And right about now, I’d much rather have a cookie.

You know what the problem with typing while hungry is?  Even words look tasty.

Musfira is getting properly colicky, crying louder and longer in the past few nights than before.  The Nightly Fuss has been going on for around four weeks now, and it starts at 6pm like clockwork and last night it continued until 2:30 am.  Please remember us in your duas.  I don’t like being nocturnal.  Or cried at for 6+ hours.  No fun. Very tiring.  Want a cookie.

So Musfira is very nearly a month old now. SubhanAllah. All in all she’s a lovely baby. She sleeps reasonably well during the day and although we do have a nightly fuss from around 10:30 to about 1 am, it could be worse. In fact, it was worse with Khalid and Iman, with Khalid being jaundiced, tongue-tied and constantly fussing and Iman being colicky.

So how can I describe her? Well, she’s pink. And her eyes are grey, though they’ll turn brown later InshaAllah. She has lovely little hands and feet, and despite voraciously chewing, gnawing, and sucking on any hand, towel, blanket or shirt collar that comes within two centimeters of her mouth, she refuses to use a pacifier. She cannot yet say it, but I know she’s thinking ‘PTUI!’ as she spits her “New, Natural Shape! Perfect for Newborns!” pacifier out. We’ve gone through three of them already, my hope being that maybe this shape will be better. I only really need her to use a pacifier when I’m driving, because many of the roads in Dubai have lost their shoulders in favor of one more traffic lane, so stopping to feed her isn’t always an immediate option.

What else? She has the most kissably soft cheeks. Really. Her skin feels like velvet. It is unanimously accepted (by Owl, HF, and I) that it has to have been all the cupcakes I was eating before she was born. She’s a red velvet baby, not only for the warm and fuzzy softness, but also because she comes with a distress alert system. Either she’s baby-pink all’s well, or she’s red-alert red and working up to a good cry, complete with pouty face.

Her hobbies? Contemplating fluorescent lights above her changing station in the bathroom and collecting fuzz from her blanket and keeping it tightly balled in her itty-bitty fists.

Her special skills involve remarkable bladder and bowel control that allow her to time her ambushes perfectly for the moment when she has been washed, dried, and just laid down on the changing station to be diapered.

Her top speed is three diapers in five minutes.

Her signature moves are slow-motion baby kung-fu and spitting up precisely down the front of momma’s shirt.

Her pet peeves are socks that fall off in the mall the day after momma bought them (ok, maybe that’s mine).

She’s the most beautiful baby in the entire world. SubhanAllah. And after 20 hours of labor and an hour left before the doctors prepped me for an emergency c-section, she was born a cheerful bright blue with her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. But that seems like a lifetime ago, and she’s always been here, always swaddled in the flannel blanket with the ducks on it, and we go to meetings together where she sleeps through the boring parts but wakes up to share her opinions on important things like gas and why it’s better out than in.

Yes, it does take us forever to get anywhere these days, because we have to account for feedings, diaper changes, inconsolable crying, and the stroller being a huge pain to remove from the trunk. And yes, that one time I tried to drive home by myself it took two and a half hours to drive just a few miles because she would not stop crying in her car seat and I could not safely drive with that level of panic in her wailing. I can’t help it- when she’s stressed, I’m stressed- and I think that’s part of the job description of being a mother. If you’re not unable to tolerate your newborn suffering, then you might not be likely to cope with insanely insufficient amounts of sleep and the back-breaking labor of feeding, cleaning, maintaining, rocking, burping, and sustaining a tiny person with no self-preservation skills beyond a cry that tears your heart into tiny pieces.

Khalid and Iman adore Musfira. Really. Khalid wants to kiss her CONSTANTLY. Like once every few seconds. And that can get very frustrating when I’ve just gotten her to sleep and in burst the kids- Iman wants to give Musfira a toy, Khalid wants to kiss her again, and when I whisper at them to leave, they get mad and loud and wake up Musfira up. When I get desperate I lock the door until Musfira is asleep and hope the kids banging on the other side of it doesn’t wake her. But like I said, it could be worse. They adore her. They just adore her a little too much, too hard, and too loud for a newborn.

Musfira is very well loved, even if a little over-cuddled and way too well-traveled for a little girl who hasn’t been in this world for an entire four weeks yet. She and I went to two meetings and spent three hours in a furniture warehouse within the first four days of her being born. We do banks and groceries and summer camp for Khalid and Iman. We stay up late at night watching classic Japanese Anime to bide our nightly fuss, and we have collectively decided that if you make a cartoon in Japan that does NOT prominently feature giant and/or powerful robots destroying and/or saving the city/world/universe, then you are shamed into committing seppuku.

As usual, I digress. Alhamdulillah, we’re tired, busy, sleep-deprived, overwhelmed with the backlog of work that’s been piling up while I’m “on leave,” but very, very happy. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah.

Iman: Momma! The baby’s crying! Because she wants icecream!

______

Me: Here Khalid, you can hold Musfira carefully.
(I put the baby carefully into Khalid’s lap)
Khalid: Oh! Oh! Scareding!
(He passes the baby back)

___________

(Iman sees me laying down on the sofa for a quick break around 11 am today)

Iman: Momma, I bring you a pillow, you want a pillow?
Me: It’s ok dear, the side of the sofa is like a pillow.
Iman: I bring you a pillow, ok?

(She runs off and returns with the pillow from her bed)

Me: Thank you dear.
Iman: Momma, I bring you a blanket, you want a blanket?
Me: (Realizing I don’t have a choice) Sure dear.

(Iman returns with her tiny blanket and covers the middle half of me. Then she starts patting my head)

Iman: Momma, you can sleep and InshaAllah when you wake up I’ll take you shopping and buy you a nice gift! An umbrella! A pink one! With Dora! You like that?
Me: Yes dear, that would be nice.
Iman: Goodnight!

_________
11pm-
HF: There’s this one lone mango in the fridge and it’s late but I just want a mango milkshake…
Me: Ok, go pray Isha and I’ll make you a milkshake.
HF: You’ll make me a milkshake?
Me: Yeah. Go pray and I’ll make it for you.
HF: Thank you, but don’t make the kind that brings all the boys to the yard. Because it’s late, and we don’t want the front yard full of people right now.

I haven’t had a chance to update yet, but Owlie has! Full post here and copy-paste below. Thanks luv!

Thursday, June 16, 2011

On Monday I was sick so I took a day off and figured, hey, this would be a good time to catch up with the super busy preggo rockstar business director big sister of mine Abez. So I call her up and ask how she’s doing, to which she calmly says “Oh, fine. The usual. Working. Responding to emails. Trying to get stuff arranged for the new staff. Oh, and I’m in labor.” 0_0

Yeah, that’s my Abez. Busy having a baby while simultaneously managing her business. “Woman, um, are you ok? I mean, you are nuts. But is everything ok ok? Is there anything I can do?” “Oh, yeah, could you please pick up Khalid and hang out with the kids and distract them while I’m at the hospital.” “Sure thing bob. On my way now.”

So, I picked up my favorite elf boy Khalid and took him home to his sister – the firecracker that is Mini Iman. Meeman as we call her, had been sick at home with a dental infection, and was hopped up on medicine. She’s a hilariously intense and unpredictable child when she’s ‘sober’ . Throw some extra strong meds into the mix and comedy ensues. I bring you the highlights of my few hours with Meeman.

AUNTY! I want the earth!
Excuse me?
The earth!
As in, the planet?
THE EARTH!
(At this, she gestures to my Blackberry. Which has a picture of the earth from space as its background screensaver. Turns out, Meeman wanted to take pictures with my Blackberry. I now have about a dozen pictures of her feet, hands, the ceiling, the sofa, and her lunch.)

(While holding an orange on her head) Look it’s a hat!
Is it? I thought it was an orange.
IT’S A HAT! IT’S KINDA FUNNY!

(after disappearing for a few minutes)
Aunty, find me!
(I find her. She’s on the toilet.) Oh, hi. Do you need help?
Yes. I want a pink pool. You can get me a small circle pink pool Inshallah?

(While climbing onto my arm) Can I ride your muscles?

(After putting on two skirts on top of her pants) Look aunty, I am a double princess!

(Upon bringing me one of her mommy’s hijabs) Make me a Muslim.
*confused* Iman, you’re already a Muslim.
*scowl* MAKE ME A MUSLIM!
Uhhh. With this hijab? Oh, ok.
(I wrap her up and she happily skips away wearing a hijab as long as she’s tall, two skirts and a pair of pants. Goofy child. )

And now I have TWO nieces! Can’t wait for the new model to grow up and amuse me.

We are pleased to introduce puffy pink baby Musfira, born two days early and well-loved, well-poked, and well received by Khalid and Iman, who adore her, Alhamdulillah.

In true international fashion, her weight is 3.685 kilos- almost perfectly the exchange rate of the UAE dirham to US dollar, which is fixed.  Proper blog update coming soon InshaAllah, JazakAllahuKheiran for the duas.

*pokes self*

Still here, check!

*pokes stomach*

*stomach pokes back*

Still pregnant, check!

Did you know, that for all the jokes I make about taking up extreme trampoline sports in the last few days before delivery, that extreme trampoline sports is actually a …err… sport?

You learn something new every day. :p

Nine days and counting, InshaAllah.

I have a day off today, Alhamdulillah.  I got out of bed at noon, had two showers- one accidentally with a cup of tea, the other with the standard water- another cup of tea, a bagel, watched a Japanamation movie that I don’t know if I could ever sit through again, and I have studiously avoided doing anything useful, house, or work-related.  Having spent fourteen hours in bed asleep (or something close to it) my feet are almost feet shaped again.  Almost.  Alhamdulillah.  They’re not entirely unpuffy, but I have ankles for the first time in weeks- two of them!  Thank you HF, for taking the kids to their grandparents’.  You are the awesomest.  I couldn’t have been happier if I had woken up to brand-new chocolate-covered minivan in the driveway.  Really.  This is too good.  :) And now, another luxury- to the blog!

So AutismUAE has been licensed and operational since late September of last year.  We have only one more quarter left on the business license before it’s time to pay up the renewal fees, and in the mean time, we’re operating at…drumroll please… 2/5th of our capacity.  Why?  Because I issue visas for therapists and they sit for SO LONG in the Philippines consulate that I’ve had one visa expire before the employee could even get here and two more in limbo for over a month and a half.  If I don’t get them in the country within the next two weeks their visas will expire AGAIN and the whole four-month process will have to start all over again.

Between these three and one more therapist who’s been stuck in Iran for the past week waiting for her employment visa to be issued (already, it’s a week late) I have had months and months of lost revenue, and for a business that operates at cost, that’s a kick in the teeth.  How am I maintaining expenses?  Loans.  How long is our waiting list to get a therapist? Six to eight months, optimistically speaking.  How am I coping with the 30+ parents on the waiting list?  Not so well.  One parent called me the other day (she’s been on the waiting list since January) for what is, I am sure, the tenth time despite being politely told, please don’t trouble yourself to call, when I have a therapist, I’ll call you.

(Yes, I know, time is of the essence when it comes to autism therapy for child.  Yes, I know the early intervention window is running out.  Yes, I know you’re desperate.  No, I can’t do anything to make the therapists come faster.)

The conversation concluded with: These are our children, we need to get our act together.  And I sympathize with the mother, I really do, but the presupposition that I’ve been sitting on my hands since January  is what set my teeth on edge.  I’m 9 1/2 months pregnant.  I have a child with autism myself.  I have a paying job in addition to this completely non-paying job, and between pulling my hair out as well as one can from beneath a hijab and running after visas, agents, freezone people, and documentation- and still meeting with parents individually as well as for the monthly support group meetings, I think I could redefine the word ‘overworked.’  Just maybe.

Then there are the parents who call every other week, despite being on the waiting list for only a month or so.  And then there are the parents who want to know who they should follow-up with weekly once I am on maternity leave, and I say ‘just email me.’ And- here’s the hardest one- there are the parents who ask me for help.  I know I would do anything for my child, and so I don’t expect other parents to try less.  I get emails, I get parents on the phone begging, crying to me even, about how they cannot afford any treatment for their children, and is there no chance for any sponsorship or discount?  Forget the mothers, the fathers cry.  And I bite my lip and tell them I’ll put them on the waiting list for a service that is already marked down 60% from other centers, but that’s all I can do.  And I hate myself for saying what it basically No, I cannot subsidize a service that is already provided at cost  and when they finally hang up, I cry too.

Sometimes I worry about what would happen if one of my clients found this blog and started reading through all the AutismUAE posts- they would see past the shiny Director mask and into the world of a tired, complaining, pregnant, director and I think they would lose faith in me.  Well, the good news is, I don’t have any faith in me.  It’s all in God, and I need to stop beating myself up for not being able to save the world.  I have tried my best to get five therapists on the ground running within my first year of business, but with three quarters gone I have two.  We had to fire one already, and that was an amazing lesson, though I would have preferred to learn it when I was more financially stable and less in debt.

Sometimes I wonder whether all humanitarians eventually become misanthropes.  Not that I’m much of a humanitarian, but already I dream in dirhams, and I calculate expenses by how many months of therapy such and such an item costs.  I see a woman with a designer handbag  and I want to beat her with it.  Thirteen thousand dirhams for a small YSL bag is two months of help for someone’s child- two months of skills and hard lessons learned toward independence, maybe even speech.  Two less months of fathers worrying themselves sick and mothers crying themselves to sleep because every day they watch their children drift farther and farther away from the outside world.  Is that dramatic? No, it’s realistic.  We waited only 3 or 4 months to start Khalid’s therapy, and every day was agonizing.  It felt like watching Khalid die a little bit more every day as he became more silent, more withdrawn, and less and less likely to interact with us an any level whatsoever.

I’m starting to hate men in sports cars.  I don’t want to start on what I could accomplish if some rich sheikh dropped a Maserati’s worth of money into my lap.  Forget a Maserati- even a new corolla could set me up with an additional business license and five more therapists, bringing the waiting list down from thirty children to twenty, and although new children are added to the list every day, every therapist we employ makes a small financial margin that goes towards expansion, and the more therapists we have working the faster we can hire more therapists.  It’s a catch-22 of sorts, and although we could expand faster if we charged more for services, if we charged more for services it would defeat the intention of making services affordable.

HF keeps reminding me that Allah knows and plans best, and the fact that there’ve been months and months of delays due to unforseen, uncontrollable, non-deliberate circumstances should only reinforce that.  We’re not slacking off, we’re just being held back and Allah knows the reason.  He’s the best of planners, and while I can’t really say that to a crying parent on the phone from an emirate that I can’t foresee sending therapists to for the next two years, remembering that will at least help me retain my sanity.  Or at least my humanity.  I don’t know, I feel tremendously disconnected from the people and world around me.  No one else I know, no other friend of mine is pregnant, trying to run a business, trying to successfully parent two children- one of whom has autism- and is also an annoyed corporate communications consultant on the side.  While there are overlaps of interest, as well as a few really lovely people who will listen to me no matter what I’m talking about, I have so little time for destressing, socializing, or even holding still for very long that I’m starting to wondering if I shouldn’t come with a warning label: Contents under pressure.

(The sticker should be big and orange, and it should be stuck to my feet- they’re generally so swollen they look like they could explode.)

Maybe I should write out a list of topics that one should avoid in talking to me: Khalid’s apparent ‘lack of autism’ being one of them.  Another mother at the school was accusing Joy of looking too much into Khalid’s ‘disability’- “There’s nothing wrong with him! Are you sure he has a problem? Look, he’s fine!” and while it’s a relief that Khalid can ‘pass’ for normal to a casual observer, it’s a slap in the face to be told ‘You’re so wrong, you’ve been making it up and imagining a cause to spend so much money on therapy you’re in debt and so much time worrying that it’s made you see ‘special needs’ everywhere you look!’

The insinuation is either that we worry for no reason or we’re making it up to get special treatment.  Joy is more patient than I am, and she just said thank you we know he has autism and he’s made wonderful progress.  But then the mother pushes, because she’s a doctor, and demands to know who stuck the autism label on Khalid and how they went about doing so.  Because you know, as a dermatologist, she’s qualified to judge these things.

Excuse me, I think my misanthropy is showing.

I digress.  Sometimes it feels like my world is divided between people drowning in autism and people refusing to believe in it. On one hand you have people write off the years of blood, sweat and tears with a wave of their hand- Oh no, he’s fine.  I’m sure you were just imagining it all along. On the other hand, you have parents who are trapped living the same nightmare we were less than three years ago, and my inability to do anything for them puts an additional heaping of misery on top of my frustration.

I tell the parents- I know what you’re going through, I’ve been there myself and I’m working as fast as I can- but I know that when you’re at that stage you can’t believe anyone has it as badly as you do.  I remember talking to another mother- she was crying of course- about how she was so exhausted because her child wouldn’t go to sleep for two hours the other night, and then woke up again.  When I told her I could sympathize, she said really it’s so hard and I said yes, I know- Khalid fought going to sleep every single night of his life until he was almost three, and even then he would wake up every two hours kicking and crying.  Every night.  So yes, I know.  And I’m still trying to get you a therapist as quickly as I can.  And one father told me with tears in his eyes- you don’t understand- my son hits and kicks and pinches his mother and she’s nine months pregnant! And my mind went back to life with Khalid just before Iman was born- I’ve been nine months pregnant with busted lips, scratched face, and bruises from the daily battle of the daily everything involved with a child who has no idea what you’re trying to do and no idea what he’s doing to you.  It got so bad that I would have to keep Khalid at arm’s length.  If I saw him coming towards me I would have to deflect him and move away, because his only way of communicating pain, frustration, or want was to pull, hit, or fight until I understood what he needed.  And I know there are cases more severe than ours, much much more, SubhanAllah, but I get so tired of trying to convince people that the delays we’re facing in getting them a therapist have nothing to do with me not caring, not trying, and not putting everything I have into AutismUAE.

SubhanAllah.  I do have some happy thoughts, really.

Happy Thought Number One: I got the nicest SMS from a father making dua for our success and that Allah grant us Jannatul Firdaus.  And that made my week, and it still brings a smile to my face, because AutismUAE has two goals, one of which is a halal, sustainable operations and the other is Sadqa-e-Jaariya.  Charity that keeps on giving.  We may be really, really struggling, but at least we’re not in danger of having to close up shop -yet- and I can’t think of better business ROI than duas or better KPI’s than your customers praying for you.

Happy Thought Number Two: The Al Noor Training Center for Special Needs opened in 1981 with eight employees.  When I popped in for my first visit last week to their huge facility in Barsha, I saw an entire fleet of school buses.  And they started with eight people when I was a one year old!  It takes time, it takes patience, and according to the logos on the back of the buses, it may also take corporate sponsorship from HSBC.  Hey, a fleet of buses doesn’t pay for itself!  Or, maybe, it could.

Happy Thought Number Three: Hey, InshaAllah we’re having a baby!  Not yet though, but soon InshaAllah.  Any day now.  For Iman it’s not soon enough.  The other day she climbed into my bed, first thing in the morning, and poutingly demanded “Momma, where’s my baby ___________?” (gender-specific designation censored )

Happy Thought Number Four: Khalid has started to hug and kiss me of his own imitative, gently and without any of the ‘peck and go’ of a little boy who’s just kissing his mother because his therapist told him to.  It’s become a natural behavior to him, and I’m still bowled over every time he climbs through the car before going to school to put a kiss on my cheek that I didn’t ask for.  I absolutely love it.  He climbs in bed with me and puts his head on my shoulder and lays there happily, not wrestling or bouncing or looking for my phone, he’s just cuddling with me.  And I lay there with him feeling melted and happy, and when Iman comes in she kisses me sweetly and cuddles up on the other side and we have silly conversations and the two of them tell me all the things they’ve been waiting to tell me since they woke up a WHOLE TEN MINUTES before me and they’re still in their pajamas but they have things to tell me that just cannot wait.

Hmm, this post has gotten really long.  I suppose that’s alright considering that I don’t know when I’ll have another opportunity to sit uninterrupted at a computer while simultaneously ignoring work email. I’m on maternity leave, gosh darnit!  I am leaving my phone on silent and my pajamas on the bed, because two hours from now I’m going to put them back on and not get out of them until we run out of groceries!

Though if you happen to be a rich sheikh and you feel like dropping any amount of money in my lap, I promise I will answer your email right away.  Everyone who isn’t a rich sheikh, please just remember us in your duas for an easy delivery, a healthy baby, and successful operations for AutismUAE.  JazakAllahuKheiran!

Iman: Momma, you not big! You tall!  Lika Burj Khalifa!

Me: Like a Burj Khalifa?

Iman: (giggles) Yeah, it’s kinda funny!

Here’s my post for nine months pregnant with Khalid

And here’s the post for nine months pregnant with Iman.

Notice the difference in the two.  Khalid’s post is about expectation, Iman’s is about ninja turtles.  Really, go look.

At the moment, Khalid and Iman are eating dinner and verbally taunting each other, two exercises that may seem incompatible (chewing + taunting) but they’re very skilled savages and I can hear Iman goading Khalid with her mouth full and here comes Khalid to my elbow, also with mouth full, to come and complain about her.

-pause to supervise dinner, with interlude of sophisticated dinner conversation-

Khalid: (looking at my stomach) Oh, it’s big tummy!

Me: My tummy is big?

Khalid: Yeah, it’s nice! (patting my stomach and then tracing the patterns on my shirt) It’s circle.  And sun! It’s nice!

Me: Thank you.  I’m glad you like it.

Iman: Momma, P is for princess!

Me: Yes dear, and pink, and pencil.  And how about the letter W? Do you remember?

Iman: (Nodding) I ‘member.  Iss for spider.

-return to computer-

The children are in their respective showers now, and once they’re out and freshly pajama’ed, HF and I will tuck them into their bunks, recite their duas, kiss them and say Ma’assalama for the night.  It’s a ritual we all enjoy, with Khalid reminding us if we miss a step (Momma, dua in the bed. Kiss!)  and Iman doing her best to negotiate one more story or random extra demand to prolong the routine.  Khalid enjoys the routine while Iman is forever trying to mold it around her desires.  She has now emerged from the shower and is, at this very second, streaking up the hall and yelling ‘run for your life!’ to escape being dressed by Cindy

-children tucked into bed and lights off.  in the dark, they are still teasing each other and the sound of giggling carries up the hall-

So Khalid decided to reinvent the English numeral system today.  Seriously.  It goes like this:

Zeroty one, zeroty two, zeroty three and so on until zeroty nine and then plain old ten.  Then comes onety-one, then onety-two, onety-three, until onety-nine and finally, twenty.  And here Khalid smiles, and his overhaul is complete.  Alhamdulillah

I think this blog entry closely follows how this pregnancy has been; mostly about Khalid and Iman, because they’re louder, more demanding, more amusing, and overall more urgent than Stringbean.    They kick harder too, though there is something to be said for the frequency and accuracy with which Stringbean seems to target my ribs.  I’m going to blame all of this fetal aggression on self-defense.  Khalid and Iman pet, poke, jump on, bump into, even drum on and play cars on my stomach.  This baby is just acting in self-defense, and they’re probably so used to retaliating that they’re going to come out kicking and punching.

I spend most of my time chauferring, entertaining, feeding, and refereeing Khalid and Iman and all the rest of it trying to ignore/work through being pregnant so I can get work done.  On one hand I feel guilty that I haven’t started ‘bonding’ with this baby.  Yes, I know it hasn’t been born yet, but daydreaming, talking to one’s stomach, lovingly setting up the nursery, and making lots of dua for your unborn child are all things that I did much for Khalid, a little for Iman, and even less for this child.  Not that I’m not excited about meeting Stringbean, or that I don’t already know the gender (yay!) and haven’t done all of the adorable pre-baby clothes shopping, but the time I spend focusing on being pregnant is way, way less than the time I spend trying to forget that I’m pregnant so I can get things done.

Which is easier said than done by the way- my wedding ring no longer fits, my feet are so swollen that they hang an inch and a half off the back of my sandals.  My back aches, my top speed is .1 miles per hour, even the maternity tops are getting tight.  If Iman, who is still a novelty-sized girl, stands too close to me she gets eclipsed by my stomach and occasionally even knocked over.  Khalid runs to hug me and crashes face-first into my stomach and then rebounds away.  He’s learned to come at me sideways for hugs now.  I feel like enormous, and yet, I’ve maintained the same weight for nearly a month now, Alhamdulillah.  Between swimming, working, and the fact that EVERYONE IS TOO MEAN TO BUY ME A DOZEN RED VELVET CUPCAKES WITH CREAM CHEESE FROSTING FROM MAGNOLIA BAKERY (basement one, near the Dancing Fountains, Dubai Mall, Index Mall parking area, she said subtly.) I have gained little weight, and even lost some according to my last weigh-in at the OB/GYN.  The doctor looked at the paper with my weight scribbled on it and frowned.

“Did we weigh you in your abaya last time?”

“Nope.”

“Same shoes?”

“Yes.”

The doctor shrugs and carries on.  She tells me I need to rest more.  She asks me what I do, and I tell her.  Then she offers to write me a note for sick leave.

“Why would I need one?”

“So you can rest for a few days. Just take it, it’s only seventy dirhams.”

“Who would I give it to?”

“The center you work for.”

“I’m the director.”

“Give it to the office, they’ll have to give you time off.”

Here the nurse interjects – “Madame, there is no one to give it to.”

The doctor looks at me again, confused.

“You don’t understand,” I tell her.  ”It’s my business, and I even dream in employment visas.”

I told Owlie about this later and we had a good laugh.  Owlie suggested that I take the sick note with my left hand, pass it to my right, nod sternly and deny myself the down time.  In actuality, I would need to give it to Khalid and Iman, and Khalid would read it from top to bottom, and Iman would take it and draw a squiggle fish, a squiggle flower, and maybe a squiggle crocodile on it, but neither of them would approve it and school, cooking, shopping, working, meetings, outings, and entertainment would still go on.  HF very lovingly drops Khalid off to school in the mornings for me sometimes, and while once a week I do need to sleep in for a few hours, the rest of the week I have too much to do and too pushy of a secretary to be left alone.

“Momma, wake up! Open your eyes! Stand up! The sun is up! Can I play with your phone?”

“Yes Iman, I’m up. No sweetie, not now.”

Iman wrestles the blankets off me and theatrically takes me by the hand to ‘help’ me out of bed.  Sometimes that works and sometimes that doesn’t.  Sometimes Iman tells Cindy that I would like a cup of chai, even when I haven’t requested one.  Sometimes she has my chai supersized too- my default is a small cup of chai.  Iman runs up the hall and I can hear her call out- “Cinny!  Momma wants big chai please!”

“Small…” I mumble face-first into the pillow.

Iman comes back and updates me.  ”Momma! I told Cinny!”

“Thank you dear.”

So I have a tankard of deliciously well made but WAY too big chai waiting for me on the dining table when I eventually stagger out.  How much extra sleep do I usually get on these days?  About 45 minutes if Iman is persistent.  If I cave and give her my phone to play with, I can get an hour and a half.  After that she gets bored and she expects us to launch into our daily routine- I go to the pool and Iman applauds and waves when I swim past her.  At every progressive lap she tries harder and harder to somehow insinuate herself into the water where she, being only three, is not allowed to swim.  Cindy calls her back to the poolside, where she waves at and encourages the other swimmers.  She also informs me, regularly, that she’s bigger now.  See?  She stands on her tiptoes and tell me “I’m seven.  Allah made me bigger.”  Why seven? Because that’s the minimum age for being allowed in the pool.

Then we go grocery shopping or come home and work on my computer.  By 12:30 it’s time to go get Khalid again, and once he’s home we do lunch, attempt to constructively entertain ourselves without too much screaming and battling over toys, cook dinner, and then find something for the kids to do in terms of physical activity.  It’s over 110 degrees daily now, so the park is out of the question.  In winter, the kids were off to the park every day by 3:30.  In summer, we cycle through the free play areas in various malls on a daily basis so that the kids can burn off some steam without dying of heat stroke.  Iman’s favorite is the play area in Babyshop, Khalid’s new favorite is Magic ‘Plant.’  Alhamdulillah, there’s a mall nearby that has both of these, albeit on opposite ends.  Cindy takes Iman one way and Joy takes Khalid the other.  I find a comfortable sofa somewhere in the middle and attempt to check email from my phone.  By five o’clock we’re home again and by six it’s time again for dinner, bathing, reading The Gruffalo with Baba and then the bedtime ritual, and the kids’ day has come full circle.

Once the kids are in bed, HF and I will occasionally go out, but usually get on our respective computers to work.  By ten I’m in bed, and tomorrow is another day.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Notice how nothing in my day involves appreciating, dwelling, relaxing, or luxuriating in the expectancy of expecting.  That’s what I was talking about.  With both Khalid and Iman’s pregnancies, the time just would not pass.  Now I feel ambushed every time another Babycenter.com email alert pops up saying “Congratulations, you’re X weeks pregnant!”  Last week’s number was 36.  I’m expecting the next one any day now.  The baby’s due date is anywhere between June 8th and June 17th InshaAllah, and the doctor says June 15th seems most likely.  I am torn between wanting the baby to be born early (because I’m tired of being a weeble-wobble juggernaut) and wanting the baby to be born as late as possible because I have too much work to do and I’m not ready to go on maternity leave yet.

So yes.  Here I am, nine months pregnant, happy, busy, tired, over-worked, not overfed though I wish I was, and not very likely to be able to slow down any time soon.  Poor lil Stringbean, you better come out running.

At the Arabian Center's 'petting' zoo

Iman: Look momma, issa angry bird!