. Let them run barefoot and free in the grass, splash in puddles. Forget the mud and dirt and bugs—that’s what bathtubs are for.

Show them the everyday animals and plants around them so they can study and watch in awe. Teach them to learn something then observe and build off that knowledge. In order to savor the experience of nature, the child learns to enjoy silence, be comfortable with solitude, and create activities for herself.

All of the insightful, exceptional people I know, whether intellectuals or activists, professors or mothers, have a fascination with something, a passion for knowledge and exploration. It is not all leaves and bugs and seashells—some wonder at the stars, at the layered worlds underneath the earth’s crust, at subatomic forces, at the development of a child’s mind. I’m not talking about passing or unexplored interests, all of us have those. What I mean is a deep fascination that consumes their thoughts, one that they could spend hours reading about or contemplating—a sense of wonder and awe towards creation that leads them, from deep within their souls, to worship the Creator. It is those little things, the leaves and bugs and seashells, that first spark curiosity and humility, which lead to great hearts and great character.

I worry for the kids of active Islamic families. Rightly but wholly absorbed with preserving their faith in their children, or sometimes too busy for holistic development of a child’s mind, they are unaware of the necessity of connecting children with nature, of developing hobbies, the essential role of outdoor exploration and free play. I see a lot of Muslim kids with stunted creativity or an inability to entertain themselves. I would argue, as important as teaching children about the prophets or the companions, is to teach them to marvel at the mountains, to identify plant species, and wonder about the language of the bees.

Faced with a field of toads, wagons to pull, shovels and buckets, and trees to climb, they can only say, “This is so boring." And sit on the curbside and playing portable video games.

Nothing impresses them and nothing sparks a drive to learn more. Everything in their surrounding entertains them and stimulates them, even those who read are increasingly fed the Harry-Potter genre that is high on instant humor and leaves little to the imagination. They must only remain passive to enjoy the fruits.

Not that the average American kid is any better off. But I expect more of Muslims, who have Islam to teach them what is most in harmony with natural human constitution. If we lose this connection to the earth and do not foster in our kids an attachment to Allah’s creation, I fear we will lose a crucial aspect of the Islamic personality.

Where do we come in as parents? I often fall short of immersing my children in nature, because sometimes the overwhelming task of parenthood leaves little room for creativity. Rachel Carson said, and this gives me motivation, “If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in.”

We must model a connection to nature and revive our own interest in aspects of nature, if we are to pass it on to our kids. Think about it--really, would you rather spend your day cruising shopping aisles or sitting on a bedsheet in a park while your children romp, eat fresh cucumbers, and watch the clouds. In the process of slowing down and reconnecting, we may just find our faith rejuvenated. What a wonderful gift to pass on to our children: a lifelong passion, a healthy pastime, and the way to a place, just outside their back doors, where they can always reconnect with their Creator.

So let's take our kids and go climb a tree!

Up and Running. Maybe. Insha'allah.

2007-10-27T22:42:00.000-05:00

Fresh coffee, warm sea winds, migrating butterflies, and babies playing barefoot in the sand. Who wouldn’t be inspired to write?

I’ve been holding out posting on my blog forever. First, because I was so busy with the move and kids, and then because I wanted to come back with a big shebang-of-a-post but couldn’t come up with anything riveting enough. (Four months you’ve been away and that all you have to talk about is a conversation with a telemarketer and a sippy cup?!)

There’s a poet inside that begs to be released whenever I experience something beautiful or sad. The more we sink into our, alhamdulillah, happy, settled routine, the more I simply must do something creative. Procrastination, hesitation, and embarrassment at putting my thoughts out there keep me away from actually sitting at a desk, and I’ve settled for lists of to-write-about topics.

Like I said, there are some things that make it impossible for me not to write. Then, I find myself rushing to a keyboard or notebook spilling over with ideas and words. A couple of those things have happened lately.

And, oh yes, I bought a coffee maker.

I don’t know how often I’ll post, and I might disappear again. I’d like eventually to do something structured with this blog, but not now.

For now, it’s just a quiet place of my own.

Frugality Movement

2007-05-03T18:27:00.001-05:00

Unknown to me until two days ago, there is actually a frugality movement in the United States. It was more popular in the eighties and nineties—now it has become so squelched by a techno-consumerist generation that laughs at coupons.

My interest is piqued. I’m not a spendthrift by any standard, but I also don’t pay much attention whether a can of soup costs $1.99 or $2.25. A frugal person would say that’s about $50 wasted on that weekly can of soup each year. I also have weaknesses for certain products—like strollers, parenting books, and In-N-Out cheeseburgers. So I do have something to gain from the penny-wise.

These frugal individuals are successful, middle-class, mostly female homemakers, who rebel against rampant consumerism and harrowing, long-hour jobs by skimping on everyday expenses and resisting the hypnotic chant to “buy…buy…buy.” They shop at garage sales, collect hundreds of coupons, grow their own vegetables, and ask themselves three times before they buy anything, “can I possibly do without this?” Their husbands retire early and can spend more time at home, leading to a fuller family environment.

Some take it to far--making regular trips to dumpsters and recycling their own trash. But a balanced approach teaches children growing up, through lifestyle, that money is not to buy anything you want. Even if you have an allowance and save money, it’s not your ticket to happiness. Look for that somewhere else.

I checked out a few books from the library, The Simple Life and Don’t Waste Money, Spend It! I liked the idea that money is made for spending—but only on things that are worthwhile. Think in terms of education, hobbies, family camping trips, furniture that will last 20 years or more, instead of frilly accessories, curtains, the latest electronics, a deep-fryer, packaged foods, and books that you could just as easily borrow from the library.

Imagine everything you buy as a piece of your life (or your husband’s) that you are exchanging for a product. Someone spent a week slaving away in an office just to buy you that new DVD player. Was that moment of their life well spent? Make sure it was.

I’m going to try to implement some of these strategies, for the benefit of my kids as well as for my own personal development. Clipping coupons suddenly seems worthwhile if you think that the money you save, say $2.00 a week, will be donated to charity. That’s an extra $130 a year. Who would have imagined clipping coupons could count as sadaqa?

Teaching Children Quran

2007-04-28T20:51:00.000-05:00

I am brainstorming how to start teaching my two-year-old daughter Quran. She can hardly speak yet, but she is soaking in information at a bewildering pace, putting two and two together in such creative ways. I hope the Quran can be an integral part of her learning in this phase.

For me, results are secondary. She doesn’t have to have a certain number of surahs memorized, be learning at a certain pace, or know how to read by a certain age. If she knows 20 surahs by the time she’s five, or if she only knows three, that’s OK. While we are all amazed by children who memorize the whole Quran by the time they are ten, that may or may not be within our own children’s ability. If we push them too hard, we might get results but in the process crush the internal desire and associate stress, boredom, and frustration with learning the Quran. I care much more that she loves the Quran, loves to pick it up, leaf through its pages, and pretend to recite. I want her to know that it is something very special.

Here are a few things that I’ve been trying. Please share your ideas too.

1. Play the Quran throughout the day. The Quran should be the soundtrack of our homes! Constantly playing in the background whether the children are playing, eating, riding in the car, or going to sleep, the Quran should become a normal, familiar part of their lives.

2. Read Quran before something special. My daughter loves to sit down with a pile of books and read with me. Since I have her total attention at that time, I’ve started reading a short surah before each book. “Ok, let’s read this one! We can start it with Surah Al-Ikhlas…” I’ve found that she is paying attention, eager to get to the story, and she is also associating the Quran with something that she already loves.

3. Have a tape for the car, a tape for bedtime. Although I haven’t been disciplined with this, I think it’s a great idea to play the same tape over and over again in the car, and before sleeping.

4. Set the example. This is the best way, and for me it is what I am most struggling with. When we hear a song, see something fascinating, or taste something good, we react in a way that makes our children share in that joy and interest. If we read the Quran throughout the day, read it while doing housework, listen to it when we want to relax, and feel and show true pleasure when we are with the Quran, our kids will naturally share that love. They will adopt an attachment to the Quran, so intrinsically part of their routine that they miss it when it’s not there.

Death of Another College Student

2007-04-22T15:41:00.000-05:00

A relative and neighbor of my sister-in-law was kidnapped and murdered by the lawless, soulless criminals that now run wild in Baghdad. We cried for the Virginia Tech students--I wonder if we have enough humanity to also cry for an Iraqi student.

He was a 21-year-old college student, a giving friend, and a devoted son. His family found his bullet-riddled body, after they had paid the $20,000 ransom in hope of his safe return. You can read an account of his life and death at http://thoughtsfrombaghdad.blogspot.com

May God give his family comfort, strength, and infinite reward for the suffering they are going through. To God we belong and to Him we return (inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un).

Deep Sorrow

2007-04-22T15:39:00.000-05:00

We have come a long way in intellectually challenging the isolationist thinking that once blanketed the Muslim community. MAS Youth workers and activists of all backgrounds, whether immigrants or indigenous, are helping to reformulate the American Muslim identity as one that is rooted and invested in society.

When a tragedy strikes, like the horrific shootings at Virgina Tech this week, and America rallies together, at least on the newscasts, it's a good time to study our reactions as a community, to see how well this identity is rooted.

Do we feel the sorrow and grief so deeply, that it aches as if our own child or brother had been shot?

Do we instead place ourselves outside of the chaos, evaluating the situation, wondering how the Muslim element comes to play in all of this? Maybe breathe a sigh of relief that Muslims are neither victims nor targets of media attention?

Or do we blurt, "See how messed up this country is!"

There's not a right or wrong way to react to this incident, but reflecting on our thinking is a good way of knowing where we are as individuals and a movement in establishing a strong American Muslim identity. And perhaps none of these responses is bad—we should strive for a balance between all of them, as did all Prophets when calling their people to Allah.

We feel the deepest sorrow, one that reaches beyond religious identity, acquaintance, and locality. We join our community in grieving the lost lives and shattered families.

We contemplate and think deeply about this tragedy, with the mind of one who has the only solution and the heart of one who is concerned for a beloved unaware.

We realize the disaster of a community without belief, recognize the side-effects of a system that extends no hope to the suffering and no protection for the innocent. We resolve to work harder to demonstrate and work for the message of Islam.

What are your thoughts about Virginia Tech?

5 Tools for Self-Development

2007-04-16T18:38:00.000-05:00

In Parenting from the Inside Out, a book that argues that deepening self-awareness can help us become better parents, the authors identify five tools that are key to parenting. I found that these are general internal principles that are helpful in any endeavor, whether character development, building habits, cultivating a marriage, and overcoming weaknesses. I'm summarizing the five points here, mixed in with a few personal remarks.

1. Being Mindful. This mindfulness is the essence of a strong relationship. It is to be aware of the present moment, aware of the person or situation in front of you, not preoccupied with the future, your fears, your self-doubt, or your history. With a child, being mindful is truly connecting with her, listening to her, fully experiencing the shared moments, purposefully choosing your responses and behavior. The authors write, "Children can readily detect intention and thrive when there is purposeful interaction with their parents. It is within our children's emotional connections with us that they develop a deeper sense of themselves and a capacity for relating."

2. Lifelong Learning. When I became a parent, and more so everyday, I realize the glaring character faults and weaknesses I have. Instead of reacting with frustration, this realization should be a positive one--an opportunity for self-growth and learning, the ultimate tarbiyah experience from Allah (swt). No matter what stage we are in life, difficulty and obstacles are opportunities to become better people. Whenever we grow and learn as parents, our children will benefit, even if the road is bumpy at times. As one dear friend said, "Your children will learn courage, persistence, and strength by watching you deal with your issues and improve, and they will be all the better for it."

3. Response Flexibility. This is the skill of prioritizing, thinking quickly, and changing behaviors, and this ability can be developed through the previous two abilities--in many people, it does not come naturally. The first step in achieving response flexibility is insight, acknowledging our weaknesses. The authors write, "Response flexibility is the ability of the mind to sort through a wide variety of mental processes, such as impulses, ideas, and feelings, and come up with a thoughtful, nonautomatic response... it is the opposite of a knee-jerk reaction... When tired, hungry, frustrated, disappointed, or angered, we can lose the ability to be reflective and become limited in our capacity to choose behaviors."

4. Mindsight. I thought this was really similar to the concept of ikhlas, sincerity. It is a deep level of self-awareness, and the ability to perceive our own thoughts and emotions. KNOWING our minds. Not only must we be aware of what is going through our own minds, but also what is going through the minds of our children. We might be able to get our child to read Quran/wear hijab/eat her food/put her shoes away, but what is going through her head? The behavior is what we wanted, but is the deeper level of the mind where we want it to be?

5. Joyful Living. The author writes, "enjoying your child and sharing in the awe of discovering what it means to be alive, to be a person in a wondrous world, is crucial for the development of your child's positive sense of self.... Remembering and reflecting on the experiences of day-to-day life creates a deep sense of feeling connected and understood." This section should be renamed, "Joyful Living for the sake of Allah, and Appreciation of His Bounty."

Favorite Passages: Gentle Diversion

2007-04-14T17:35:00.000-05:00

From "In the Footsteps of the Prophet", pg. 16

After recounting the story of the Prophet (saw) as a young man wishing out of curiosity to attend some of the Makkan celebrations, and Allah making him fall asleep before he could even reach the celebrations, to protect him from witnessing the immoral behavior, Ramadan writes,

"While gentleness and diversion were used to protect him, those events--which the Prophet was later to mention--gradually built in him a moral sense shaped through the understanding of those signs and of what they protected him from. This natural initiation into morals, remote from any obsession with sin and fostering of guilt, greatly influenced the kind of education the Prophet was to impart to his companions. With a teaching method relying on gentleness, on the common sense of individuals, and on their understanding of commands, the Prophet also strove to teach them how to put their instincts to sleep, so to speak, and how to resort to diversion to escape evil temptations. For those Companions, as for us, in all ages and societies, this teaching method is most valuable and reminds us that a moral sense should be developed no through interdiction and sanction but gradually, gently, exactingly, understandingly, and at a deep level."

This stood out to me in many ways, particularly in its implications for raising children.

Favorite Passages from "In the Footsteps of the Prophet"

2007-04-14T17:27:00.000-05:00

An Education, and Nature (pg. 12)

Ramadan writes,

"The spiritual teaching that can be drawn from [nature] is essential, both for the Prophet's education, and for our own education throughout history: being close to nature, respecting what it is, and observing and meditating on what it shows us, offers us, or takes from us requirements of a faith that, in its quest, attempts to feed, deepen and renew itself. Nature is the primary guide and the intimate companion of faith.

...Far removed from the formalism of soulless religious rituals, this sort of education, in and through its closeness to nature, fosters a relationship to the divine based on contemplation and depth that will later make it possible, in a second phase of spiritual education, to understand the meaning, form, and objectives of religious ritual. Cut off from nature in our towns and cities, we nowadays seem to have forgotten the meaning of this message to such an extent that we dangerously invert the order of requirements and believe that learning about the techniques and forms of religion (prayers, pilgrimages, the different fiqh, etc.) is sufficient to grasp and understand their meaning and objectives. This delusion has serious consequences since it leads to draining religious teaching of its spiritual substance, which actually ought to be its heart."

A Book on How to Love the Prophet (saw)

2007-04-14T17:08:00.000-05:00

Oxford UP came out this year with a new book on the personality of the Prophet (saw) by Tariq Ramadan, In the Footsteps of the Prophet.

This work is exceptional among the many English books on the life of Prophet Muhammad (saw). It is not a biography or a seerah. Unfortunately, many of the English seerah books are dry, academic and strictly factual, conveying little of the spirit and soul of the greatest man who ever lived. While there are a number of books that take a different approach in Arabic, they have not yet been translated. It is sometimes hard to foster deep love for the Prophet when all of the English seerah books focus on when, where, how.

This book takes a very different approach, not attempting to cover or even give an overview of the chronological events, but rather attempting to capture the spirit of the Prophet's life. Who was he, really? What made the companions love him more deeply than their own souls, and what can we do to foster that same love in ourselves?

I thought this book was a wonderful companion to someone who is reading the seerah, which is an essential component of our Muslim identity. It's my kind of armchair book: mesmerizing language, easy flow, thought-provoking notions. I might write a few posts on some of the ideas in the book.

A Beautiful Hadith

2007-04-11T18:48:00.000-05:00

"Allah says: 'Son of Adam: Fill your time with My worship and I will fill your heart with richness, and relieve your neediness. But if you do not, I will make your hands preoccupied and anxious with worldly affairs and I will not relieve your poverty.'" (Tirmidhi)

Always with Wudu

2007-04-11T17:59:00.000-05:00

In my usra a few weeks ago, we discussed the spiritual effects of always being in a state of purity, a state of wudu.

It only takes about one or two minutes to perform wudu, yet the ensuing consciousness is powerful. Opportunities for worship more readily come to mind, and self-awareness is heightened. Sin is somewhat more distant, for who would readily sin when in a state of wudu? And death seems nearer, for who would not love to die in a state of wudu?

And then there is the hope for Allah's love, for He says in the Quran, "Truly Allah loves those who often purify themselves."

Not only is wudu a prerequisite to prayer, but it is also worship in itself. There are hadeeth that speak of believers whose limbs and faces will be shining brightly on the Day of Judgment, from their frequent wudu.

It is such a simple measure, not required of the believer, yet it really helps me maintain a higher level of connectedness with Allah. Especially because everything at home is rush-rush, cry-cry, break-fall, open-close, spill-drop. Having wudu makes it easier for me to pick up a Quran and read for two or three minutes in between chores or squeeze in sunnah prayers throughout the day.

It makes me feel that worship is at my fingertips, and only a moment away.

Snail on the Sidewalk

2007-04-11T01:44:00.001-05:00

Sometime during my college years, I developed a fright of all crawly creatures from spiders to crabs to mice. This is markedly different from my childhood, when ladybugs and caterpillars crawled over my fingers and I collected hermit crabs at the seashore. Now, it is all I can do to keep the screams inside.

But, as I’m trying to nurture a true nature-lover in my daughter, I try very hard to hide the squirms.

“Ooooh, Look! A spider.” [breathe, breathe, smile, breathe, don’t really look directly at it.]

“Let’s take it outside—actually, let’s get Abbi to take it outside.”

Today, as we walked back from the playground, we stopped to literally smell the flowers, which were blooming in early April and filling the air with perfume. My oldest daughter stuck her nose into a cluster of flowers and a snail dropped out of them unto the sidewalk. As she bent down to pick it up, I resisted the, “Yuck, don’t touch it” that welled up and instead averted my eyes. It’s not going to hurt her, so I’ll just look away until she’s done with her exploration.

Then I hear a crunch, like eggshells on the sidewalk, and see her step on the snail’s shell with her shoe.

NO! It’s a living creature!
EWWWWW! Gross.
How’s she supposed to learn what it is unless I teach her?

Too conflicted to look at the dead snail on the sidewalk, I grabbed her hand and we hurry away.

The Hummer on the Balcony

2007-04-10T22:42:00.000-05:00

My husband calls it my hummer.

It is big, huge, bulky, but it has 12" air-filled tires, full seat recline, swivel wheels, and I can push it with one finger.

I call it, "stroller love of my life."

Since my first pregnancy, I became fascinated by strollers, sort of like an obsession over sports cars. It's not an excessive obsession--although I love looking at strollers in the store, I only have a Zooper Z-street single stroller (under 90 bucks), a $15 umbrella stroller that got run over by our car, and my new Mountain Buggy double stroller. Nothing like the 15 or 20 strollers many of my new stroller fanatic friends have. And I'm not willing to pay $500 for a stroller. Once I decide on a purchase, I don't look back at those message boards, at least until my stroller breaks down or I need to upgrade to a triple.

I spent hours researching double strollers on the internet, and learned about Bugaboos, Baby Joggers, BJCSDs, Inglesinas, MBUDs, and Bobs. Stroller message boards are full of moms boasting their latest $600 addition to a garage-full of strollers. Moms who buy new skins every month for their strollers, who charge $30 to newcomers for custom, personal advice on which stroller to buy, and who laugh at moms who push Gracos (hey, I like Graco strollers, just not their double ones, which, with two toddlers inside, can be like pushing a train)

Materialistic? Yes. Petty? Yes. Do I have nothing better to do? No. I doubt I'd like these mothers very much in person--they are probably the same mothers in designer jeans, $100 diaper bags, who frown at other moms in the playground. The Washington Post would call them "hip moms". I'm not sure what I would call them--definitely not hip, maybe image-obsessed.

BUT, I convinced myself, I needed to figure out what stroller to buy.

I finally decided on a stroller that normally retails for $600--that I found in an overstock, returned open-box, 2005 model. Hurray! I got a top-of-the-line, solid stroller for the price of a Graco.

To my stroller friends, all I'd have to say is I bought a navy MBUD and they would know exactly what that meant. The tough, all-terrain stroller that only outdoorsy moms would like, but their husbands go ga-ga for.

I wanted something more suited to power-walking, hiking trails, suburban streets, and sand-filled playgrounds than malls, narrow aisles, and coffee shops. So I got a super durable, rugged all-terrain jogging stroller that "pushes like butter", as strollermama would say.

Once I buy something that I've researched well, I won't take any criticism. Nope, it's perfect. I don't look back, it's just what I wanted. Never mind that it folds like a 30-lb. bedroom dresser and I huff and puff as I heave it into the trunk of our Corolla. Miraculously, it does fit.

Or that the only place I can store it in our one-bedroom apartment is on our balcony.

Never mind that women--the Graco moms--give me funny looks as I push this lawnmower into my neighborhood coffee shop (effortlessly and one-handed, I might add), but a male customer remarks, "that's a neat stroller!" Even my husband admitted it was a good buy--it has good parts, he said.

I haven't gone back to the stroller boards since my last, and final, stroller purchase. I know strollerqueen would just tell me I need a lightweight, side-by-side for malls and plane trips, but I'm not that hip.

I'm happy with this one-time, and I hope lasting, waltz with a really cool stroller.

Coping with Fatigue

2007-04-01T11:47:00.000-05:00

After the birth of my second daughter, I struggled with intense fatigue due to both excessive blood loss during labor, anemia, and the exhaustion of being a new mom. The daily challenges of caring for a newborn and an attention-hungry, demanding toddler seemed just too much. Every night, knowing I would only have 4 or 5 hours of sleep, I panicked and wondered how I would ever make it through the next day.

Somehow, as my mother reassured me, you always make it through the next day. Four things in particular helped me handle the fatigue I was feeling, and still feel from time to time. Actually, five things, if you count Starbucks.

The first was convincing myself that Allah (swt) would never give me this task and responsibility if I wasn't physically capable of handling it. If He gave the responsibility, He would also give me all of the tools-physical, mental, emotional-I need to successfully handle it. The verse in the Quran, "Allah does not burden a soul more than it can bear," is not just in tragedy or trials, but also in the daily responsibilities we face. When we feel overwhelmed by a trust or responsibility, it is probably because we don't have the right mindset, or are underestimating our capabilities, not that we are incompetent. So stepping up to the plate was not a physical impossibility, but a matter of working on myself--on my patience, endurance, and willingness to put my personal comfort aside sometimes.

Reliance on Allah, or tawakkul, was the second factor that helped me get through the fatigue, although I wish I had nurtured this characteristic more in myself. My husband and I are not the only caretakers of our children--Allah (swt) watches over them, takes care of their well-being, and envelopes them in His mercy and love.

The third was my sisters in my usra--as usual, they "got my back". They cooked for me, watched my older daughter while I caught a few much-needed hours of sleep, and inquired frequently about me. I will never forget how they helped me get through a really tough time.

Finally, I was reminded about the story of Fatimah, may Allah be pleased with her, the daughter of Prophet Muhammad (saw). Overwhelmed by housework, and probably struggling with young children too, she went to her father to ask for a servant to help her. The Prophet responded with a very different sort of help: recite every night Subhanallah 33 times, Alhamdulillah 33 times, and Allahu Akbar 34 times.

I always interpreted the moral of this story as "increase in remembrance of Allah" and "it is better to increase in worship than seek benefit in this world." Those may be lessons to be learned from the story, but it can also be taken literally. Saying these words every night--will really help lessen the fatigue! It gives you energy to accomplish your tasks, a spring in your step, and relieves stress.

And then, OK, a tall cappuccino every once in a while also helps.

Sensing Sincerity

2007-04-01T02:27:00.000-05:00

Have you ever experienced a total mindset change?

Mindset changes can be gradual, developing with the accumulation of experience and knowledge, or they can be sudden, like waking up from a deep sleep. Sudden change requires an instantaneous realization, the precise key that was needed for the lock in your head.

As a MAS Youth worker, I was often skeptical of whether I could really impact the youth around me. I tried this, tried that, was it working? Was it making a difference? Sometimes I thought yes, sometimes it all seemed like one big guess.

Then I heard something in a workshop by the MAS Tarbiyah Department that really got me thinking:

The first, most useful tool for us as mentors is our sincerity.

People around us sense that sincerity, so that even if we make some mistakes or don’t do everything perfectly, they can tell when someone truly cares for them, wants them to succeed in their life mission, and is trying to empower them. Sincerity, hoping for nothing but the pleasure of Allah in guiding others, makes the hearts open and the ears listen. We have an array of tools to make our youth think, make them cry, make them talk, make them act, but it is the sincerity in our hearts: that will win the Help of Allah: that will make them truly feel empowered to change. This genuine, selfless concern for the youth we hope to influence can work wonders.

Aha!

Suddenly the daunting responsibility of helping others to change became conceivable, because while working on others I can strengthen my efforts by working on myself. I can be amplifying the progress of my usra members by making sincere dua for my sisters, nurturing deep-rooted concern and care for them, and always believing in their potential. Not only, as Shaikh Qaradawi explains in Sincerity, is sincerity to Allah the magic ingredient that turns every action into worship, but it also brings synergy to our work and deepens our ability to influence others, with the will of Allah (swt).

How Wonderful a Servant!

2007-04-01T00:20:00.000-05:00

(This is just a rephrasing of the idea posted on the blog of Br. Ahmad Deif--yes, I'm hijacking his post)

In Surah Saad, Allah (swt) says of two individuals, “How wonderful a servant! He returned often in repentance.” In all of the Quran, this description is only mentioned of these two individuals. Who were they?

Ayyub, may Allah be pleased with him! The prophet who was struck with such calamity that it retell his story again and again, awed by his patience. All of his children died–how painful the loss of just one! Stricken with disease and abandoned by all but his wife, people ran from him, afraid of contagion, and shook their heads in condemnation. They said that this Prophet must have deserved Allah’s wrath, so severely was he tested. This continued for 18 years, and Ayyub responded only with adoration of His Lord, thankfulness for the years he had spent in prosperity, and worship.

And Sulayman, may Allah be pleased with him! The Prophet and king who asked Allah to “bestow upon me a kingdom such as shall not belong to any one after me.” Allah gave him the ability to command the wind, which “blew gently by his order wherever he willed,” the animals, “who did his every bid” and the jinn, who built structures and dived under the sea. Unimaginable wealth and powers!

How is it that two men, two prophets, of such different situations, merit the same title from Allah: “How wonderful a servant!” (Ni’m al-Abd)

This is testament that the circumstances of the Muslim are irrelevant–it is the state of the heart that matters. Whether one is tested with trial or prosperity, tested with character or illness, it is your relationship with Allah throughout life that is the crucial element. It is the thankfulness, repentance, humility before Allah, not the outer circumstances, that determines where we stand in His eyes.

Sayyid Qutb on History

2007-03-31T19:52:00.000-05:00

In Milestones, Sayyid Qutb makes some remarks about the history of human civilization. He made an interesting point: Islam brings out the humanity of human beings, and man-made systems bring out their animalistic characteristics. The whole of history, except for a few illumined exceptions in which people were guided by divinely inspired principles, can be seen as the drive for food, shelter, and sex.

This struck me because it is similar to the Darwinist theory of history: that human beings are just like animals, and their history is merely a more sophisticated version of survival of the fittest. So one can hardly blame the Darwinists for their twisted view of humankind–that’s the conclusion you might come to if you look at the history of civilization devoid of belief in God.

Islam, however, brings out the best in people. It even transforms the animalistic characteristics of human beings, the need for materialism and the physical drive, into worship and something beyond the self. Islam elevates the human being beyond the confines of physical existence, and emphasizes the humanity. Shaikh Sayyid Qutb doesn’t go much into what this humanity is. But I had some thoughts–

the mind, soul, intellect, thought, self-awareness, conscience, bonds with others, emotions. Everything that takes the human soul out of the body and into a greater awareness of Allah.

So, in a way, all that is human … is what is not.