Musfira receives the cookie and folds it carefully into a tissue.
Then, she takes her tiny first and begins pounding it into crumbs.
Momma is taken aback.
“Musfira! What are you doing to your cookie?”
Musfira is reassuring.
“Iss okay momma. I making a puzzle. Hee you go!”
Momma accepts puzzle.
Glowing with pride, Momma eats it.
Masha’Allah 🙂
The Stylist
Alhamdulillah, we acquired a lovely new sister in law this weekend as HF’s younger brother got married. Family wedding preparations were a team effort, and Alhamdulillah, everyone did their part to ensure things went smoothly- even Musfira, who took the initiative to do her own hair and makeup with a pair of scissors and a blue marker. And she did it an entire day before the party, making her not only helpful, but also forward thinking.
A proper stylist was commissioned to neaten up the asymmetrical bangs Musfira cut for herself, and I followed that with a cleansing baby-oil and rubbing alcohol facial.
The Behavioural Analyst
Musfira likes to play limit-testing games- as toddlers often do- and they follow a pretty simple format. Momma says to do something. Musfira refuses to do it, and she smiles and waits to see what will happen.
One of these more recent games is a jolly round of “I’m not leaving the car.” This game takes two people to play and is usually initiated at the end of a long drive, after a long day, when Momma would much rather be bathing children and putting them to bed. Musfira’s car seat is unbuckled. Momma says let’s go inside. Musfira makes a run for the back of the van- a cramped space that Momma is not a fan of climbing in to chase a wiggly and wilful toddler.
So in a recent round of the game, I unbuckled Musfira and she made a successful break for the back of the minivan. Rather than engage in a Tom & Jerry style chase, I stood outside and said, “Musfira, it’s time to go home. You need to come out of the van now.”
In response to which, she did her best imitation of a stern face and said, “No momma. I stay inna van. One… Two… Three… I hit you!”
Now, I would like to make three things clear:
Iman does get a count to three, but when three comes, it isn’t with a smack, it’s with a physical prompt. If, by the count of three she’s not walking to the bath I will take her by the arm and walk her there myself.
I may not be the best mother in the world, but I don’t threaten my children with “I hit you!” anymore than “I will cut you.”
Musfira is a squeaky two-foot nothing and has all the authoritative presence as a rubber duck.
I was so impressed that she had made, and then used her own assumptions about what would happen when 3 came that my toughest battle was suppressing a laugh.
Besides, in accordance with the cardinal parenting rule of No-No-Prompt, the thing to do when Musfira had disregarded my instructions twice already was to climb in and just take her inside the house, not argue with a grumpy two and a half year old.
The Photographer
At the end of the valima of same said family wedding, Musfira kept trying to steal the limelight from the bride & groom’s photos by dancing on stage with no shoes and only half of her party ensemble on. When I went and physically removed her from the stage, she wailed and pleaded, “Momma wait! I wanna photo!”
I put her down and handed her my phone with the camera open. “Alright then. Go take photos.”
I don’t think she quite caught the grammatical trickery that got her from the front of the camera to behind it, but it worked. She took my phone and stood behind the other amateur photographer. She returned with around 30 fuzzy, poorly composed pictures of the stage- with and without bride and groom- and proudly showed me her work. Alhamdulillah.
The Dreamer
We were driving home on E311 after a long day in Ajman, and the children were riding in tired silence. Suddenly, Musfira sat straight up in her seat and squeaked “Momma! Look! Issa crown! Issa crown!”
“A crown? I don’t see any crown…” I scanned the traffic and tried to figure out what Musfira was getting all excited about.
“A crown! A magic crown! Iss fwying away!”
“Musfira, do you mean the light on top of that car?”
“Notta car!” she angrily insisted, “A crown! Iss going!”
I sped the car up and chased down Musfira’s magic flying crown. I matched its speed and pointed, “Musfira, is that your magic flying crown?”
So HF made me write a list of affirmations. Cheesy, I know- but surprisingly effective. Everyone needs an anchor sometimes, and right now, mine is affirmation number one: I am an overachiever.
I won’t bore you with the rest of the affirmations, but that’s the one I’m leaning on right now because gosh darnit I am having a bit of a challenging week. Our staff have been on stand-by for a move to our exciting new office, and due to bureaucracy and an unsigned MOU, the move has been postponed until AllahuAalim.
My kids are home from school on winter break, and while they’re in the process of rediscovering things like creativity, imagination, and the ability to entertain themselves without maternal intervention every five minutes- I’m not getting much work done.
On top of that, someone, somewhere must have sneezed in my general direction, because now I am incubating an exciting new infection. I’m hoping it decides to stay in my throat instead of bunkering down into my lungs where- historically speaking- it declares the Free Lungs of Bronchitistan to be independent from the oppressive forces of The Body, and a civil war ensues.
(I cough. My lungs try escape. I try to keep them in. It’s very ladylike.)
So yes. I am an overachiever. And you know what I’m going to do with that? I’m going to take my work setback, and the inevitable disappointment to the staff, and the pair of lungs that are trying to fight their way to freedom and I am GOING TO HAVE A GOOD DAY. Or else.
Or else?
Or else I’ll have another cappuccino and another cup of chicken and mushroom soup. And that’s a threat. I’m sitting in a coffee shop right now, trying to derive warmth and can-do attitude from one small, sad cappuccino with steam and sugar. I’m hoping to combine its forces with the cup of soup I just had from Chili’s, because the problem with being sick and a mom is that you’re supposed to make your own soup. And if you don’t feel well enough to make yourself soup, then you don’t get soup.
(Unless you sneak out for soup when no one’s looking, in which case you might end up in the mall, feeling kind of sick and alone but at least well caffeinated with a belly full of warm soup.)
I am not a dementor. I am not a negative, pessimistic person with a mopey sulk on my face that drains positivity and energy from other people. And that’s one of my affirmations too. So even if I am feeling down or negative, I refuse to pull other people down with it. Yes, I may feed my negativity soup, but I will not turn around and feed my negativity to other people. So where was I?
You know how when you’re sitting in a coffee shop alone, and people walk right up to you (because your table is blocking the cream and sugar) and you’re half afraid it’s someone you know, but half hoping that someone will sit down and cheer you up? Yeah- that’s pathetic.
I’m that pathetic right now, but not for long. Within the last year alone, three people have independently referred to me as Mary Poppins, and I’ve been hearing this throughout my adult life. You know what it means to be Mary Poppins? It means you have freakishly unsinkable cheerfulness- not all of the time- but at least for enough time so that people think unsinkable cheerfulness is your default. I am a friggin Mary Poppins. So I’m going to take my pre-bronchitis sulk back home to where there’s wifi- because this coffee shop’s wifi won’t connect- and I’m going to open a can of directorial whoopa$$ on my inbox.
Note from Momma: Iman typed this blog by herself, and I had no intention of making any changes, but when autocorrect underlined her spelling of “bigist,” she had to ask why the computer was putting red lines under her words. So we had an impromptu spelling lesson for superlatives (big, bigger, biggest) and one other correction was made for the spelling of “crem.”
The inspiration for this blog is that today is the big day- after ten days of nightly antihistamines (‘skusting!) Iman will be going back to the ENT to figure out of the pressure in her ears has normalized. If it hasn’t, she’ll have the world’s biggest three-scoop sundae and perhaps an ear surgery- though not in the same day. If the pressure has normalized, then she’ll just have the world’s biggest three-scoop ice cream. One way or another, it’s going to be a good day, InshaAllah.
Apart from that, the Photoshop work is entirely Iman’s, as is the image choice. And this is Iman’s first blog. By Momma, the end. 🙂
I woke up this morning, and I noticed that Musfira was already awake and singing in her crib. I wanted to use the bathroom before picking her up and activating Mommy Mode for the day, so I stood up quickly when she was looking the other way, starting tiptoeing and then-
“Momma! git back in yo bed. iss not morning time. I haff work to do!”
I turned around and saw Musfira giving me the no-nonsense stare of a toddler that means business, though I’m not pretending to know what business she wanted me to stay in bed for so she could finish. But then, she cracked a smile, and I was off the hook.
Last week or so- HF decided that we were going to stay up super late (or some of us, nap super late) and then go out and watch the Geminid meteor shower with the Dubai Astronomy Club. I thought it was a lovely idea. The grand reveal to the children went something like this:
HF: Guys, Baba has something really special planned for you- tonight, we’re going to go to bed on time, and at ten thirty we’re going to wake up, drive out to the desert, and we’re going to see some meteors!
Iman: Yay!
Khalid: -silence-his eyes suddenly widen in fear-
Me: Oh no Khalid! Not like that! Not like the dinosaurs!
Khalid: -slow, uncertain blink- So, it will miss the earth?
Me: Yes, the meteors will miss the earth.
He must not have been completely convinced, because later when we woke and loaded our drowsy but excited children into the car, Khalid just needed to reconfirm.
So I went into the bathroom yesterday. I picked up a kids toothbrush and I squirted some pink, raspberry flavored, fluoride-free toothpaste on it. Then, I opened my own mouth, popped it in, and got halfway through brushing and humming the toothbrush song before I realized I was on autopilot.
I laughed so hard my face hurt.
It’s been an awesome and funny week. Awesome, and amazing, and exciting because the AutismUAE GoFundMe campaign has made the 10K we needed for license renewal, and people still keep tipping coins into the hat. Funny because my children have been more amusing than usual.
Khalid declared that Musfira could play with his trains only after she learned how to speak English.
I taught the children how to play I-Spy in the car.
Khalid: I spy, with my little eye, something that is that orange car.
-blink blink-
Iman: I spy, with my little eye, something that is yellow!
Musfira: SUN!
(it’s 8 pm)
Iman in patronizing big sister voice: No Musifra, it’s not the sun. Can you see the sun? It’s not in the sky right now.
Khalid: Its light is reflecting off the moon. The sun is in the sky.
Iman: Wha?
Khalid: It’s day time in the Western pole.
Khalid is recently into directions, and so last week when we heard a neighbor’s dog barking, Iman said, “Oh, I hear a dog!” And Khalid said, “Yes, it’s north-west.”
And Musfira, upon opening her eyes after nap-time and seeing Aunt Owlie for the first time after her two weeks in the US said,
Aunty, your cat food is spicy.
It’s also been a bit of a rough week, with all three kids sick with something or the other- Musfira’s nose threw up. Khalid’s had a three-day stomach ache. I took Iman and her ears to see an ENT and he very politely informed us that both of her ears were full of fluid and that they both had negative pressure. I don’t know enough about ears to know what negative pressure is, but by golly, I will google it.
So Iman has to take “‘skusting medicine” for the next ten days to see if the fluid can be cleared up. If not, then we X-ray to see what kind of mechanical problem there could be. I’ve told Iman not to worry, because it’s a win-win. If Iman takes all of her medicine for all ten days, she is going to get the BIGGEST ICE CREAM SUNDAE IN THE WORLD.
Three whole scoops to be precise.
Then, if she has taken all of her medicine but the fluid hasn’t cleared, then she and I will have a special sleepover in the hospital and she will get to pick out a much-coveted, often longed-for, overpriced mylar balloon from the hospital gift shop. Either way, we both get ice-cream, and one of us gets a balloon. Alhamdulillah.
So now it’s time for bed, my day started at six am and involved a two hour meeting, two good friends, and both HF’s and my parents unexpectedly showing up for dinner at the same time, without prior planning. Alhamdulillah, its finally time for bed. Alhamdulillah. 🙂
I shoulda seen it coming. I felt Musfira make a tiny little gagging sound as I held her over my shoulder. After all, I have three children. I know how ominous one tiny *herp?* from a child’s mouth can be. Sometimes that’s the only warning you get before herp turns into full-out hurl.
I could’ve acted faster.
Instead, I waited half a second and, just as I was turning Musfira around to check if she was ok, she threw up- and the motion of being turned created a beautiful, semi-circular arc of vomit that spread outwards from her mouth to the far reaches of the bathroom.
I nodded to myself in acknowledgement of my folly, sour milk dripping from my clothes. She threw up again, and then tearfully turned to me and asked, “momma, my nose throw up?”
Yes dear, it did.
Everything was hosed down. This morning, it was hosed down again. And as I took stock of the dried (and curdled) milk on my shoes, I remembered something funny. A friend of mine once posted a list, “You know you’re a mother when…” and one of those entries went something along the lines of:
You know you’re a mother when catching vomit in your hands is a cause for celebration, not disgust.
Musfira was recently sick, and HF and I were sitting with her in bed trying to soothe her. Suddenly, she herped, and because HF and I were both on guard for these things, he quickly picked her up and turned her face away from the bed, and I leaned forward and held my hands out. Then, she threw up in them.
This is my vomit catching face.
It was beautiful- the timing, the execution, the flawless teamwork in orchestrating such an advanced parenting maneuver. No vomit on the bed, the floor, or HF. We would have high-fived if my hands weren’t otherwise occupied.
There’s a little something catching in Dubai right now- when the seasons change and the blistering summer winds turn to the toasty winter winds, germs get all excited about being able to use the sidewalks for once, and they come out to play. So Khalid and Iman both have low-grade fevers, and Iman is complaining of an ear that “goes boom boom” when she swallows or drinks. Musfira’s stomach is upset and her nose threw up. And HF isn’t feeling too well either.
Hey, for a change, I feel fine! True, I did follow my breakfast with a 9am nap that last until 11:30, and maybe that’s why I’m feeling all peppy and energetic- even about being vomited on!
Really though, I’m just so excited by what’s happening with the GoFundMe campaign- one amazing person- just one- added 2,000 dollars. Another one person added 450. I feel almost giddy with excitement and relief. AllahuAkbar. Alhamdulillah.
May Allah bless everyone last person and every last cent donated, anonymously and not- and give me the chance to thank each of them personally in Jannah. Ameen.
AssalamuAlaikum all of you really awesome peoples. 🙂
Through the grace and mercy of Allah, which facilitates the kindness and generosity of people like you, things are looking better for AutismUAE. Not only have the comments in my last post reached almost a third of what we need (JazakAllahuKheiran, really) but Muslim Matters has also offered to run a post for AutismUAE too. I don’t know exactly when that will be, but I’ve had a chat with the licensing department and they’ve given us a date for the 20th of December to bring the funds in.
So now, I have a little room to breathe, and a lotta reasons to smile. 🙂
Truly, after hardship comes ease. Alhamdulillah 🙂
Everyone who left a comment offering to help should have received an email from myself by now, as well as HF, who’s my pro-bono Director of Finance. He’s the man with the plan (as well as the bank account information!) so if you haven’t heard from him yet, or haven’t received an email from me, please check your spam and try again.
To make a long story short, the not-for profit autism intervention service that I founded three years ago is in danger of going under. Partly due to a long string of non-paying parents, and partly due to a chronically ill, depressed, and mentally spazztastic director. That would be me. I’m the chronically ill, currently a lil bit depressed, and often spazztastic director.
*waves*
And I’m going to hold the internet hostage until I can find twenty thousand dirhams to renew my business license next month.
And by hostage, I mean I’m on break from twitter, FB, and heavy blogging until I can keep my ship from going under.
No need to comment, unless you’re one of those rich UAE sheikhs who gives people cars as hostess gifts. Or a person who wants to send me money for some strange reason.
So I’m really sorry, but I’m mentally in so many places that I haven’t the brain cells to be here as well as there.
And I’m sad and scared and praying that Allah saves AutismUAE as well as my sanity. And I’d be grateful if you could too.
Everyone has a purpose in this life. Sometimes I think mine may be to give medical staff something funny to talk about over break, MashaAllah.
My doctors are trying to figure out if my POTS, progressive weakness & neuropathy are caused by an underlying auto-immune disorder, which isn’t entirely unheard of. One of the way they’re doing this is through a lip biopsy.
So I went in for a lip biopsy on errr… two days ago, and the procedure was very simple. The surgeon gave me some lidocaine, then he took a pair of scissors and cut a tiny piece from the inside of my mouth. Then I wondered why they called it a lip biopsy if they didn’t take anything from my lip.
Then, he gave me three stitches and said, “All done! We’ll get back to you with the results in about a week!”
So I stood up, said thank you, and walked out.
I made it as far as the reception before I passed out. It was awesome. One second I was like Excuse me, can I pay my bill? and the next minute I was all like Floor, Y U No hold still?
I was standing in line when my ears started ringing and I noticed darkness closing in around the edge of my vision. I managed to hold on to the counter and mumble “I’m going to pass out…”
I don’t know what the receptionist said in reply, because after that was all cold, dark, and miserable. Passing out is only fun in movies. In real life, it’s feels like falling straight down into a cold, dark, nauseating chasm. When I opened my eyes I was in a bed surrounded by confused looking nurses, since they worked in the outpatient clinic, not the ER. My surgeon’s nurse was there too, and when I opened my eyes she said accusingly, “You said you were ok!”
I apologized to her. And to the other nurses. And to my surgeon, as well as the ER doctor when they were able to wheel me down there. I’m not sure why I felt so guilty, but my fuzzy brain felt as though I had sorely inconvenienced them by passing out in the middle of the hallway- like any polite person would have gone and discretely passed out behind a potted plant so as to not disturb anyone.
I called HF, and he hopped into a taxi and brought the entire entourage to pick me up. The kids oohed and aahed at the BP and heart rate machine. Khalid and Iman tested their own blood oxygen levels repeatedly.
HF made small talk with the doctor, who was a distinguished looking African man with curly white hair and sense of humor.
“Your wife says this happens to her sometimes. It’s from the POTS. She’ll be ok.”
“I know,” HF said, shaking his head at me. “She does this just to get my attention.”
“All wives are like this,” the doctor smiled, winking at me.
We went home, had HF’s parents over for dinner, and I guess the kids were put to bed but I wouldn’t know, because I fell asleep before 8pm. And that’s my medical misadventure for this week. The End.
This is an elaborate status update that you didn’t ask for. But it’s not complaining.
I’ve been cat-sitting for my sister’s cats for a week or so now, and they follow me from room to room mewling expectantly. Whenever I sit down to work they loll all over the keyboard, chew the wires, yowl at me, and play with my mouse. This would be cute if I didn’t have children who already follow me from room to room mewling expectantly.
And they loll all over my keyboard.
And they play with my mouse.
I’m behind in work and there’s a mom who’s mad at me. She has every right to be- she asked for an urgent invoice copy (granted, it was an urgent request) and I said I would try to get back to her asap. But Khalid recovering from Sunday’s dental surgery has been a two-day teetering on the verge of meltdown and dental sabotage. If he is not kept distracted, he either rages about the new hardware installed in his mouth, or goes somewhere private to try and pull it out. Were he to succeed, it would be the third time he has removed supposedly “unremovable” dental work- crowns, spacers, bridges… you name it and he’s ripped it out. With the exception of fillings, anything that we pay a dentist to put into Khalid’s mouth is in perpetual danger of being removed.
Oh right- I didn’t update: Khalid broke a tooth on Saturday night. On Sunday morning he had dental surgery under general anaesthesia to remove an abscessed molar, fix the broken canine with a root canal, fill four cavities, and then install a lingual arch to maintain the spacing and position of Khalid’s teeth. Since so many teeth have been removed at one point or another, they’re starting to shift around, and unless we keep them in place, his permanent teeth will be affected.
Coming out of anaesthesia is hard enough for adults- I’ve done it many times and it’s always horrible- but for Khalid, it makes him fighting mad. Literally. He actually hit me, and it’s been years since he did. He was raging, kicking, screaming, fighting mad for around an hour, and no one from the clinic staff could so much as look at him without setting him off again. He and I laid in the recovery room together, me holding his hands to the iPhone I wanted him to focus on, and him crying and periodically fighting to reach into his mouth and start pulling on whatever he could find.
We spent the rest of the day just watching him and trying to keep Iman and Musfira from getting too close to Khalid. He was angry and irritable for two days- and today is Wednesday and he went off to school happily Alhamdulillah. He remembers his teeth when he’s eating, but it’s gotten easier to redirect him or distract him. The trick is to NOT talk about teeth. At all. ever.
We used to joke that Khalid’s teeth were worth a used Corolla. MashaAllah, they are now worth a used Lexus. 😉 Our insurance does not cover dental work, and on top of that, Khalid gets his dental work done in an operating theatre under general anaesthesia. So that means we never just pay for fillings or a cleaning or a crown- we pay for the anaesthesiologist, his nurse, the operating theater, and THEN we pay for the dental work.
(And then, Khalid tears it out.)
In parallel, HF is out of the country. He’ll be back by Sunday, and when he returns, I will greet him with our traditional family salutation upon return from travels: Welcome home. I’m burning your passport.
I’ve been sick. It’s nothing too terrible- a small bug going around from the change of weather here in the UAE. Musfira had it and threw up. I got it and was nauseated but still functional. I’ve been operating solo for the past week and running on fumes, a whole lot of forgetfulness, and the stubborn determination to keep things afloat just until HF gets home and not a moment longer than that. Then, once I’ve burned his passport, I’m going to collapse into a blubbering heap of housewife and demand cuddles and catering until it all feels better.
Do I sound tired? I am. I’m not complaining though- because even in this there is a reward for patience as well as the opportunity for growth. I have this crazy stress response sometimes- when I’m overwhelmed with work, the kids are whining, and my phone is buzzing with unreturned calls- I get domestic. The last time I got put on steroids to recover from bronchitis it gave me a serious case of the Irrational Angries. I couldn’t talk to my children without snapping at them. Their tiny, sweet hands felt like grabby little claws, and their innocent requests sounded like the shrieking of baby banshees. So what did I do?
I sewed a princess hat.
Really. Iman and Musfira and I went into my office, dusted off my sewing machine, and started sewing. We made a pointy princess hat with a veil and a strap, and it was a pink satin masterpiece. And no one got yelled at and no one died. Alhamdulillah.
Yesterday, when the kid/cat/work combination had me wanting to run away and hide in my bathroom until HF got home, I went and got the hedge clippers, a bucket of water, and some sponges. We went outside where the weather was lovely- and in the cool winter breeze with warm late-afternoon sun, I enjoyed the simple, uncomplicated snip snip snip of the clippers as I trimmed back yards of thorny pink blossoms from our front entrance. The girls giggled and threw soapy water at each other and sometimes even at the car. Khalid chased the cats around inside the house, and I recited Qur’an and gardened until I felt better. And really, I did. Alhamdulillah.
So here I am with a mountain of work pending, groceries need to be bought, and some very hugely important excel files need to be created- and here I am writing. Because it makes me feel better.
Also, I’ve decided that if Sleeping Beauty’s castle had been surrounded by bougainvillaea instead of plain ole enchanted thorns, Prince Charming would have given up before making it past the drawbridge. Bougainvillaea is vicious, and the only reason why it has such pretty flowers is to lull you into a state of flowery pink security before tearing your skin off.
And now the cats have woken up and discovered this blog, even as I am typing it. See?
Sometime between now and Saturday I need to de-fur the house before HF returns- he’s allergic to cats- and hand them over into the care of another person.
But here’s why this is not complaining. I sent the mom the invoice and I apologized. I didn’t say “I’m so sorry, I’m sick and my son had emergency dental surgery and my sisters cats are bothering me because she’s in the US looking for a neurosurgeon because HER BRAIN IS GOING TO EXPLODE and my husband is out of town and I am chronically ill and we don’t have groceries right now” because you know what? It sounds so… prima donna. I’m sure she has her own problems, and she has her own stresses- her own work and her own son with autism, so what difference does it make if I’m sick or my sister’s sick or my husband’s out of town? It isn’t about oneupmanship. It’s about taking responsibility. So the invoice is late, and I’m sorry.
One of the ways that Shaitaan tries to bring me down is to get me to use the internet for wandering into distraction versus addressing any cause of my stress, or Shaitaan-Forbid- actually making dua or something.
So I use his own trick against him and use the internet to bring me closer to Allah. See, I let him think I’m getting online to waste time, and I even get so far as opening youtube, but right when he’s looking the other way, PEW PEW PEW! I fire a round of this at him!
I have a special relationship with the Philippines- even though I doubt the islands know. When my son was diagnosed with autism and my husband and I were struggling to meet his monthly therapy needs and begging Allah for help, He gave us a special needs teacher and ABA therapist from there whose passion, energy, and relentless dedication firmly paved the way for the amazing future he’s living now.
When I took a leap of faith and founded an early intervention service for children on the autism spectrum- she was a founding member, and together we hired a team of amazing special needs educators- all of whom were from the Philippines.
We’ve travelled there together many times during the past few years, and there she’s been my tour guide as well as an ambassador for the country and the people she loves. She’s taken me to the beautiful, historically significant Fort Santiago, as well as the homely, close streets of the poor Muslim neighbourhood of Quiapo, where she stood guard as I prayed in one of Manila’s few large masjids.
She took me through merchant-filled underpasses in Baclaran, an underwater shark tunnel in Ocean City, and the slums in Manila where one man’s trash is literally, another’s treasure- entire families live in dark, jumbled lean-tos made of discarded billboard, banners, cardboard, and desperation.
She carefully- and protectively- showed me the edge of one cabaret and red-light district, where the “Lovely Ms. Lemon” was slated for performance- her thin, disturbingly young looking body barely dressed and cheaply displayed on a poster outside of the bar.
She’s steered this amazed, insulated, first-world Muslim past the casinos and La Lechon buffets to safety and pleasant surprises at a Mom & Pop halal kitchen in a house in Quiapo. She’s told me when I should lock the car doors and when I can roll down the window and gawk in amazement. She’s showed me a side of the Philippines- however limited- that no five-star tourist would be able to see, and what I’ve learned amazes me.
I’ve learned that the pleasant Filipina receptionist with the policy-mandated smile may actually hold a Master’s degree in Business Administration, but will have taken the job to escape the poor economy, poverty, and endless cycle of debt some families live in back home. She may be living in a shared bedspace, paying half of her salary to rent a single bunk in a room of ten or more, with access to a shared kitchen and a single bathroom where each resident keeps a neatly labeled basket with their own soap, tissues, and toothpaste.
I’ve learned the people leave their children with aunts and grandmothers for years at a time so they can try to cover school fees and housing costs with their meager incomes, working low-level service jobs here in Dubai.
I learned that the Filipino driver who is on call 24 hours a day and hasn’t been home in five years is counting down the days until his daughter gradates from medical school back home. That the housekeeper with a nursing degree is grateful to have a job that wasn’t a scam for a brothel- and that the ladies who share rooms in Karama live in fear of rape, because the petite, polite, and well-polished Filipinas are common targets for intimidation and sexual exploitation.
I learned that to address a Filipina with respect I use Atay, which is the tagalog equivalent of Baji (big sister) and that Atay’s counterpart is Kooya. Our friends are maray and paray. And they make this amazing thing called adobo and it’s beautiful on buttered garlic rice.
Here in the UAE, people from the Philippines fill a majority of jobs in the service industry. All but two of the employees in my local beauty salon are from the Philippines, and yesterday when I entered for a well-needed foot-scrub, the mood seemed markedly less cheerful than usual. Instead of being greeted with the usual “Hello Madame,” I was quietly shown to a comfortable chair where Jane- who has been working there for the past five years, was quietly filling a basin with soap and fragrant bath salts.
She wordlessly took my feet and began washing them, and as she worked her hands over my bubble, lavender-scented feet, I couldn’t help but stare. Her face was… pained.
After a few moments I carefully ventured, “There’s a terrible typhoon in the Philippines right now.”
“Yes ma’am, a superstorm.” She replied flatly, now taking one of my feet in her lap and preparing to pumice it.
“I was getting ready to travel there again, I do hope everything there is alright.”
She scrubbed for a few more moments and then surprised me.
“My parents are very old- 74 and 75. They stay with my niece, who’s 9. They’re ok, but the water- it was up to here.” She lifted up the hand with the pumice stone to her eyes. “My family is from a western province. The typhoon is in the south.”
“I’m glad they’re ok.”
Another employee- who went home to deliver a baby just a few months ago, walked through quietly on her way to another part of the salon. Jane gestured to her subtly.
“Atay is not ok. Her family is from Samar. She can’t reach them.”
Atay headed back through the pedicure room, her face flat. I wondered where her baby was. I bet she was wondering too.
I’ve never had a pedicure that made me cry before. I think Jane could probably say the same. She scrubbed away, her eyes welling with tears that she wiped away with the back of her hand before they could spill over.
“It’s hard,” she said quietly. “You save and save small small amounts. And then your house is gone- it’s destroyed.”
Typhoon Haiyan was three times stronger than Hurricane Katrina, and in some areas of the Philippines, people were still living in tents- refugees from last month’s major earthquake. 10,000 people are estimated to have died in one region alone- and as aid agencies are struggling to respond, debris clogs the streets and bodies float in the waterways.
Allah sent Islam as a mercy to mankind, and Muslims are instructed to have mercy- not only for other Muslims, but for all of mankind.
There are an armload of places and worthy causes that need help right now, and trying to put the Philippines in some sort of tragedy competition is not the point. Shaitaan would like you to believe that you can only help one people (Muslim vs. Non), or one place (Syria vs. Palestine) at a time. The truth is though, there’s no limit to how many people, how many times, or in how many places you can help. However much you help, Allah will reward you. However much Allah rewards you, your sins will be erased and your rank will be raised in the Aakhira.
Whether you help with a dollar or a dua, please help.
“Asalaamualaikum please don’t think dat i am belittling your problems but i want to kill myself but i cant as it is prohibited i feel i am accumulating sins day by day isn’t it better for me to die i am not satisfied with my life i don’t want to do engineering but for my parents sake i have to and i am not able to observe completely rules of hijab in the college i wanno cry and shriek dat i cant carry on anymore with this life which i am almost sure will lead me to hell. -Loser”
AssalamuAlaikum Sister, please note that I refuse to call you a Loser. 🙂 Now bear with me as I go off on a bit of a tangent.
Shaitaan is possibly millions of years old and pretty damn sneaky. His goal, at the end of the day, is to get as many of us into hell with him as possible, and one of the ways that he does this is using the myth of what I call “Muslim Perfection.”
The idea is pretty simple. Shaitaan says:
Do it all perfectly or just stop, because you’re embarrassing yourself.
A person as horrible as you are has no chance of getting into Jannah.
In fact, just kill yourself now. At least it will be over sooner.
His message is straightforward and actually very insidious. People all over the world actually give up trying to be better Muslims because they fall short of their own expectations for how effortless, euphoric, and impeccable their Islam should be. Shaitaan wants you to believe that there are naturally religious people, and then there’s everybody else. And the reason why you are having a hard time is because you aren’t one of the beautiful people.
Some people he tricks, others- like Imam Sufyaan ath-Thawri- saw through this cheap trick and insisted on praying at night for twenty years even though he wasn’t “feeling it.”
Imagine if, one day- he had just thrown his hands up and said “You know what? I’m not cut out for this, I’ve been praying for twenty years and I’ve yet to find this whole peace and contentment with my salah. What’s the point. I’m never going to get it right…”
Shaitaan is trying to convince you that because your Islam is less than perfect, you’re a failure who should give up already. In reality, everyone is a sinner and everyone struggles. The best people aren’t those who sin, but those whose sins cause them to try even harder and draw even closer to Allah next time. For some people, major sins can be major set-backs. For others, they are life-changing events that mark the end of heedlessness and the beginning of seeking Allah’s pleasure.
Every Muslim is a combination of successes and failures when it comes to their religious practice. So as a sinner, you’re in great company! Everyone, everywhere, accumulates sin on a daily basis, and if everyone like you just killed themselves, we’d all be dead. 🙂 Join the club sister. We’re over 6 billion strong!
O My servants, you sin by night and by day, and I forgive all sins, so seek forgiveness of Me and I shall forgive you.
Shaitaan wants you to think that the passing grade for this test is 100% and failure is everything else. But if you believe him, then you’re buying into an insult to Allah. How? Allah is The Most Merciful, Most Forgiving- Most Loving, Most Gracious, Most Kind- He alone has attained perfection and as The All-Knowing, He knows how and what we’re made of- so by what crazy logic would He mercilessly penalize us for not reaching a standard that He would best know that we could never attain?
Shaitaan might add at this point: well, ok, Allah is the Best. But you can’t think that your sorry butt will get into Jannah with *that* old sack of a soul. Have you seen the state of your nafs? Brother, it is bad.
If you think you’re too bad for Allah to forgive, then you’re grossly underestimating Allah’s capacity for forgiveness. You’re implying that your capacity to sin is even greater than Allah’s capacity to forgive. Please, don’t insult God. They don’t call Him Al-Rahman for nothing.
On the authority of Anas (may Allah be pleased with him), who said:I heard the Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) say: Allah the Almighty said:
O son of Adam, so long as you call upon Me and ask of Me, I shall forgive you for what you have done, and I shall not mind.O son of Adam, were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky and were you then to ask forgiveness of Me, I would forgive you.O son of Adam, were you to come to Me with sins nearly as great as the earth and were you then to face Me, ascribing no partner to Me, I would bring you forgiveness nearly as great at it.
Related by at-Tirmidhi (also by Ahmad ibn Hanbal). Its chain of authorities is sound.
Whenever I read that Hadith, it puts a certain picture in my head, and in my primitive photoshop imagination, it looks like this:
Repentance for a mountain of sins is equal to a mountain of blessings. So, the greater the sin you’ve committed, the greater the reward for seeking forgiveness. Knowing that this is how Allah works helps us appreciate how truly generous Allah is in His forgiveness- instead of seeking forgiveness on a level -10 sin and only being returned to a clean slate with 0, we seek forgiveness on a level -10 and in response are given a +10 in its place. AllahuAkbar.
So yes, Shaitaan wants you to forget that Allah is the Greatest- even in His capacity to forgive those who sincerely ask it. He wants you to think that you only have two choices; perfection or failure, and since perfection ain’t gonna happen, what option does Shaitaan leave you? Killing yourself and getting it over with already. But, there’s a third option that Shaitaan doesn’t want you to forget about it:
Between perfection and failure lies your only real choice: Fight.
Fight shaitaan’s insistence upon your failure, fight your own soul’s inclination to sin, fight your own weaknesses and no matter how hard you’ve been hit or how long you’ve been laying on the ground- get up and keep fighting. Fight shaitaan as hard as he’s fighting you, as long as he’s fighting you, and don’t stop fighting him until the Angel of Death draws your soul gently away from your body and into the safety of your grave, spacious and fragrant with the winds of Jannah, where you can finally relax a little, reassured and kept company by your good deeds until Allah raises you on Qiyama.
Just because your heart is aching right now, and you’re locked in the seemingly endless cycle of sin, regret, and self-reproach doesn’t mean you’re a lost cause. It’s actually good news, and here’s why. The human heart (or soul, or nafs) has three settings according to the Qur’an.
The Default Setting: Nafs al-Amarra bis Su’
The lowest level is the Nafs al-Amarra bis Su’ or the soul that is inclined to evil, and a majority of humankind lives in this guiltless, no-regrets, live for the moment mode. This seems to be the default setting for the modern nafs as well as most pop music.
And I do not free myself from blame. Indeed the human self is inclined to evil, except when my Lord bestows His Mercy (upon whom He wills). Indeed my Lord is Forgiving, Merciful.” (Surah Yusuf: 53)
Knowing that it’s possible to have varying levels of soundness to your heart/nafs- Muslims don’t rely on the soundness of their heart to provide a compass to morality. It is not your heart’s job to point you towards what’s right, it only points you towards what it wants. So in a sense, you don’t follow your heart as much as your heart follows you.
Have you seen the one who takes as god his own desire? Then would you be responsible for him? Surah Al Furqan: 43
The Medium Setting: Nafs al-Lawwama
“I do call to witness the Resurrection Day. And I do call to witness the self-reproaching Soul.” Surah Al-Qiyamah: 1-2
This is a soul that battles with its desires, that commits sin and then reproaches itself and tries harder next time. It has awareness of its shortcomings, but despite its imperfections, it hasn’t given up. Your guilt and self-reproach about the shortcomings in your Islamic practice are evidence of having made progress on your spiritual journey. The bad news is though, is that Shaitaan is trying to knock you down a notch so that instead of trying harder, you just stop trying altogether- whether because you’ve killed yourself, or because you’ve decided that you’re a hypocrite and you’ve written off as Muslim.
Alhamdulillah though, Allah has good news for the Reproaching Soul.
“And hasten to forgiveness from your Lord and a garden as wide as the heavens and earth, prepared for the righteous- Who spend [in the cause of Allah ] during ease and hardship and who restrain anger and who pardon the people – and Allah loves the doers of good; And those who, when they commit an immorality or wrong themselves [by transgression], remember Allah and seek forgiveness for their sins – and who can forgive sins except Allah ? – and [who] do not persist in what they have done while they know.” Qur’an 3:133-135
The very fact that you are aware of your shortcomings, even pained by them- is reassuring proof that you have a Nafs al-Lawwama. If you didn’t care, didn’t want to care, and didn’t even want to hear about why you should try to give a care- well, that would be worse. Sure, you’d probably be happier and more “at peace with your self,” as many modern proponents of self-worship would say, but you’d actually be wallowing in heedlessness.
The Highest setting: Nafs al-Mutma’inna
“O you satisfied soul. Return to your Lord pleased with yourself and pleasing to Him. Enter among My servants. And enter My paradise.” (Surah Al-Fajr: 27-30)
You might not be here yet, but that’s ok. You can still strive to accomplish this. The Contented Soul, or the Satisfied Soul, is the highest setting for your heart. It is a place of happiness, peace, acceptance, and sweetness of faith. It takes hard work to get there, and Allah has good tidings for the Contented Soul but get this- not even the Contented Soul is a perfect soul. It’s just a very happy one, and very close to Allah.
So, in a nutshell:
No one is perfect except Allah
You’re not the only one accumulating sin every day that you’re alive
The difference between a good Muslim and a bad Muslim is not that one sins and one doesn’t- it’s that one seeks forgiveness & tries harder, and one doesn’t.
Shaitaan’s the one trying to trick you into thinking you’re a failure
Believing him is the only way to lose
Fighting him is the only way to win
There’s one more thing that we need to remind you of:
On no soul does Allah place a burden greater than it can bear.
That means that this situation- where you’re stuck in a major you don’t like, being prevented from doing hijab, and being teased by Shaitaan that nothing you do will ever be good enough to get you into Jannah- you can overcome this. You can succeed. You can find a way- either out or through- that is pleasing to Allah and perhaps even terribly frustrating to Shaitaan.
There is nothing coming that you can’t handle, not because you’re great, but because Allah is the Greatest. He knows what you’re capable of, and He promised your challenges would never exceed your strengths. Allah sets us up for growth, not failure. And Allah never, ever breaks His promises.
Shaitaan, on the other hand, has been lying to you. He’s saying that anyone who’s struggling with deen shouldn’t even bother to try, whereas Allah gives double the normal reward to those who have difficulty reading Qu’ran. The Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him said “The magnitude of the reward goes along with the magnitude of the affliction.” (Tirmidhi)
The more you’re afflicted now- whether it be with stress, illness, financial difficulties, emotional turmoil- the more you will be rewarded, and the fact that you’re struggling right now isn’t a sign that you should just give up and kill yourself, it’s an invitation from Allah to come closer to Him.
May Allah make it easy for you to recognise and spiritually drop-kick the suggestions of Shaitaan, even when they come disguised in the form of avoiding hell. May Allah make His religion easy for you, and increase you in faith, and surround you with people who lift you up and help you draw nearer to Allah is this world and the next. Ameen.
Once upon a time, my sister Owl used to blog, so if I needed to share an update about her, I could just link her post. However, it’s been a while since she has, and I think her blog may no longer be public access, so I just have to update here.
Owlie-bird has a brain aneurysm.
I know, I had the same reaction. I was like “How rude! Being the sickie is my job!” We’ve always been competitive, and now she’s just upped the game on me.
She’s copying me, I just know it. She’s been mimicking most of the same weird symptoms and ailments I’ve had over the years- I have scoliosis, she has scoliosis. I have fibromyalgia, she has fibromyalgia- and it’s quite likely that she’ll also receive a diagnosis for the same set of syndromes that I’ve got as well- POTS and Ehlers Danlos.
The brain aneurysm may be linked to vascular-type Ehlers Danlos sydrome, and although I’m tempted to try to take my title of Reigning Sickie back, I have no intention of developing an aneurysm for it. Sudden death isn’t my style. I’m more of the slow & steady tortoise type, and here she is being all impetuous hare.
She’s weighing surgical intervention options, and duas are greatly appreciated.
Who knows, maybe we’re racing for Jannah. May the best sickie win.
Aaaaaand now that I’m out I can’t go back in again, and overwhelmingly I am getting asked one question from the people who know me in real life:
How come I didn’t know you were sick?!
Well, it’s not really a talking point for most of my day.
Welcome to my office, I have chronic disease!
Nice day isn’t it? Yes, especially for tachycardia!
Would you like some coffee? It won’t make you sick. Unlike me, who’s totally sick. And maybe even DYING! Cream and sugar?
Unless you’re my cardiologist, neurologist, endocrinologist, orthopedic surgeon or physiotherapist, there’s a good chance that I have no reason to keep you actively and intricately informed of how I’m feeling.
The exception to this is my husband, who hears way more about how I’m feeling than he probably ever wanted to. (My toes hurt! They want a cookie!)
You may also be the victim of limited observational data- you only see me when I’m fit to be seen. You don’t see me sleeping off pain for hours at home. You see me when I’m feeling good, because if I wasn’t feeling good then you wouldn’t be seeing me.
I don’t define myself by my illness. I have more in my life going for me than being sick. I have work, kids, and a charming, obnoxious, supportive husband. I have places to go, things to do, and topics of conversation other than chronic illness- like Khalid, who yesterday said to me, “Momma, are babies toothless mammals?”
“Yes, I suppose they are,” I tentatively replied.
“But I was born with teeth,” Khalid said.
“No dear, you weren’t. You didn’t have any teeth when you were born either.”
He seemed disappointed. Poor toothless mammal.
To talk exclusively, or even primarily about how sick I feel for the day would not only make me a total downer to hang out with, it would also be self-centeredly depressing. I deal with pain all day, the last thing I want to do is talk about it all the time too. I rather enjoy having normal friendships, normal conversations, and normal people around me who talk about normal things.
My sickness is a bit like the news- if it’s relevant or urgent you might want to know. But if you leave it running in the background then people just tend to tune it out. That doesn’t mean I’m not willing to talk about it, provided there’s something you’d like to know and it adds value to your day somehow.
So yes, you may have known me for the past three or four years and I may never have mentioned that I’m sick, but I humbly hope there is more to me than just my status as a chronically ill person, and you’ll still be my friend if I talk about things other than chronic pain and my favorite new heart medication.
There aren’t enough characters in the title limit to fully express how many Alhamdulillahs I would like to put in the title, so I have to settle for one.
So, Alhamdulillah, my neurologist in Chicago (who I visit this last week) has helped me clarify what exactly’s going on with my body. To make a long story short, I do have muscle atrophy, but Alhamdulillah- it’s not from unspecified myopathy- it’s from my brain!
Yes, this is actually a better prognosis than before. See, before I was told that my muscles were atrophying because there was an unknown problem with my muscles.
Now, it turns out that my muscles are atrophying because my brain is not communicating with them properly, and the reason for this is because I have:
I’ve leave you to the googles to figure it out. Neither are curable, both can be severely debilitating but guess what- at least they’re both known disorders! And, either one of which can be life-threatening due to complications, but neither are inevitably terminal in and of themselves! Alhamdulillah.
Did I say Alhamdulillah already? Alhamdulillah.
To be frank, this doesn’t change much in terms of me maybe or maybe not dying. Just in case you were hoping I’d be checking out soon and leaving my impressive bottle cap collection up for dibs. Or, if you were hoping I’d be magically cured. Having been to the neurology specialist in the US and been extensively poked, prodded, tested, and even strapped to a table that tilted like a carnival ride, I have the same medical issues that I left with, but with one important distinction. I’ve been upgraded from unknown and possibly terminal, to just chronic and possibly life threatening.
Autism has its pros and cons- and boy does it ever have its cons- but SubhanAllah, it really has its pros. Khalid doesn’t just like dinosaurs, he likes reading about them, and he doesn’t just read stories, he reads encyclopedias. And he’s not just reading encyclopedias, he is memorizing them- word for word, page by page, and he’s on his fourth dinosaur encyclopedia now.
Roar.
If you ask him about the Camarasaurus, he won’t just tell you it had four legs and went roar. It was a four legged herbivore with a bony crest on its head, and it was between 15 and 23 meters long. It had hollow vertebrae and was one of the larger sauropods.
And it went roar.
And here’s a picture.
And it was also known as the morosaurus.
So when Khalid starts getting interested in something, he doesn’t just dip his feet into the water, he dives in-head first, and forgets that there are any other things in the world that could ever be as interesting. When he was into maps, he would wake up in the morning and read the Dubai Street Atlas. He would carry it to and from school, and often kept mini-maps in his backpack. To this day, he can still give me road directions off the top of his head, and will often point out when I’m taking a wrong exit. MashaAllah, he doesn’t need a GPS. He is a GPS.
He is also a walking dinosaur encyclopedia, and now, InshaAllah, I hope he’ll become a walking Qur’an. Khalid immersed himself in the waters of Qur’an on the iPhone shortly after trains, and slightly before dinosaurs. He memorized a good half of Juz ‘Amma on his own and without us really knowing. We didn’t realize how many surahs he knew until we heard him driving trains up and down the hallway and reciting to himself, “Wal ‘adiyati dhub-haa! Fal moori’yaati qad-haa, Fal mughiraati sub-haa!”
Even now he surprises us- the other day I was in the kitchen cooking and randomly reciting Qur’an, and when I paused to make a distinction between the black pepper and the coriander powder in my hands- he called out the next verse for me while passing up the hall. It was in Surah An-Nabaa, which he already knew, MashaAllah, MashaAllah, MashaAllah.
And now, Alhamdulillah- with me sitting halfway across the world in Chicago and HF managing all three kids with the help of his parents, Khalid and Iman have started Qur’an class, and I am tremendously excited about what will be coming next. Of course, Alhamdulillah, I’m excited for Iman too- she’s a bright little star and she can carry a tune and stay on pitch like nobody’s business. But it’s Khalid- my little memorization machine, that I’m especially excited about. I could actually, really, InshaAllah, possibly even maybe become the mother of a haafiz.
It was narrated from Ali ibn Abu Talib (May Allah Be Pleased With Him) that the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) said : “If anyone recites the Qur’an, learns it by heart, declares what is lawful in it to be lawful and what is unlawful in it to be unlawful, Allah will bring him into Paradise and make him the intercessor for ten of his family all of whom have deserved Hell.” [Al-Tirmidhi 653]
I know we’re still a long way off from memorizing the entire Qur’an, but I’m excited. For Khalid, this could be an amazing use of his autism pros (laser-like focus, amazing memorization) and for me, this could be the next cool goal in my legacy project. Did I forget to capitalize that? My Legacy. There. If Khalid memorizes the Qur’an and keeps the halal halal and the haram haram, he can give his lil ole momma a leg up into Jannah, InshaAllah.
So duas would be nice, but don’t limit them to Khalid only. Include Iman in them too, because the only thing better than one righteous hafiz is two. 😉
It was a strange angle for my head to be tilted at, cocked severely to the right and resting uneasily against the cabin window. I woke up because I smelled eggs. The passenger to my left was still asleep. She was a designer for a major retailer. She said you could put Hello Kitty on a pink garbage bag and it would sell. She’s right.
She fell asleep immediately after the flight took off. It was 2am Dubai time, and by my hasty calculations, I had to stay awake for only two and a half more hours before it would be time for Fajr, and then I could sleep. Boy was I wrong. And now I’m surrounded by old ladies.
They’re in varying degrees of old and in need of wheelchair assistance, and we’re all waiting in the special assistance lounge of Heathrow Airport. The western women, invariably, have short white hair, glasses, and cardigans. The Asian ladies have their little old heads covered. The African ladies are seated together in a sparkly, vibrantly-colored group. And then there’s me- a 33 year old “white” woman in a black abaya and a flowery purple scarf. They’re eyeing me curiously.
My calculations were totally off. I did wudu and took a seat, waiting for my two and a half hours to pass before I could pray and get some sleep. I turned on my tiny TV and watched Monsters University. The movie finished and I looked out the window. It was still dark, and in the cloudless sky somewhere over the Arabian peninsula, the big-dipper sparkled. Bright, close, and undimmed by light pollution, it was a beautifully clear reminder of nights outside of my grandmother’s remote house in southern Indiana.
She’s eighty-eight now, and 115 pounds. She is afraid of climbing stairs because the last time she lost her balance she fractured her hip. I haven’t seen her for six years, and it’s frustrating to me that I should be coming so close- all the way to Chicago- only to still be so far. She’s living in the warm, safe care of my aunt in Arizona, hundreds of miles and dollars out of my budget.
My health insurance doesn’t cover the US, so this visit to Chicago to see a neurology specialist will be thousands of dollars out of pocket. Allah is the Best of Providers.
He is also the Best of Planners. Right when my hands starting shaking, and my head started feeling heavier than usual, and HF and I started wondering where the money to fly out and see a doctor would come from- it came. Allah caused an old, nearly forgotten debt to be repaid, and that’s where this trip is from: Allah.
There are a few old men here too, but most of them are just accompanying their wives. There’s even a wheelchair assistant- an employee of Heathrow Airport- that looks like he should be the one being pushed. I wonder how old he is, and if he’s the one who pushes me to the terminal, will he wonder why someone half his age isn’t just walking there?
I catch people looking at me curiously, and the 2.0 in me smiles back, encouraging them to approach. No one has so far, and my guess is that they think I’m an Arab. So the white women keep a distance, the Pakistani women don’t include me in the polite small-talk, and the one real Arab here asked me a question in Arabic earlier that I couldn’t respond to. Sorry, I’m a fake.
Well, I’m not actually. I’m a genuinely tired, shaky, and mobility-challenged person, but I tend to be in denial sometimes, and it doesn’t help that I still look pretty good.
I assume I look pretty good, but my eyes are tired, my scarf feels sideways, and I only managed to sleep for an hour before I was woken by the smell of food and the clatter of the air-crew preparing breakfast in the airplane’s galley. I opened my eyes and turned my severely cocked head to see that the black, star-strewn sky was bordered with a bright-red glow that hinted at a sharp golden line at the very edge of the horizon. It was finally Fajr, six hours into the flight and four hours later than I had planned for.
I did wudu four times for that one prayer. After the first movie finished I stretched, waited, stared out of the window, my sleep-deprived brain searching for a reason why it was still dark. It came up with the original Xcom UFO, where your job was the save the world from an alien invasion. The same world turned before you in VGA-glorious rotation on its axis, turning from night to day and night again. I knew I was flying from the right side of the world to the left, but I couldn’t remember whether I would be flying with the light or flying against it.
I turned on another cartoon. Epic. It wasn’t Epic. It was a mis-labeled attempt to pass 104 more minutes waiting and wondering why it was still dark. I got up for a stretch. I used the bathroom. I did wudu again.
The sink was tiny. The taps were tiny. But the water pressure was tremendous- and the tiny stream of water was blasted into a spray that wet everything in the bathroom except my hands. I did wudu as best as I could, washing my hands, mouth, face, arms, abaya, purse and shoes. Then I did my best to paper-towel things dry before going back to my seat to wait again for Fajr.
I wish my kids were here. When the plane began to descend over London, there was no one for me to share the wonder with. We were preparing to land over a solid terrain composed entirely of clouds, except for where clusters of tall building had broken through, their lights glittering and flashing above a grey ocean. It was the famous London fog, and when the plane began slowing to hit the runway, it was doing so in zero visibility. The sky above the fog was crystal-clear, but within the fog it was non-existent. We had no sky. From where I sat, the plane barely even had wings.
I want to remember these things so I can tell Khalid, Iman and Musfira about them. There were stars- distant white diamonds in a perfectly black sky- no clouds, no lights, no other planes. Then there were the cities, their densely packed lights looking like embers on the dark background of Iraq. I checked the map, that was Iraq.
I was so grateful to be awake. I was afraid that I would miss Fajr, and while I have missed hundreds of Fajr prayers before, most of them were before my hands started to shake. Once laziness made my eyelids heavy, but urgency has made them light and quick to open for prayers now. I was so relieved to have been woken up that I was actually happy to get up and do wudu again- fourth time the charm.
I happily prayed and then turned to watch the horizon glow, just waiting to watch the sun rise.
Except it didn’t rise, becase we were flying away from the dawn and if we had been going any faster it would never have caught up. We would have flown endlessly around the world being chased by day, hiding in perpetual dark, sharing aisles and armrests but refusing each other identities or eye contact until the fuel ran out and the plane crashed and we all died and went back to Allah where we came from.
Iman and I have made a pact- that if she cannot find me, she will come looking for me in Jannah. But if I cannot find her, I will come looking for her in Jannah. It’s a deal. Khalid and I have a deal as well, but it involves him making sure that the hamster has food and water, and he gets dinosaur and train pajamas from the US. Also, Iman wants a Chinese parasol.
I’m now going to be moved from the wheelchair lounge to the boarding gate, and the staff member who came looking for his “disabled” passenger looked at me and said, “Oh, Miss Abez? We have a young lady here. Practically a girl… your limousine is here.”
So it’s time for me to go now. But here I am, sitting halfway across the world, looking forward to returning home before arriving at my destination.
And Allah is the Best of Planners.
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
I just finished six hours of class- possibly the best class I’ve ever taken- called The Unfolding Dream with Shaykh Sajid Umar. It would not be correct to say it is the Tafseer of Surah Yusuf- because Tafseer only scratches the surface. Six hours… and we’ve covered thirteen ayas. I came to class with five hours of sleep and wasn’t in danger of falling asleep at any point. I have had such an amazing, spiritually refreshing, and emotionally satisfying day that I cannot remember for the life of me why I only attend classes like this once a year.
I tell myself it’s because I work and have three children, but the truth is that my heart gets complacent and makes excuses to not be challenged, polished, or re-stoked when the spiritual hearth grows cold. It’s not life’s fault I stay away from classes, it’s mine.
Shaykh Sajid Umar is a very funny, very interesting, and very smiley Imam from Zimbabwe who’s managing to keep people awake, engaged, and enthused about things they never knew they could be enthused about. I learned the difference between Makki and Madani surahs today, and I realized most of my favorites are Makki, and I figured out why. Alhamdulillah.
I’ve been live-tweeting the class all day, so if you’re interested in some of the gems, follow me on twitter @zebasez. If you’re in Dubai and have even half a chance of making it to Day 2 at the Islah Center at 9 am tomorrow- try. It’s well worth the effort.
May Allah reward the people at the Kalemah Center and Shaykh Sajid Umar for making this happen, and of course- all praise if for Allah who blesses us with the sweetness of Iman and knowledge when we seek it. 🙂
RB: The kids have really messed up the living room walls. I think there’s even a game of tic-tac-toe behind that sofa…
LB: Eh- You could be dying, why should you care about what the house looks like?
RB: Just because I could be dying doesn’t mean I need to die in squalor.
LB: You’ll be dead, how will you know if it’s squalor?
RB: That’s a good point. But if people come to give condolences they might see that tic-tac-toe game.
LB: And?
RB: They’ll wonder who won. I want to paint the living room.
LB: Then I hope you like zig-zags because your hands have been shaking non-stop since late August.
RB: I know right! All my drinks are shakes, haha
LB: Oh oh! And the manual toothbrush is now automatically sonic, HA!
RB: And remember, when we went out for dinner with HF, he told me to just try to hold the salt shaker still, because that would do a better job of getting the salt out.
LB: He’s horrible isn’t he.
RB: Oh yes, and awesome. There are some other upsides to the shaking hands by the way.
LB: Oh?
RB: Yes, all of our phone videos now come with DRAMATIC BACKGROUND TREMORS for EXTRA REALISM. Like the Blair Witch Project.
LB: Does anyone still remember the Blair Witch Project?
RB: I do, but we never saw it. We just remember the hype, and poorly made videos of frightened people with runny noses. I tell you, if I was running for my life the last thing I’d think of would be starting a vlog.
LB: Says the woman who’s dying on her blog.
RB: Oi! I’m not dying!
LB: Suit yourself.
RB: I am going to paint the living room!
LB: I hope you like squiggles.
RB: Musfira does. Maybe we’ll paint it together. 🙂
If you hate Barney (you know you do) and you wish there were intelligent, adorable, totally halal, and well-written cartoons for children that also happened to be ISLAMIC!!! (talk about unrealistic expectations, hunh?) then I have bad news for you:
There are only five days left for the Misri Bunch kickstarter campaign to find Season 2 of their Names of Allah series.
The Misri bunch is:
a sweet balance of cute & entertaining
not an insult to your child’s intelligence
the simple presentation of complex concepts that children learn and remember easily
If your kids haven’t seen this, they’re missing out.
And if season 2 doesn’t happen, we’re all missing out.
All of season1 is on You Tube, and well worth the watch. Season 2 needs funding for development, so please, please, PLEASE donate to their kickstarter and give a gift to all Muslim kids with internet access. Maybe even yours.
So HF was in a fender-bender today. He was stopped at a signal and someone ran into the back of his car hard enough to crash his into the next stopped car. Alhamdulillah, he’s alright and as he cheerfully mentioned: the car needed new bumpers anyway. It’s still a little unsettling to me though, that even though I’m the one all dramatically falling to bits and spending lots of my time contemplating death, that there’s no real warning for any of us. I could live with myopathy until I’m 93. Or HF could die healthy on his way to work tomorrow. It’s all in Allah’s hands. SubhanAllah.
Alhamdulillah!!! I’m going to be publishing my first book!
Given the last ten or so years of my blogging history, you’ll be surprised to hear it isn’t actually full of mortal wounds, kids stories, and personal reflections. It’s actually a children’s book, and I’m very excited.
The reason why I’m so excited is that the story is part of My Legacy. Yes, I’ve made it a proper noun for emphasis. For more information, see the new My Legacy tab on the top of the page. The way I see it, if I am not around to have important conversations with my children later, that doesn’t mean that I can’t script them now. So I’ve started writing stories for children, specifically, mine. And yours might enjoy them too.
I want to have at least one published story for Khalid, Iman, and Musfira. Iman’s has been accepted. Khalid’s was rejected, but the very kind publishers said they’d give it another look-over to see if reviewing it one more time will make it seaworthy. Musfira’s has been imagined but not yet completed, but hey, well begun is half done!
I’ve asked the publisher if they can actually illustrate the books to look like my kids, because if I’m not there, I want the kids to be able to see themselves still talking to me. I know, it’s kind of sappy- maybe even melodramatic, but when I think about passing away, the thing that tears at my heart most is not being away from my husband (sorry HF), it’s actually the thought of my children looking for their mother and not being able to find her. Of Iman seeking a cuddle and finding my empty room. Of Musfira crying for me and being hurt and confused why I’m not coming for her. Of Khalid panicking because I’ve disappeared and he can’t understand where I’ve gone.
If you think that’s bad (gee, look who’s crying again) the absolutely, positively worst thing I can think of is my children finding out that I’ve “gone back to Allah,” and then resenting Allah for having stolen their mother. My worst case scenario is my death pushing my children away from Islam, because as sad as I am to face leaving them in this life, that’s still nothing compared to the thought of any of my children turning away from Allah. So the stories serve a dual purpose, InshaAllah- of creating memories for my children in case I’m not there to make them, and of teaching my children about Allah in a way that reminds them of me positively (happy stories) versus negative (Allah took momma away).
But, back to being cheerful- Alhamdulillah! My first story has been accepted and I’m very excited. I’m fairly sure that if I hadn’t been Not-Dying-Yet, I wouldn’t have had the urgency to overcome my fear of submitting anything to a publisher. I would be too scared of being rejected to even try. But I did it, and they said yes. And now I’m going to do a little happy dance.
I’ll let you know when it’s published, InshaAllah. In the mean time, check out Greenbird Books, they have lots of really adorable Islamic stories for kids. And soon, InshaAllah, they’ll have mine too. 🙂
At nine in the morning, Khalid came and asked if he could borrow my phone.
I told him yes, but he HAD to wake me up at 9:40, because I had a doctor’s appointment to get to. I have bronchitis so I’ve been stealing some extra snoozes in the morning.
Khalid agreed, took my phone, and then left.
What felt like five seconds later, he came back and said, “Momma, wake up! It’s 9:40 am!”
I opened my eyes groggily and said, “Khalid, I don’t think it’s 9:40 yet, can you please check again?”
Khalid studied the wall clock for a moment and said “Oh, sorry- it’s 9:21.”
“Come back in twenty minutes please, Khalid.”
“Okay!” he chirped, and then skipped out of my room.
Ten minutes later I was still awake and figured that staying in bed any longer was pointless, so I got up. I went into the living room to relieve Khalid of alarm clock duty and this is what I saw:
Khalid- stock still, sitting on the sofa, intently staring.
At the clock.
Watching the minute hand.
Waiting for 9:40.
“Khalid! Have you been staring at the clock since nine???’
Khalid turned and blinked a few times, thinking. Then he simply said, “Yes.”
I was so touched, and so shocked, and so humbled by the methodical devotion required to stare at a clock for thirty minutes that I smothered him in kisses. He seemed embarrassed but tolerated my affection briefly, then breaking free to leave and play with his dinosaurs.
SubhanAllah, it’s times like this that make me marvel at how amazing a little person he is, and how grateful I am to Allah for making him that way. Whether it’s because of autism or in spite of it, Allah has blessed us both. AllahuAkbar.
So the funny thing about having unspecified myopathy is that no one says I’m dying, but no one says I’m not either. Yes, the muscles in my body are atrophying, and yes you need muscles to do things like pump blood and breathe, but because I haven’t developed any serious heart or lung complications yet, we’ll stay on the safe side and just say I’m getting weak-er, but not necessarily dead-er. Let us call it: not-dying-yet
It can be awkward sometimes, this whole not-dying-yet thing, especially when meeting new people. I feel like I need to somehow warn them before they emotionally invest enough for this to sadden them. Otherwise this is what happens:
Me: Hello new friend, my name is Abez, and I love you!
New Friend: I love you too! Let’s hang out tomorrow, and next year too!
Me: Sorry, but I’m sort of dying but not really dying because my muscles are dying but my heart and my lungs aren’t yet dying but there’s no guarantee that they won’t at any time so I guess you could say that I’m not dying yet, though I could be but really aren’t we all?
(awkward silence) (pity) (shock)
Versus:
Me: Hello new friend, my name is Abez and the muscles in my body are dying!
New Friend: Sorry to hear that but pleased to meet you, Abez!
*firm handshakes for all*
I have a good friend (I’m not sure if she has the time to read my blog anymore) who I’ve known for around six years now. When I casually told her I had been diagnosed with myopathy and that there wasn’t much that could be done, she was upset. And later she called me and apologized. I asked her what she was apologizing for. She said she felt stupid- I was the one who was sick, but she was the one needing to be reassured that everything was going to be ok.
I didn’t think that she needed to apologize at all, because I’ve known for over a year that I’ve had myopathy, and even longer that something wasn’t right with the way my body was working. I’ve had almost ten years to get my head around being sick, but she got ambushed with incurable, progressive, muscle atrophy one lazy afternoon after tea and cookies. I should have prepared her better, but I’m not sure how. A catchy song perhaps?
Hey, I just met you,
And this is crazy!
My arms are dying,
So hold my baby!
Sometimes I’m tempted to tell random strangers I have myopathy. When I use my disabled parking permit, sometimes people glare at me. I look fine- slow, but fine. One lady in the hospital parking lot tried to stare me down last week. I was in a hurry and didn’t want to confront her in front of Iman, so I avoided eye contact and just moved forward. But I really do want to tell people who stare that the reason my housekeeper is carrying my toddler is not because I don’t care or don’t love her, it’s because carrying her can make my arms hurt for hours, or I could lose my balance and fall, hurting us both.
The reason why I don’t pop up like a piece of socialite toast and help the hostess in the kitchen at dinners (like I conscientiously used to) is because my body hurts, my legs are weak, and all your guest-size platters of food are too heavy. The reason why my husband changes diapers and takes kids to the bathroom even at a guest’s house is not because he’s whipped, it’s because he’s an amazing, hands-on, loving father who’s doing his best to keep my pain level to a minimum.
Well, I guess they do now. Someone get this on Amazon, Momma needs a new mobility scooter! With racing stripes!
And it is a pain. It’s a deep down ache, starting from your bones and spreading uniformly throughout your flabby, shaky muscle. It doesn’t come in waves, it floods and peaks and stagnates for hours, and sometimes all you can do is sleep it off or sit it out. It makes it hard to be patient, hard to speak gently, and hard to suffer the inconsiderate acts of very considerate people who don’t actually know how much you’re hurting because you haven’t told them your limbs are dying. Because how are you suppose do even do that when you’ve only just met them? It’s not like they make a t-shirt for that.
So yeah. It’s weird, dying. But not yet. Technically we’re all dying, the only difference is that some of us get pop-up reminders about our appointment with God. I kinda like this new system- my legs hurt, so I make dua. My arms hurt while making dua, and it makes me make more dua. I’m praying more, stressing less, budgeting my energy and prioritizing my life.
I once had too many things on my plate, but I’m passing some of those things off to other people and I hope, InshaAllah, that I can leave nothing on it but my family, my children, my faith, and my health. Also, my crazy attempts to cram as much legacy-building for the shameless pursuit of sadqa-jaariya before I meet Allah.
That’s another funny thing about having unspecified myopathy- I don’t know if I have the time to be subtle about what I’m looking for, so I will put it bluntly: Read this poem I wrote way back in 2004 after being told (mistakenly) that my pain was Trigeminal Neuralgia. If this blog or this poem makes you grateful to Allah, or strengthens your resolve in current difficulties, or even makes you say a single MashaAllah (for the sake of saying it) I’ve earned a few more blessings. And I need me some blessings. So start reading, cuz momma needs a new castle in Jannah.
With racing stripes.
By Abez, The End.
There There is a nagging gnawing on the inside of my self It’s the feeling of my body giving up before its time. In the quiet twilight hours between one prayer and another Once I prayed for health Now I pray for peace.
There is a writhing moaning in the deepness of my heart It’s the devil down within me that wants me to complain. But I have built a fortress with the patience of my faith And I will shelter there However harsh the pain.
There is a desperate longing in the reach of my embrace For life and love and happiness and gentle many years But I shall fold my arms around the comfort of my prayer And I may often cry But never bitter tears.
And Khalid hit a new one this week, all by himself. He wrote, directed, and narrated his first independent documentary film. And he did it on my phone without telling me, and it almost got deleted because I had no idea what it was. But here it is. Khalid’s first documentary ever. Transcript available in youtube description.
If you’re here from my article on Muslim Matters and are looking for further maternal wisdom, then please take note: this update has no purpose other than the documentation of the intolerable cuteness that is my 2.1 year old Musfira. You have been duly warned.
As expected of a third child, Musfira is louder, faster, and more intense than the siblings who came before her. You’d think that having raised two adorable savages before her that I would be harder to surprise and awe, but I can’t help it- Musfira surprises me and then I go awwww.
Today, as we were pulling in to the gas station, Musfira piped up from the back seat, “Momma, can I have e-plus full please?” Well, that’s what I know what she meant, but it actually sounds like, “momma, kinna haff e-pwuss foo peez?”
And then there was the time she tattled on Iman, who was saturating her bath with bubbles straight from the bottle- “momma, eeman pudda bubbos too much inna baff!” I had to go in and look stern and tell Iman to put the bubble bath away while inwardly giggling at the squeaky little accusation that brought me there.
Musfira doesn’t sound like a baby. She sounds like someone pretending to sound like a baby- she has a comically high-pitched little voice, and all the typical substitutions for consonants. Please isn’t please, it’s pweez. Khalid isn’t yet Khalid, he’s ka-lee. Musfira is… wait for it… moos-fwa.
It’s cuteness overload, and it disarms me when Musfira does things like say… draw on her self, the walls, floor, desk, and my computer with permanent marker, and then explain her work to me in her proudest little squeak: momma wook! happee buffday face!
Then there was the time when HF walked in on Musfira industriously scribbling on a wall. “Musfira, what is this??” HF asked angrily.
Musfira pointed to the scribble and said:
“Issa ‘asfoor, Baba. Tweet tweet?”
‘Asfoor is bird in Arabic. Obviously Baba. Tweet tweet.
Moos-fwa. She’s Baba’s little pwincess. She fights and bites and swings like a monkey from the rails of her elder sister’s bunk bed. She crawls around the house meowing and uses her devious little fingers to open purses, poke food in the refrigerator, and last week- accidentally lock herself into my bedroom.
She was supposed to be sleeping, but at roughly 9:30 last Thursday she was banging on the other side of my bedroom door with her tiny fists, begging to be let out. Having successfully climbed out of her crib, she turned the key- instead of the handle- in the door and began what would be twenty minutes of panicking in the dark while HF and I tried to figure out how to break into our own bedroom.
HF was contemplating smashing the window when Musfira accidentally unlocked the door- Alhamdulillah. She ran out -tear-stained, pink-faced, her eyes puffy- and into my arms, then HF’s arms, and then the arms of a friend of HF’s who had been with him when I called HF home from the masjid to help rescue Musfira… She was properly traumatised.
You would think she’d have learned her lesson, but two days later, I heard her little voice crying from the other side of the door. It wasn’t locked (we no longer keep the key in it) and as I pushed it open carefully, I saw Musfira blinking in the light- wearing HF’s shoes on her feet and HF’s socks on her arms. I’m not sure what she had been planning, but it must have been an interesting idea.
In a nutshell, that’s Musfira. She hasn’t gotten much attention on the blog because for the majority of her life to date, she’s been a squishy pink blob of adorable baby fat without much to report. However, as she’s growing out of her diapers and into her shoes as a fully-fledged toddlersaurus rex, she’s making our little home crazier, cuter, exponentially louder, and way more wonderful than I could have ever imagined. Yes, having three children under the age of seven is difficult, but it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever done with my life, and I adore it- and her for it. Alhamdulillah. 🙂
In case I haven’t mentioned this before, I love ABA. Seriously. I’m not referring to table-top flashcard activities, I’m referring to the analysis of behaviour hence- Applied Behavior Analysis.
As part of behaviour analysis, behaviours are broken down into chains of A,B,C- Antecedent, Behaviour, and Consequence. Basically, the antecedent is what precedes a behaviour, the behaviour is the err… behavior, and the consequence is what follows. What does this have to do with Ramadan? Well, here’s a Ramadan case study for your analysis.
Subject X has been fasting all day. As Maghrib approaches, he/she sits down in front of a heavily laden iftar table with a beautiful, aromatic variety of foods and proceeds to drool at them until the azhan is called. Once the first “Allahu Akbar” wafts melodiously through the window, Subject X proceeds to over-eat. Unsurprisingly, Subject X is you.
The scenario varies from one fast to another, but the outcome remains the same: you reach over-fullness in record time, going from light and spiritually connected to engorged and close to reflux if you go into sajda too fast. The consequences of your behaviour are weight gain, self-loathing, disappointment, and regret.
You’re dismayed about the weight gain, so you google things like “Losing Weight in Ramadan.” You find information about clear soups, fruit smoothies, insulin spikes, and lots of information finding fault with your food. Turn’s out though, it’s not your food’s fault. It’s your behaviour about food’s fault.
Every day you tell yourself that tomorrow will be different, but every tomorrow you make the same mistakes because guess what- you haven’t had a chance to analyse your behaviour and try to figure out how you can make changes to the repeating cycle of behaviour. To the ABA!
First, we’re going to define the behaviour. The behaviour (B) in this scenario is overeating; ie- consuming too many calories- whether through food quantity or caloric density, than your body requires.
Next, we need to identify the antecedent, or even antecedents, plural. A single behaviour can have multiple antecedents. Different things can lead you to the same outcome- in this case, eating too much. There’s more than one antecedent to the behaviour of overeating at Iftar, and sometimes at an Iftar party, a half dozen of them can be applicable at the same time.
At-Home Buffet: Someone’s been slaving over the pot all day, and the result is sixteen different things to taste, and curiosity dictates that you have some of every single dish.
You’re a Texan at Heart: Your portion sizes are more suitable for hard-working farmhand than a desk-jockey. And we all know you’re a desk jockey.
You Go to the Source:You eat directly from the serving dish, ie- pakoras or samosas eaten directly from a tray so there’s no portion awareness, let alone portion control.
You’ve given yourself Carte Blanche: You figure that since you’re fasting you can eat whatever you want, even if it’s deep fried, chocolate dipped, and encrusted with flaming hot cheetos.
Instant Gratification: Following how long you’ve been delaying the gratification of food all day, you make up for your good behaviour by making up for lost time and eating iftar plus a full meal once the azhan is called.
Overeating as a behaviour (B) are preceded by an antedent (A), and modifying the antecedent (A) is a good way of preventing the behaviour (B), and therefore avoiding the consequence (C) of bloating and regret.
If you’ve ever heard that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, then you understand the strength of antecedent modification when it comes to changing behaviours. How does antecedent modifications differ from behavior modification? Behavior modification relies on simply stopping yourself from committing a behaviour, or having someone else stop you. If you haven’t been able to stop yourself so far, and the people you eat with are just as bad as you are, then good luck relying on that.
So, let’s go back to our listed antecedents and see how we can modify each scenario to reduce the chances of you overeating.
At-Home Buffet: If you have a tendency to overeat out of curiosity at home due to the buffet effect, then modify your antecedent by reducing the number of foods that you put in front of yourself at Iftar. Have one thing for iftar, and one thing for dinner. If you’re hungry before bed, have fruit.
Texan: If your eyes are bigger than your stomach and your plate is even bigger than your eyes, then change your plate. Downsize your plate or bowl and allow yourself only one refill. That way your portion is controlled by your plate size even if you’re not able to control it through willpower.
Eating from the Source: In the same way we can reach the bottom of a bag of chips without knowing how we even got there, it is possible to be eating samosas and suddenly notice there’s nothing left but a greasy paper towel. Serve yourself a respectable amount of food and leave the rest in the kitchen. Better yet, put the food back into the refrigerator once you’ve filled your plate. When your plate is empty go pray. Go directly to pray. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
Carte Blanche: Correcting a carte blanche mentality is a simple matter of math. A single pound of human fat has 3500 calories in it. A single slice of cheesecake can have around 1,000. Just because you haven’t eaten anything since Fajr doesn’t mean that the calories you eat don’t count after Maghrib. Your body doesn’t care what time it is, food is food and too much makes fat. Modifying the antecedent of a carte blanche mentality means correcting the misinformation that justifies bad eating habits. Learn more about the calories and nutritional content of your food options to help deter you from making the spectacularly bad food choices that one can really only make while fasting.
Instant Gratification: In our rush to compensate for 15 hours of hunger, we eat way too fast, and unless we’ve served ourselves in the kitchen first- we eat faster than our stomachs can think. It takes around 20 minutes to register that you’ve eaten enough, so slow down and pace yourself. One way to do this is to break your fast with a glass of water and a handful of dates ONLY- and then go pray Maghrib. It may only take you five to seven minutes, but it will be more than enough to tame the wild-eyed beast.
Now, if we were to combine all the antecedent modifications to Iftar, a nearly Fail-Proof Iftar could be constructed as such:
Five minutes before Iftar, you take two noticeably smaller plates and head to your kitchen. On one plate, you put a few dates- maybe a fig and a cracker. On the other plate, you put a regular size serving of dinner. You take the dates to the table and leave the dinner in the microwave.
As you’re waiting for the azhan, you focus on dua (and not the food, since all the food is in another room anyway). Once the azhan is called, you drink a glass of nice cold water, you savour your dates (and fig and cracker) and then you LEAVE THE TABLE.
You do wudu or rinse your mouth. You pray maghrib. You make dua. Then, you come back to the kitchen and microwave your single, normal-sized portion of dinner. You bring it back to the table and eat. Then you leave the table again, ideally taking your dishes with you. The end.
It’s seems almost insultingly simple, but the jist of the matter is that you can’t overeat if you’re not given the opportunity to, and preventing yourself from the opportunity can be the next best thing ig you haven’t been able to overcome the behavior.
Yes, there will be times when you eat out at other peoples’ houses and there will probably be way too much food- but every time you manage to control your stomach at home, you build more control and more discipline. If you reach a point where you become unaccustomed to overeating at home, there’s a good chance it won’t be such an easy backslide when you’re out, InshaAllah.
So that’s it. As long as you stick to the system or portion control, single serving, and healthy choices made AWAY from the serving dish, there’s really no way you can mess up as long as you don’t sneak into the refrigerator later.
May Allah give us all the strength- not to lose weight- but to gain discipline over ourselves in Ramadan that begins with the stomach and continues to the other parts of our bodies that need it too. Ameen.
Sometimes, when my arms feel especially weak and the bread for dinner seems especially chewy, I feel kind of deflated and end up googling for things like “myopathy experts,” and “where to find help for myopathy.”
Due to things like location and financial constraints, nothing seems useful. And then I get sad. Just once, I wish Google’s top result would show “Allah,” because then I would remember that I don’t have to feel sad. Even though sometimes I want to.
After roughly two weeks abroad for work, HF is coming home in three hours. I told Khalid that Baba would be home by the next morning. Khalid’s response was:
Alhamdulillah, we acquired a lovely new sister in law this weekend as HF’s younger brother got married. Family wedding preparations were a team effort, and Alhamdulillah, everyone did their part to ensure things went smoothly- even Musfira, who took the initiative to do her own hair and makeup with a pair of scissors and a blue marker. And she did it an entire day before the party, making her not only helpful, but also forward thinking.
