Author: Abez

AssalamuAlaikum Internets!

It’s Ramadan again, the first year that all three of my awesome mini-humans are fasting. They’re super-stars at Suhoor, and they’ve collaboratively cooked eggs for themselves the past three in a row.

Khalid is 13. (OMG) Iman is 11, Musfira will be turning 8 next month. It baffles and delights me when they cook and work together. Also, they make me coffee, which is possibly one of my crowning achievements as a mother. Khalid brews black drip coffee. Iman makes me lattes. Musfira is the local expert on the Nespresso machine and make both cappuccino with frothed heavy cream, or espresso shots with a smidge of agave, just the way momma likes it.

Unexpectedly last week though, a cup of coffee tipped on the counter and Musfira got splashed by it. Alhamdulillah, it wasn’t scaldingly hot, and while she was crying and in pain, she had no real injury. It was a huge relief that she was ok, Alhamdulillah.

Sometimes I wonder how children graduate into knife-wielding, fire-starting, car-driving adults. I see my own kids handling responsibility, and I am proud of them but always slightly nervous. I suppose it comes with the parenting territory. If I wasn’t concerned for my kids’ safety there might be something wrong with me.

(Well, other than all the other stuff wrong with me. Ha!)

So yeah. My kids are awesome. (Hi kids!) They’re becoming more and more independent and more determined to fast and I am very proud of them. Even if in the last fifteen minutes before Iftar, certain children ask me what time it is EVERY SINGLE MINUTE.

(You know who you are. Look at the clock!)

The End.

I am sitting in my living room right now, surrounded by all three of my kids, on three laptops, all three of them giggling in glee and reading through their own category tabs.

It’s quite an amazing and lovely feeling, watching them interact with the previous versions of themselves and laughing at memories they’ve forgotten. I’m so glad I get to see them discover this. 🙂

I have a speech at a conference in one week and I am nowhere near done. They assigned me the topic of maintaining faith despite failure. I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt and not believe they consider me an expert in the topic of failure. >:/

I’ve spoke about disability and special needs awareness many, many times in many, many places. I could probably do that in my sleep if I don’t already do, but failure and frustration is a little new to me. It’s intimidating because it’s… real. It’s me.

And now, it’s writer’s block. I have piles of thoughts, jumbled into complex, tangled tangents that I somehow need to straighten out and line up neatly. Except pain and fear and failure aren’t neat- and explaining to how to survive in spite of them isn’t simple. Worst of all- I can’t explain anything without referring to my self as the point of reference for what’s I’m talking about.

Yes, I know I blog and I end up talking about myself more or less all of the time. This feels different though, more risky because it’s in real life, and my kids will be sitting in the audience. I don’t know where to start, or how to proceed in way that resonated with the audience without in some way confusing or scaring my kids.

But I have to try. Make dua for me. I need it.

Human beings are complicated.  In the last year of my life, I’ve observed more of them close-up, and in-depth for longer periods of time than usual. How? By volunteering on a committee. 

I’ve learned that people who like to complain about things are usually less interested in solutions than they are in their own importance.

I’ve learned that people who are silent often have too much to say about things, and not knowing where to begin- will instead say nothing.

I’ve learned that people who talk too much can sometimes have the least to offer. Sometimes, they’re seeking, but they aren’t sure what questions to ask. So they ramble. I’ve learned to listen for questions that aren’t asked. 

I’ve learned that perfectionism is a disease that causes people to shoot down the ideas of others – not maliciously – but from the overpowering concern that they’re not good enough. Consequently, no solutions pass muster. 

I’ve learned that grownups never really grow up. They just grow bigger, and the same weird things kids do, grownups just do more tactfully. 

I’ve learned that there are silent, generous, unassuming pillars of entire communities who drive used cars and donate hundreds of thousands of dollars to charitable causes without a fuss for recognition.

I’ve learned there are squeaky, un-greased wheels who donate a hundred dollars and think that makes them the CEO of the world.

Humans are complicated. May Allah forgive me for being one too. 

When I dropped my children off to school this morning one of their little friends, who is six and in first grade, ran out of line to ask me a question.

“Hey! Iman’s mom!”

“Yes dear?” I answered.

So it’s crunch time. The house is being packed and sorted into a bazillion little piles, all bound in invisible string and tied directly to my heart.  Every time a little pile- Khalid’s first artworks, Iman’s first story, Musfira’s baby blanket- fails to make the packing priority list, it stings as it’s tugged and let loose.

Every thing sold has a history, good or bad. Some strings were tied too tightly, and feeling them snap and fall away feels like being able to breathe again.  Things I’ve wanted to burn are instead given away, things I wanted to keep forever in my hands will be left behind and then kept in my heart instead.

Growing up with a Mormon mother, I was taught to document, treasure, and save all these little piles of things and cherish them from one international move to another.  I have carried with me a drawing my little brother made me in 1994 as well as the first tooth that I lost since I first lost it.

But growing into a Muslim, I have come to understand that this frantic need to preserve every last scribble is futile for three reasons.

First of all, Allah has sent angels to record every word, thought, and moment in my life with nothing less than Divinely powered accuracy. They’re doing a much better job of recording my life than I ever could.

Second, I can’t take it with me. Nothing will go with me into my grave except for my good deeds.  Not even the doll my mother bought me when I was four.  That would be exceptionally creepy.

Third, Allah will take the universe- the entire vast and incomprehensibly big universe- into His right hand and roll it up like a scroll.  It’ll be done.  Khallas. Finished.  Destroyed.  Why do I need to preserve what the angels have documented and what Qadr will destroy? Why do I need to preserve that which was intended to be temporary?

I don’t. So I’m not.  The only exception to this is my poetry, and now that every dresser and drawer is being dumped out and aggressively sorted, random poems are coming out of the woodwork.  So I may be posted random poetry here and there as I find it.  And once it’s been typed, I will be throwing it in the garbage.

The End.