Colorful Quote

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

The Great Communicator

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

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

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

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.