Iman: “Momma, if we don’t feed Marty, he’ll die. Then, he’ll turn into grass and antelope will eat him. That’s the circle of life.”
😀
Author: Abez
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Crime, Punishment, and Batman.
Why yes, I am blogging about Batman. Excuse me, I think my geek is showing.
In this day and age superheroes have their own sort of mythology, and they are the modern equivalent of demi-gods in our shared popcultural experience. They have devoted followers, fanatics even, and people can have stronger beliefs about which school of comic book thought they adhere to than to which religion they identify with.
I think it’s safe to say that the top three monoheroistic religious are Supermanism, Spidermanism, and Batmanology. Personally, I have leanings towards Batmonology. HF is a devotee of Spidermanism. Despite our differences, we are united through a common belief in Islam. Alhamdulillah.
In traditional Batmanological texts, Batman could crash your car through a brick wall and land it upside down in a ravine, but you were guaranteed a background shot of leaping to safety or at least moaning from within the wreckage in order to be taken into custody later, injured but definitely alive.
Remember the A-Team? And GI Joe? All those bad guys leaping out of exploding jeeps at the very last second to viewer-established safety? Yeah. Heroes seem to share this amazing ability to inflict city-destroying amounts of damage upon cars and buildings without giving the baddies anything worse than a dramatic concussion. In fact, it is actually safer for you to be a henchman than a good guy, because family members, friends, and love interests are more likely to be killed as plot devices than henchmen are to be critically injured.
This refusal to kill is an integral part of mainstream Superhero Lore- and it is the central moral lesson in traditional Batmanology. In the awesome animated movie Under the Red Hood, Batman’s refusal to kill is tested in the most brutal way possible. The movie opens with this:
Joker tortures and kills Robin. Batman arrives seconds too late to save him, and digs Robin’s brutalized remains out of burning rubble. Fast forward a few years and one well-written story later, and then this happens:
The video says it all. Batman wishes every day that he could kill the Joker, but he won’t. He can’t kill, because killing would be too easy and if he went down that path, he would inevitably spiral down into the same murderous darkness that his foes live in.
Batmonology is not the only superhero religion that adheres to this principle- Supermanism, Spidermanism- so the bad guy never dies, unless he is actually a robot (Braniac, Metallo) or he somehow kills himself so that Superman or Spiderman don’t have to. The monoheroistic concept bears striking similarity to the distinctly Bibilical concept of “Thou shalt not kill,” as well as the concept of Ahinsa that is shared by Buddhism, Jainism, and Hinduism. Ahinsa literally means “No Harm.”
(I will make no assumptions on what Judaism may say about killing or capital punishment, because like all well-informed first world citizens of the twenty first century, I know more about Batman than I do about Jewish Scripture.)
We get it. Real heroes don’t kill. It’s not right. It would be too easy. That would make them just as bad as the villains they fight. We wouldn’t want the good guys killing the bad guys. That’s why our police aren’t armed with- WAIT A MINNIT!
The police do have guns!
And so do soldiers!
And when an old lady manages to shoot the guy who breaks into her house and tries to beat her death, we cheer for the old lady! When a Texas mother ran over a knife-wielding carjacker that had hidden in the back seat with her children, the newscasters were gloating on her behalf, even if she looked quite shaken by the experience.
So why are superheroes held to such unrealistic standards? Thou shalt battle vicious, inhumane killers who will use lethal force against you without provocation, whose continued presence in the community guarantees that more innocent people will be killed, raped, and crippled- but whatever you do, don’t kill them, not even by accident, because otherwise you’ll be as bad as they are?
Batman killing the Joker during the course of an epic, long-time battle to protect Gotham from a psychopath whose kill-count is in quadruple digits would not make him as bad as the Joker. It would not make Batman a murdering psychopath anymore than you fighting off and killing a rapist would make you as bad as a murdering rapist. Like the old lady with the shotgun and the mother with the minivan, it would make you… a hero.
I believe that it’s ok for good guys to kill the bad guys to protect the rest of us, and the people who don’t honor the sanctity of life have no right to claim it when it comes to their own. The sanctity of human life didn’t apply to their victims, so why should it apply to them? And when killers get out on parole and kill again, I don’t think the sanctity of life will protect their next victims either.
If a police officer shot a known murderer to protect a child in imminent danger, he would be a hero, but we’re still not so sure that good guys are allowed to kill bad guys? We have some serious double standards about this, and the gross over-simplification of “good guys don’t kill” is hurting lots of imaginary victims and by-standers in the comic book world.
There is another, lesser-known school of thought in Batmonology, and its disciples made The Dark Knight Returns. No, not rises- he returns in another brilliant two-part animated movie. Gotham has gone to hell in a handbasket after ten years of forced retirement for Batman, and one day Bruce Wayne snaps. Finally, we’re allowed the PG-13 satisfaction of a bad guy disappearing down the same blood-stained hallway he was about to drag a mother into, and we don’t see him walk out. Another rapist/murderer is thrown into electrical wiring and he is electrocuted, screaming off screen. The screaming stops, but we do not see his body drop. The electrical sparking continues meaningfully.
A 17 year old henchman sent to kill Commissioner Gordon is shot dead, and when the Joker attempts to use a woman as a human shield, without pause Batman throws three of those little bat-shaped knives at Joker- landing one in each shoulder and one in his right eye.
(The Joker’s shocked reply: “Are you out of your mind?!?!” See? Even he’s been accustomed to Batman trying to protect the world with kid gloves on.)
The knife stays lodged in the Joker’s eye throughout the final fight scene, and ultimately until his death at the hands of Batman. And I have to say, as a long-time fan, it was so good to see the Joker final get what was coming to him that I actually did a little happy-dance in my chair.
Some people might shake their heads disapprovingly at this madhab’s darker, grittier version of Batman, but I give two thumbs up for the Joker finally no longer being allowed to threaten and kill in Gotham. In killing Joker, Batman has saved countless other imaginary lives without compromising his own morality or becoming a villain himself. Finally killing Joker made him more of a hero than he already was.
By Abez, the end.
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Today the barber, tomorrow- the moon!
This video offers advice for hairstylists to help give children with autism less traumatising haircuts. I really wish it had been produced four years ago. Getting Khalid’s hair cut used to be as terrible for the stylist as it was for him, and he’d cry so hard he would vomit and/or soil himself. Khalid would end up with an obviously crooked haircut, the barber would end up a shaky, anxious mess, and HF and I would be almost equally plastered in snot, tears, vomit and hair.
So what changed? Alhamdulillah, the older Khalid grew the more we could use reasoning to help him, but we also had a few other really helpful strategies that this video didn’t include, and that’s why I am writing this.
So, here are some of the things that made a significant difference in getting Khalid’s hair cut with less stress for everyone.
We went to the barber more often, and it wasn’t for his haircuts. When HF went for a beard trim, we started sending Khalid along with him, and we made sure there were reinforcers involved. Chips, gummy bears, using Baba’s iPhone… we wanted Khalid to be in the barbershop without being in a state of terrible anxiety and fear. Over time, he was able to enjoy being there, where previously he would freak out simply being in a salon, even if he wasn’t the one getting a haircut at all.
We brought a hairstylist home. This was an amazing turning point for Khalid, even before we starting sending him to the barbershop. A lady with scissors, a comb, and an hour and a half to spare came over, sat next to Khalid at the dining table and let him look at her tools. Khalid combed my hair. We played with plastic (TOY!) scissors and both Khalid and Iman “cut” my hair too. Then, at the dining table and with no real rush, the hairdresser took a few little snips here and a few little snips there with lots of small breaks and Khalid’s favorite cartoons on the laptop. That was the easiest haircut we ever had, and it gave Khalid his first experience with a non-aversive haircutting.
We used some good old fashioned ABA strategies!
We used a reinforcement schedule so that after every X-seconds of motion-free sitting (while his hair was cut) Khalid would get the next chip/tic-tact/reward. We counted down (not up!) so that Khalid would know exactly when the snipping would stop. We started from five, and gradually built up to counting down from ten if he figited, the count was reset. Once we got to zero, we’d stop, clean off the hair from his face and neck and arms, and he would have a break and a treat. A few seconds later, we’d start another countdown.
As it became easier for Khalid, we started counting more slowly. The next step was to start counting up instead of down- we’d start from one and see how far Khalid could go before asking us to stop. By the time we reached the counting-up point, Khalid was given the option of saying “Stop please,” when he had enough.
We used D.R.I.– differential reinforcement of an incompatible behaviour- we filled Khalid’s hands with the iPhone (which required two tiny hands to play) so that he could not use his hands to push the scissors or comb away. I also held the iPhone at a level that was higher than he would have held it in his lap, that way he had to keep his chin up in order to play and not duck away from the scissors. If the stylist wanted his chin down, then I held the phone down in his lap so that he couldn’t lean back to push the scissors away from the back of his neck. If Khalid took his hands off the iPhone, I took the iPhone back.
We used D.R.O.– differential reinforcement of other behaviour, so that if Khalid was angry and irritated by the hair falling on to his skin and clothes, he could use the barber’s little brush to clean it up himself instead of yelling or slapping at his arms and clothes. We also told him that instead of crying, he could ask for a break, and that we would then grant one to him.
Alhamdulillah, Khalid had a haircut just a month ago, and it was actually the first time the barber was able to use the electric trimmer instead of the time-consuming scissors. Khalid was terrified of the trimmer when he was younger- I don’t know whether it was the noise or the vibration, but it put him into a state of panic and we avoided using it for years. The last time though, when the barber asked if he could use a trimmer, I asked Khalid’s permission first.
“Khalid, the barber wants to know if he can use this on your hair.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a trimmer. It’s like a tiny hair-cutting robot. You like robots?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to turn it on?”
Khalid turned the trimmer on and giggled at the funny feeling in his hands. Then it was the barber’s turn, and although he wasn’t as comfortable with it as he would have been with scissors, Khalid sat stoically through his tiny robot haircut and more than earned the icy-lolly that was waiting for him at the end of it.
Alhamdulillah, Khalid has made an amazing amount of progress in the past two years and it has been such a blessing. Sometimes I feel like I can’t wait to see where the next two years takes us- today the barber, tomorrow- the moon. 🙂
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Artfully vague but critically important
DPO, my former boss, asked me an interesting question yesterday. He asked me whether I could consider the creation of another version of myself, one that had my existing strengths, none of my existing weaknesses, and all of the skills she needed to get what she needed done. He called her Abez 2.0.
We assigned her an empty chair at our table, and allowed ourselves to speak of her in present tense. Here is what we have decided. Abez 2.0 is able to:
- Aggressively pursue business development without guilt, because the profit motive is not inherently evil. In this case, the profit motive behind non-essential services is what facilitates growth of the company as well as our ability to subsidise services for children who can’t afford them.
- Reserve feelings of guilt for things that actually warrant them. At present, Abez 1.0 bastes herself in an unhealthy coating of guilt every day- whether it be about time spent at work, or elaborate cupcakes not baked, or sofas not looking as immaculate eight years on and three children later… Abez 1.0 has mommy guilt about taking time off, spending on herself, or allowing herself to have social outings. No one in their right mind should feel guilty about resting in between work, caring for themselves, or seeing friends. Needless to say, Abez 1.0 is not in her right mind about these things, but Abez 2.0 is.
- Not grant destructive criticism an audience. Constructive criticism will be taken objectively and from sources that are trusted. It will not be taken as a sign of failure, and it will be taken as an opportunity for improvement, rather than a cause for feelings of guilt about one’s professional inadequacy. (see above)
- Not allow the desire to please everyone all the time to dictate what policies are enforced at work. No one can please everyone, all the time. My responsibility is to help our kids, take care of my staff, and use the minuscule amount of “celebrity” status I have to further autism awareness and opportunities for kids on the spectrum. If that doesn’t make people happy, that’s ok. Making them happy is not my job.
- Maintain a locus of control that is as internal as possible, and take action to change situations rather than lament how difficult they are to change.
- Explore multiple plans and challenge limiting beliefs about what is possible for me to accomplish, personally and professionally. There is a voice in my head that pours water on the the fire of exciting new project ideas by saying “Oh, but I would never be able to do that…” Abez 2.0 tells that voice to shut up and wait to see whether we actually fail before making that assumption.
- Delegate without panicking by accepting that outsourcing can bring projects up to 80% of the way, and that my involvement can be withheld until the final 20%, allowing me to accomplish more, panic less, and have deliverables created to my standard of perfectionism without waiting to hire a perfectionist clone of myself.
- Assemble a group of trusted advisors to keep me honest- not because I am dishonest, but because the danger of being your own boss is that when you start projects, there isn’t anyone around to make sure you finish them. I need accountability and follow-up, and rather than expect myself to develop a multiple personality disorder, it would be better to seek outside help.
- Give myself deadlines and share status reports with above advisors.
- Create a workspace that is respectful of the role I am expected to play- in other words- set up a desk and keep the laundry off of it.
- Not allow myself to feel like an imposter, but accept that people play different roles and adjust their behaviours accordingly to get the job done. Being no-nonsense at work shouldn’t make me feel guilty, because being silly is a behaviour I reserve for playing with my children. Being sympathetic and completely trusting is something reserved only for my husband, not for the well-off clients who try to guilt me into discounts from already zero-profit, at-cost services.
- Accept that fear is actually F.E.A.R- False Evidence Appearing Real- that there is no truth to failure until it happens, and living in fear is allowing myself to be dictated to by the lie of perpetual failure.
There. That’s the beginning of what Abez 2.0 is going to accomplish. It’s a tall order, and we’re breaking the stages down into 1.1, 1.2, 1.3, etc. I’m actually excited- and this is all going to sound vague I’m afraid- because I’ve been living in fear of failure in spite of being a reasonably successful person, and it’s tiring. I live dangerously close to the fight or flight response, where I feel at any moment, someone is likely to yell at me, or discover that I am an impostor and in order to avoid being found it, I hide and avoid doing anything that would attract attention.
(Funny that I should avoid attention in the real world when I’ve been inviting the whole dang internet into my personal world for over ten years now, but maybe the two are directly connected. Maybe it’s my withdrawal from the world that motivates me to connect with people from behind the safety of pseudonym and an avatar?)
I’m looking forward to meeting Abez 2.0. I think she’s going to be confident, comfortable in her own skin, and more likely to take the risks that lead to success rather than hide from an immobilising fear of failure. InshaAllah. Please remember us both in your duas. 🙂
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Sometimes I forget she’s five
Iman: Momma, all birds lay eggs-
Me: That’s right, very good…
Iman: -except for tigers.
Me: Iman, tigers are not birds.
Iman: What about bats?
Me: No, they’re not birds even though they fly. They don’t have feathers. They’re kind of like flying mice.
Iman: But they’re not alive, right?
Me: Of course bats are alive!
Iman: Oh yes, in the rainforest.
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Musfira’s Great Nap Escape
Musfira will be turning two next week, and the older she gets, the more creative and amazing her attempts to escape from nap-time become.
I put her down for a nap at 12:00. At 12:15, she desperately cried out “Momma, Ow!” I rushed to the room wondering how she could have gotten hurt while in her crib, and found her holding up a paper-cut that she had gotten over a month ago. I kissed her Ow and left her to sleep.
A few minutes later, Musfira called out with “Momma, help!” In an act of maternal goodwill, I went back up the hall to see what the problem was. She had a dirty diaper, which was legitimate. After being changed and allowed a ten-minute reprieve from napping, I put her back down again.
A few more minutes passed quietly, and I was under the assumption that she had fallen asleep until I heard Musfira properly crying. I went back up the hall again and when I opened the bedroom door, I found Musfira standing in her crib and holding out her beloved pink cat, Meow-Meow. Her teary eyes met mine and she said, “Look Momma, Meow-Meow wet.”
I took Meow-Meow, and he was in fact thoroughly soggy. I looked at Musfira. She looked blankly back at me. I looked into her crib, and saw the cause for Meow-Meow’s current state of distress-
Musfirasomeone had been using her sippy cup to slowly soak him in milk, one drop at a time.Meow-Meow was taken and unceremoniously crammed into the washing machine, and when Musfira objected, I said to her, “Look, this machine is for washing. Meow-Meow is dirty, we’re going to wash him.”
“Iss for washing?” Musfira asked.
“Yes.” I nodded.
Musfira began pulling her shirt off. “Washing me?”
“No dear,” I said, escorting her from the washing machine before she tried to climb inside of it. “Not for washing you.”
It’s 1:30 right now, and I’ve decided to let her skip her nap in favor of washing the crib and bedding. It’s sloshing around in the machine along with Meow-Meow, and considering how hot it is today, should all be dry in roughly five minutes.Musfira is currently walking around backwards and “singing”
a nameless tune of her own inventionupdate: it’s the UAE National Anthem. The longer she stays up, the crazier she will become, until she finally goes down in a fiery ball of toddler exhaustion. Alhamdulillah, she’s awesome. 🙂 -
From Iman with icecream and love
Iman drew a picture of HF today- a bearded, bespectacled figure with square glasses, big eyebrows, and a happy smile. Also, a crown and an icecream cone in each hand.
Gorgeously accurate. 🙂
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A conversation with you, dear Internet
Me: Hey Internet, guess what!
You: What?
Me: I got my disabled parking spot approved the other day, hooray!
You: Congratulations…? Wait, why do you need a disabled parking spot?
Me: Oh. Well, I kinda omitted this from my blog for the past few years, but the muscles in my body are atrophying for reasons that doctors can’t pinpoint.
You: Errrr…
Me: It’s myopathy, unspecified. The genetic tests are negative for any of the known myopathies, and the muscle biopsy confirms that the muscle is deteriorating.
You: Wait, is there anything they can do about it?
Me: Well, they gave me a parking space!
You: That’s… nice?
Me: I thought so too, Alhamdulillah. 🙂
You: Why didn’t you say anything about this earlier?
Me: Well, I don’t like being negative and it’s hard to be positive about having rare, incurable and chronic muscle disease. But it could also be worse, so why complain about it? Alhamdulillah, I’ll be fine.
You: Why are you telling me now?
Me: Because I’ve only used my disabled parking three times, but each time I do I feel like the whole world is watching me and wondering why I’m behind the steering wheel instead of in a wheel chair.
You: Are you faking?
Me: Nope. My leg muscles are easily fatigued. I do stairs slowly and only as a last resort. I walk funny. I don’t lift things. Typing makes me tired. My phone is heavy.
You: To be fair, some of those Android phones are like trying to have a conversation on a reader’s digest.
Me: It’s an Iphone 5, the skinny one? I’m slowly developing T-rex arms. They’re functional, but largely ornamental. :p
You: I’m not sure what to say.
Me: Me neither, but I thought I’d say it, because denial ain’t just a river in Egypt and I may or may not have been paddling its waters in the rubber ducky of self-delusion.
You: You think you don’t have myopathy?
Me: No, I think I don’t need help. However, I am forced to reconsider my status as a superhuman when the grocery cart weighs a ton and my telekinesis abilities fail to guide it to the car accurately. I have no choice but to ask for help now, and it’s very hard for me to accept that.
You: Everyone needs help sometimes.
Me: Meh.
You: Do you need help? Is there anything I can do?
Me: Well, you can make dua. But that’s it, really. I’m not throwing a pity party, and I’m not accepting condolences.
You: Can I come and visit you?
Me: Only if you promise not to sit in awkward silence, or sigh dramatically, or cast pained, regretful glances in my direction.
You: I can do that.
Me: Good! Then we can still be friends. 🙂 Now, back to your regularly scheduled blog.
By Abez, the end.
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This made me feel better today
The Prophet ﷺ was asked, “O Messenger of Allāh, which of the people are the most sorely tested?” He said:
“The Prophets, then those similar, then those similar. A man will be tested in accordance with his level of faith. If his faith is strong, he will be tested more severely, and if his faith is weak, he will be tested in accordance with his faith. Calamity will keep befalling a person until he walks on the earth with no sin on him.”
(Tirmidhi)
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Take THAT racial inferiority complex, HA!
A few days ago, Iman was sitting at the dining table next to me coloring when she put down her crayons and pouted.
“Momma, which crayon is my skin? It’s not this one,” she said, holding up the Caucasian “skin-tone” crayon.
“And it’s not this one,” she said, holding up the brown crayon. “Which crayon is my skin?”
I leaned over and started poking around in the plastic tupperware that holds Iman’s treasure trove of crayons.
“Hmm, I don’t see any crayons in here that are the same color as you dear. Sorry sweetheart, we don’t have any caramel colored crayons.”
“Caramel?” Iman said, still pouting.
“Caramel is a beautiful warm golden color. Caramel is a kind of candy.”
Iman’s eyes practically popped. “I’m the color of… candy?”
“Yes dear, but we don’t have any crayons that color. Sorry. Looks like we need to buy you more crayons.”
Later that day, HF came home and Iman ran excitedly to him. “Baba baba!” she said, jumping up and down, “Did you know, I’m caramel colored??”
“Are you?” HF said, looking to me suspiciously.
(HF, I’ve decided, is dulche de leche.)
“Yes!” Iman squealed, “It’s a kind of a candy!”
“Well then,” HF said, picking her up and hugging her, “I guess that makes you my Caramel Princess.”That was last week, and since then, we’ve changed the yardstick of skintone from lightness to ice cream. Chacha is milk chocolate. I’m butter pecan. Musfira is toasted coconut.
Because all skin colors are good skin colors, the same way that all ice cream is good ice cream.
So, what flavor are you? :p
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How to melt momma with happiness
Khalid: Momma, what does the word “hang out” mean?
Me: To hang out? That means to spend time together talking and enjoying someone’s company.
Khalid: Okay, right. Can we hang out?
Me: I’d love to. 🙂
Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah.
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Hehe
Two cows are standing in a field. One turns to the other and says, “Hey, aren’t you worried about that whole mad cow disease thing?”
“Why should I?” the other cow replies, “I’m a helicopter.”
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HAMMER TIME!
Sometimes I wonder how much longer that I -writer, doodler, talker, teacher, dreamer- will be able to continue working as a director. Managing people, services, cashflow, and strategy- these all rub against my Muslim-hippie nature like a hair shirt.
But since I don’t have a choice, the only thing I can do is suck it up, dig my heels in, and take it like a brave round peg in an irritating square hole. Somebody get me that tiny hammer. POW! Back to my inbox.
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And I quote
Khalid: Momma, when I die…?
Me: (putting my drink down slowly) Yes Khalid?
Khalid: And my body goes into the earth…?
Me: Yes?
Khalid: Will people remove my fossils and put them in a museum?
Me: No dear, they won’t.
Khalid: Why not?
Me: Because you’re not a dinosaur dear.
_____
Iman: (is looking through rows of flavored vitamins as we’re waiting in line at a pharmacy) Momma, why does this have a picture of icecream?
Me: Hmm? Because those vitamins supposedly taste like icecream.
Iman: Why?
Me: So that kids will like taking them.
Iman: This one has cherries.
Me: It’s probably cherry flavored.
Iman: This one has fairies on it. Is it fairy-flavored?
Me: I don’t think so, I’m not sure what fairies would taste like.
Iman: I know. Meat.
Me: Meat?
Iman: Yeah, because that’s what bodies are made out of. Meat.
Me: You’re a very sensible girl.
Iman: I know.
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Because caterpillars turn into butterflies
Genghis Khan- conquered Asia and left his eyebrows behind. My father very proudly says that we are direct descendent of Genghis Khan. I believe him, and require no other proof than the eyebrows I inherited from my ferocious genealogy. Regardless of whether I have Genghis Khan’s eyebrows, I definitely have my father’s eyebrows, and while they look perfect on a cuddly, hairy, white-bearded man, they’re a bit out of place on his daughter.
When I was 14, my mother sat me down- unprompted- and did perhaps what blonde ladies do tidy up their eyebrows- she shaved off the top half of them and told me to keep it up. Being a non-blonde though, my Genghisesque eyebrows started growing back in right away, and I consider myself blessed to have very little photographic evidence of that awkward, stubbly phase.
Noor Jehan is a classic example of classic “bow & arrow” eyebrows. Later that same year, my sister and I went to spend the summer with our cousins in Pakistan, and being non-blonde descendants of Genghis Khan and his many savvy wives, they said: “What the heck have you done to your eyebrows!?” They staged a proper intervention, and a wise elder cousin immediately sat me down and threaded my eyebrows into the Pakistani equivalent of the bow that was meant to shoot the arrow of my glance straight into a young man’s heart. That was my introduction to threading.
It was years before I learned that reshaping your eyebrows is not permissible in Islam, but by then, two things had already happened:
- I had forgotten what my real eyebrows actually looked like.
- I had grown to believe that my real eyebrows were hideous and that growing them out would cover the top half of my face.
It has taken me almost fifteen years to finally stop reshaping my eyebrows, and for the first time in my adult life, I now know what my real eyebrows look like, because I actually have them. I no longer have “eyebrows,” I have Mybrows.
It was hard at first to stop shaping them- they grew in seemingly random places and kept straying further and further from the invisible boundaries that I had assigned to them. I would look at myself in the mirror and sigh- and during those months of transition, it was very difficult for me to stick with it. My one source of encouragement- believe it or not- was my husband, and he had no idea what an emotional ordeal I was even undertaking.
He walked past me one day and casually said; “Hey, have you done something to your eyebrows?”
“What? Me?” I squeaked, my conscience guilty for wishing that it had, “I’m letting them grow in.”
“Oh,” he said approvingly. “They look really nice.”
I was dumbstruck. It was another few weeks before my husband noticed the next boundary grown over, and this time he said, “I like your eyebrows this way.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, “Don’t you remember what they looked like when we were married?”
“I do,” he said. “I thought they looked…fake.”
I glared at him, completely sure that he was somehow part of a conspiracy to pretend like my eyebrows didn’t actually look like caterpillars inching across my forehead. So I went back and dug my wedding photos out of the important archive that is my sock drawer and guess what? My old, thin, highly manicured eyebrows struck me as looking… fake. And while I wasn’t yet in love with Mybrows, I was at least disillusioned with having their artificial looking alternative.
Sisters talk about eyebrows sometimes, and the conversation usually goes like this:
Helga: delicate. lady-like. pow. Sister 1: “Oh, my eyebrows are so unruly! I know we’re not supposed shape them but I feel like such a Neanderthal!”
Sister 2: “What are you talking about? Your eyebrows look fine! Now, MY eyebrows… they make Helga’s from Hey Arnold look delicate and lady-like.”
Sister 3: “You’re both crazy and your eyebrows frame your eyes perfectly! Now *my* eyebrows, they look like two handlebar moustaches without a sense of direction…”
The circular consensus seems to be everyone has a real problem with their eyebrows, but everyone ELSE looks fine and they’re just stressing for no reason. In recent fashion, heavier (relatively) eyebrows have come back into the spotlight, I think this is a great time to piggy-back on the bandwagon and wave the flag for more natural looking eyebrows.
This tumblr account is, simply named- Thick eyebrows, and you can go here for an assortment of gorgeous ladies with luxuriously large eyebrows- models like Cara Delevinge, Brook Shields, even Audrey Hepburn- looking lovely with eyebrows significantly thicker than the media has previously shown us.
While Muslims, of course, don’t wait for fashion to agree with religion before deciding to become religious, it is nice when the media can do a part- even a teeny tiny one- to help boost our natural-looking self esteem when it comes to eyebrows. Yes, the women are all still uncovered, photo-shopped, artfully painted and arranged by professionals- but the point is, they have big eyebrows and they are daring you to make caterpillar jokes about them.
*filed teeth, anyone? I haven’t come as far as to say I’m in love with Mybrows, but who am I to even suggest that Allah made a mistake in how He made them? Allah Himself designed what my face and eyebrows were going to look like, and it should go without saying that His designs for what humans should look like are Divine (with a capital D) and everything else that we do is just “fixing” what isn’t really broken.*
Please note- this doesn’t mean I’m saying that things like cleft palates are Divinely created and who are we therefore to alter them. No. Defects in the original human design are permissible to correct, and that’s like replacing a lost eye or reconstructing a face after an accident or congenital birth defect. There’s a difference between correcting a defect to meet the standard and redesigning the standard altogether.
Deciding that all of femalekind has been designed with the “wrong” kind of eyebrows is something else entirely. But, seeing as how society in general still has a problem accepting women themselves in different shapes and sizes, maybe starting with a tiny part of women- like their eyebrows- is a tiny first step?
In any case, I’m not waiting for society to accept my eyebrows before I do, so here I go. Alhamdulillah, my eyebrows are perfectly designed for whatever it is that Allah has destined for my face. Whether my naturally drop-dead gorgeous arches are meant to be a life-long battle with ego whose victory could yield me Jannah, or whether my hirsute forehead is an exercise in accepting the Qadr of Allah that can be rewarded with a place among the Sabiroon in Jannah- either way it’s fine for me.
And since, in the back of your mind, you’ve been wondering what Mybrows actually look like, and you’re looking forward to having that circular conversation where you tell me that my eyebrows are fine and YOU’RE the one who should be in mourning, here you go.
I’d love to see your natural brows (so I can tell you they look fine), so if you feel like sharing them, I’ll post them here too. Let the conversation begin.
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Three shades of crazy. And locusts?
AssalamuAlaikum Blogistan, hope you’re doing well! It’s been a while since I’ve written, and like most of my letters, this one starts off with an apology for being late too. So yeah. Here’s an update.
Alhamdulillah, my children are gorgeous and amazing. Check!
Alhamdulillah, HF is the perfect trophy-husband as usual. Check!
Alhamdulillah, we are all safe, well-fed, and reasonably within the limits for health. Check!
The bad news is, I’ve discovered that I’m a crazy person. Seriously. It’s taken me so long to realize it that I don’t even feel like sugar-coating it. I run a business where I feel guilty about taking a salary, but I wouldn’t expect other people to work without salaries. Then, I get tired of getting no return from my hard work and I get annoyed with my job. I make investments of my time with little thanks and zero financial return. So then I think about getting a “real” job as someone’s personal assistant instead of the director of my own organisation, because at least someone would say thank you and I would have some pocket money at the end of the month. As a business strategy, I call this: Crazy.
I count the hours down between when the kids wake up (6am) to when they’re all in bed (8pm) while turning over projects in my head- things I’d like to write, emails I’d like to send, presentations I want to design, an online course that I am excited about launching- but once their little heads hit the pillows- I rush to my computer and open- crap.com, or a wasteoftime.bla, or internetaddiction.meh and three hours later, I hate myself for missing opportunities to be creative and to PRAY ON TIME and I wake up the next day and guess what? I DO IT ALL AGAIN. Crazy.
I make it a point to eat healthy during the day and limit myself to fruit salad and salad and the kid’s dinner leftovers, but once they’re asleep all bets are off and I eat whatever sort of junk I can get my hands on. As a health strategy- to exercise effortless discipline over my food in the day and then throw it all to hell in a chocolate-covered handbasket at night is illogical as well as… crazy.
I feel like I am pretending to be a productive, disciplined, and professional adult, and as long as there is someone watching, keeping up the act is effortless. Once people turn away though, I revert to the wicked sloth-monkey that my momma used to complain about, and I cancel out all the “good” I did during the day- setting myself up for a cycle of failure, guilt, overcompensation, and burnout. I am, frankly speaking, disappointed with myself, and my first impulse is to lament how I want to change but don’t have the ability to, but then I remembered a conversation I had with my former boss just last week or so.
He asked me whether I knew what a “Locus of Control” was. I told him the only locusts I knew flew around and ate crops. He’s a nice man, he laughs at my jokes.
Locus of control is a theory in personality psychology referring to the extent to which individuals believe that they can control events that affect them. Understanding of the concept was developed by Julian B. Rotter in 1954, and has since become an aspect of personality studies. A person’s “locus” (Latin for “place” or “location”) is conceptualised as either internal (the person believes they can control their life) or external (meaning they believe that their decisions and life are controlled by environmental factors which they cannot influence).
Individuals with a high internal locus of control believe that events in their life derive primarily from their own actions; for example, if a person with an internal locus of control does not perform as well as they wanted to on a test, they would blame it on lack of preparedness on their part. If they performed well on a test, they would attribute this to ability to study.[1] In the test-performance example, if a person with a high external locus of control does poorly on a test, they might attribute this to the difficulty of the test questions. If they performed well on a test, they might think the teacher was lenient or that they were lucky.
Thank you, wikipedia.
My boss, or DPO as he is known, introduced me to the Locus of Control as such: people who have an internal locus of control take ownership of the situation around them. People with an external locus of control are victims of the circumstances around them. Which would you like to be?
I was embarrassed that he asked me, because I realized right away that I was talking about higher-level issues with work that were due to allowing the locus of business control be external vs internal, and it was a bit of a kick to the organizational teef. I was messing up the business by letting other people dictate what the business did and did not do.
Now, moving that observation forward, it’s nice that having other people around makes me more productive, but once their presence is removed, my productivity is out the window. My locus of control is so crazily external that without other people pushing me- to email something on time, to complete a sheet in excel, or to make dinner before their homework is finished- that when they’re not there, I do nothing. Absolutely. Completely. Nothing. If- on the odd occasion HF has all three children out to give me some time off, I do absolutely, completely, nothing. I won’t even feed myself properly. I’ll plop some peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on an old piece of pita (true story!) and call it dinner while I watch anime until my eyes crust over. This might be ok if what I really wanted was to eat peanutbutter on pita while watching Fullmetal Alchemist, but that’s not what I wanted to do. I wanted to feel accomplished- like I had four hours to write a week of activities in a subject that I love writing about- I wanted to feel renewed, and accomplishing something creative does that for me- but instead, I did wasted my time, ate unhealthy, and resented myself for it later.
My locus of control is stupid. It needs to be internal. If I accomplish something, it needs to be for my own sense of productivity, self-respect, accomplishment, and personal pride in what I do. If I eat right, it should be because I care about my health even if there’s no one there to scoff at the marshmallow fluff jar. If I make a decision for the business, I should stick with it and push it forward, because what the parents want* is not enough to grow the business and give their children what they need instead.
*(customer wants can be broadly defined as: everything. free. yesterday.)
I need to make a decision and stick with it. Now, my mind is saying- oh no, but I don’t have enough self-discipline for that! Well, that’s a statement reflecting an external locus- that I would blame someone or something else for my lack of action rather than saying Ok, I know I have weak self discipline, so how do I make it stronger?
Once upon a time, I didn’t have the self-discipline to pray regularly. I would pray maybe once or twice a day, and make excuses for it- I don’t have time, can’t get out of class, there’s no prayer room in my highschool, I’m not dressed properly, etc- I made myself a victim of the circumstances I lived in (American public highschool) and it wasn’t until I made the choice to pray five times a day that I was able to change the factors around me. I was still in exactly the same environment- same school, same friends, same me- but I made the changes necessary to accomplish what I wanted to and disciplined myself to stick with it.
I started with keeping a chart of how many prayers a day I missed. The goal was zero. I started off missing three and four prayers a day though. Over time, and with forcing myself to update the chart daily, I built prayers into my daily routine and there’s been no looking back since, Alhamdulillah. Yes, my Fajr shifts around, and that’s a failure on my part- but I don’t see it as being out of my control. It’s my fault, and I’ll fix it. I’ve fixed it before, and I can fix it again.
The same needs to happen with my personal standards of what a productive Muslim and grownup does with their time, their resources, and their health. I need to stop victimising myself in all three areas and take control of a situation that is well within my power to do so, InshaAllah.
For my next act, I will activate the TinyFilter feature in Chrome that HF kindly installed for me. It’s a Chrome plugin that blocks URL’s completely and puts a custom message in their place. It can be password protected as well, and I’m going to enter a list of time-wasting websites in there and ask HF to lock it down for me. He’s done that to me before, but because I hadn’t asked him to do it, I resented him for it and badgered him until he gave me the password. This time, I’m making the decision myself, and I will maintain the self-discipline to not beg HF to unlock it.
That’s going to be my first step. My second step is to start taking measurements again- for eating healthy, for working out, for keeping my inbox at zero and my house running smoothly. Please make dua for me, because I know my self-discipline muscles are weak and my locus of control has been external my whole life- this is going to be hard for me, but I want to do this. I want to take back my locus of control from the rest of the world and make it my own again, because the alternative is not acceptable- I start hating myself for falling short of my expectations and I lose respect for my own self.
So here we go. Updating blog. Activating TinyFilter. Now.
By Abez, The End.
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A non-poem.
I want to write a poem
I want to turn this pain
Into something beautiful
But my hands are tired
And my tools are bent. -
Third time’s the charm?
So HF is kindly accompanying me to my third of three urgent doc visits this week- I’ve been jumped by bronchitis, sinusitis, and laryngitis simultaneously, and it’s taking some tweaking of my antibiotics to keep me reasonably upright and functioning within working requirements. I’m embarrassed though- because I’m here in the ER. Again. And as I was shyly slinking into the front entrance, HF turned and emphatically stated:
“Now remember, even though you’re paying for this service, everyone here is absolutely disgusted that you’re using it.”
He then kindly offered to buy me a bag of chips from the in-clinic vending machine. He thought I could use the bag. To hide my face? He then apologized, as the bag would obviously be too small.
Such a nice man.
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Most informative (and correct) over-simplification in cartoon form, ever.
Click here- I couldn’t figure out how to embed, but it’s well worth the watch.
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They grow up so fast?
This morning, as I was power-walking up the hall on the way out the door (to drop kids off at school) I was stopped in my tracks by this:
Musfira in her footie pajamas, standing at the bathroom door where HF was inside getting ready for work, holding a sippy-cup in one hand and knocking gently with the other gently calling out- “Jaan? Jaan!”
Lol!!!
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BEST SPAM EVER
I got this in my work email today. Normally spam makes me angry, but today, it made my day. In fact, it made me feel sociable, and…fluffy?
Subject: Whatsup Bro:
You have drawn my attention to a site of acquaintances. I hope, as I shall like you. How I to you in a photo? The truth – pretty? 🙂 But in a life I more nice!!!
And as I cheerful, kind, sociable and fluffy! I like to go in for sports, read books, to listen to music. I love winter and summer. I do not love spring and slush.
If I have interested you, with pleasure I shall tell about myself more in the following letter.
I wait for the answer on (evil link removed) -
Enunciation, The Sequel
Khalid and I are in his doctor’s office for a visit, and we make a bathroom stop. I carefully hand Khalid my purse and a folder of papers. I’m a little nervous, but I want Khalid to get this right.
Me: Khalid, I am going to use the bathroom. I would like you to please hold my things. Please watch them carefully. Don’t let anyone take them.
Khalid: Watch them?
Me: Yes.
He smiles mischievously.
Khalid: Not wash?
Me: No, not wash! Don’t wash anything you silly boy!
Khalid: Momma, remember in RAK, I washed your things?
Me: I remember. I asked you to watch them, but you washed them. That was a misunderstanding.
Khalid: Misunderstanding?
Me: That’s when someone says one thing, but you understand it to mean something else.
Khalid: (grinning) And then you wash their things?
Me: Yes. Apparently you do.
Cheeky monkey.
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You are my sunshine…
My only sunshine,
You make me happeeee!
When skies are grey!
You’ll never know dear,
How much I looooooove Yooooooooooou!
So please don’t take my sunshine away.
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Next time I’ll enunciate?
Khalid, Iman and I stop in to use the restroom before I swing by a legal office to pick up some papers for work. I am holding a large, black leather document binder with fancy official paperwork inside.
Me: Khalid, I would like to use the bathroom, would you watch this for me please?
Khalid: (Looking uncharacteristically blank) What?
Me: Watch this for me please? Here, take it.
Khalid: (Cheerfully) Ok!
I use the bathroom and return to Khalid. He hands me my folder- dripping wet.
Me: Khalid, what happened?
Khalid: I washed it for you!
Me: You washed it?
Khalid: Yes. With soap and water.
Me: *blink blink*
Khalid: *proud smile*
Me: Good job sweetheart. Thank you.
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Thanks Miffy.
For my next act, I will sit down and write. I will write about writing. I will write about the internet. And then, I will post my writing on the internet.
*applause*
It begins with a physiotherapist named Miffy. Miffy has been twisting me into knots for over two years now, and Alhamdulillah, her multi-disciplinary pretzel-making skills have been keeping my wonky right leg and my wobbly back in working order. It has taken me two years, however, to learn one amazing thing about Miffy: Miffy does not have internets at home. Not a single one.
I learned this two days ago, and if I hadn’t been mashed face-down into the therapy table, I think my jaw would have dropped off and hit the floor. Miffy doesn’t have an internet connection at her house.
She doesn’t use the internet recreationally.
When she wants to get in touch, she calls.
When she is bored, she goes somewhere.
When she wants to read, she picks up a book. A real one, with pages and everything!
Instead of LOLcats and Reddit, she fills her time with tennis, friends, and the obsolete cultural artifact known as a “Life.”
I was awed.
See? Then, I was embarrassed. Here is a woman who lives without the internet, and here is me beginning every topic www and ending with dot com. I saw an interesting documentary… on youtube. I read an article I wanted to share- on whatever.com. Some cat in a sock made me laugh. Then there was this video and they were all like “Windmill cookies!” This whole time Miffy has been listening and laughing politely, but I now know she has zero intention of going home and looking up Tard the Grumpy Cat. Why? because she has zero internet at home. And she is not going to be getting any anytime soon. Why? Because Miffy is smarter than I am.
Now, we get to writing.
In the past, people have asked me why I haven’t written any new stories since I have been married. I’ve always said that with the kids, I don’t have enough time to write. However, I think the answer may not be the addition of children as much as it was the addition of unlimited internet when I moved in with HF. I have three children and a job, but I have no lack of ideas and no lack of the desire to write. What I lack is the willpower to free myself from living in the internet.
I know this because I seem to have about two hours a day after the kids go to bed during which I find lots of time to do things like Reddit. If I wrote for two hours a day for just a month, I’d be halfway done with the behavior analysis book for Muslim parents that I’ve mentally written a few times already.
Once upon a time, I didn’t live on the internet. I spent my time doing other things- blogging. Writing. Gaming. Stories. Articles. Poems. Reading Qur’an. Exercising. Cooking. Sewing. Friends. You know. Life?
The internet was something I sat down and did with a purpose- I needed a recipe, or I needed to email a friend, or I needed to find a handout to teach plosive consonants, or I wanted to find out more information about a hadith I read somewhere. That was all once upon a time. Now, I don’t even use the internet for personal email. I am in touch with almost no friends. I spend my day working and being Momma, and my nights drowning in youtube and the next funniest thing in the world for five whole minutes. Admittedly, I watch a lot of documentaries, but just because they’re a “smart” waste of time doesn’t make them less of a waste of time.
In the past I have cut back my internet usage. I officially did tawbah from websitewithprofanitylacedbutfascinatingarticles.com. I also swore off that website where people write their secrets on postcards. I’ve restricted what websited I go to by content, but I’ve never tried to make myself stop using the internet recreationally. Or rather, purposelessly. I think I need to try that. I don’t think I’ll be able to live without the internet entirely, but I know I would lead a much richer, realer life if I spent my time with purpose.
-sigh-
On the plus side, I don’t need to worry about Miffy ever reading this. You know, because she doesn’t do internet?
In any case, three cheers for Miffy, who can make my spine snap crackle and pop more than a bowl of rice crispies, and whose mature use of her time has opened my eyes. You guys can thank her for this blog entry too. And thank Allah for every minute we’re alive, and ask for His help in spending it wisely. Ameen.
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If you can’t say anything nice…
The parents of a child who made gradual but consistent progress for the year and a half my therapists worked with him left the country with an unpaid bill of 16,000 aed (that’s roughly 4,000 dollars) after promising to pay. They ignored my phone calls and emails for three months. I caught the mother out by calling her from another number, and when I met her in person to discuss settling the unpaid bill, she said she didn’t want to pay the bill and if we insisted we pay then she would call the police and report my team for child abuse.
This, from a woman whose services were never stopped even when she was late to pay for months at a time, who was exempted from late fees because of the financial difficulty she said she was in, and who kept saying I had to trust her and that she would always pay and that she was not a cheat.
This, from a woman who said we were both mothers of special needs children and that we had to trust each other.
I run a zero-profit business and have not received a salary in two years. I have licensing fees to pay this month and staff who have a right to their salaries. It will most likely cost me more money to prosecute this woman than I will get back from her. So now what?
Humanity has hit a new low in my eyes.
Auzubillah.
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Gorgeously *Normal*
Me: Khalid, can you give Musfira one of your chips please?
-Khalid looks into bag-
Khalid: I’m sorry, I don’t have any more.
Me: (Sappy happy grin)
****
Khalid: Did you know, the trains in Train Conductor 2 run in New York!
Me: New York?
Khalid: Yeah, not old York, New York. That’s funny!
Me: -swoon-
***
Me: Khalid, did you take a shower?
Khalid: Yes
Me: When? You already showered today?
Khalid: No.
Me: You need to go shower Khalid.
Khalid: -whining and getting off of computer- But I took a shower last week!
I put on a ‘stern’ face and lead Khalid to the shower, laughing with joy on the inside. SubhanAllahi Wabihamdihi- Khalid is still far from neurotypical, but he’s so far from where he’s come that sometimes I can’t believe there’s anything wrong with him. There’s nothing wrong with him, really. It’s everyone else who has the problem adjusting to his innocent oddness. I adore him, I really do. Alhamdulillah.
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Homeschooling: We are now.
I’m worried about Khalid. He hasn’t been feeling well these past few days, and his tolerance for things has been reduced to almost zero. Can’t find train? Sob. Don’t like color of cereal? Sob. Don’t want to greet guest? Sob. Thomas the Tank engine dubbed in Arabic? MELTDOWN.
When we ask him questions, he doesn’t respond- he seems zoned out and lost somewhere out in outer space. There are times when his eyes seem almost empty. I don’t mean to be melodramatic- there are plenty of times when Khalid is mentally present and accounted for, it’s just that we’ve been so blessed to have Khalid doing so well for so long that it’s been a while since I’ve been genuinely worried about his development.
But I am now- and I am coming to realize that although Khalid’s funny soliloquies about trains delight me, they are almost unintelligible to anyone who doesn’t speak Khalidese. So, he really needs to start Speech Therapy. And I love watching him run, but his running is more of a flapping bounce with a vague windmilling action of the left arm. His fine motor skills are lacking too- he hates writing or even holding a pen- his handwriting is worse than Iman’s, and she’s four. So yes- I am worried about Khalid more so than usual, and trust me- mothers worry a LOT.
The really great thing about worry though is that you make such awesome dua after salah. There’s nothing like fear and desperation to give you sincerity in your prayer. Try it- next time you’re about to make dua, think about something that you are afraid of. Think of something that gnaws away at your mental peace- of a situation whose realization is a worst-case scenario in your mind- and then pray. You’d be surprised at how much more so your prayer is actually a prayer as compared to a verbatim rehearsal of Hisnul Muslim.
School will be starting soon. Rather- school will NOT be starting soon. Khalid and Iman will, InshaAllah, be homeschooled this year. HF and I came to this decision after lots and research, soul-searching, and being rejected from other schools. :p
For the second year in a row, Khalid has been guaranteed placement in the less-than-mediocre private school that he has been biding his time in but denied admission into every other school we’ve applied to. As usual, he scored perfectly on the assessments, impressed the teachers and unintentionally charmed the heads of primary, but was then rejected after weeks of meetings by administration staff who have never met him. So for the second year in a row, we’re being told- “So sorry, better luck next year?”
We could take Khalid back to the school he just finished 1st grade in, but the education quality was awful, the kids were without teachers for weeks at a time due to staff quitting, the Arabic program was ATROCIOUS and there was severely limited opportunities for social engagement. Our top priority for Khalid in school was actually socializing, but due to the old world educational philosophy of good old education through intimidation, there was very little of that happening for any of the students. BE QUIET! NO TALKING! GET IN LINE! EYES IN FRONT! HANDS TO YOURSELF!
I may be expecting too much, but I was blessed to have had the opportunity to be in a school program where we were given problems and then sent to work on them in teams independently. Once we had worked out a solution, we presented it to the class. We didn’t just solve, we thought. We learned how to research, to think critically, and to develop social skills through meaningful interaction. None of these things are happening in the current school. Not a single one. The desks face forward. The kids stay silent out of fear of being yelled at. The teacher writes something down. You copy it. Then you go home. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Because Khalid is academically advanced, mainstream school is a waste of time unless he’s being socially and verbally challenged. And since he’s not, he’ll be doing his academics at his own pace at home, and then we’re adding soccer and other extra-curriculars to give him some quality socialization afterwards. Iman will be getting the same- she’s a bright sparkly pink star (Alhamdulillah) who has wasted a year in KG learning her alphabets when she can already sight read.
I am, to be perfectly frank- petrified. Homeschooling? With work? And aaaaaaargh I don’t even want to start on work- there’s not a post window big enough to contain all of my anxiety about work. I have twelve staff, over 25 kids, and no accountant, no admin- only me to handle everything related to administration, operations, finance- it makes my head spin.
And on top of this, I’m homeschooling?
Yes, I’ll be hiring a teacher to go over the academic material with the kids, but I’m going to be taxiing the kids to and from their extracurriculars as well as overseeing everything, and I’m nervous.
But you know what? AllahuAkbar. Allah is the Greatest, and if we bent over backwards trying to get the kids into a school but found we were left with no choice but homeschooling, then there is good in it, InshaAllah. Allah is the best of planners, and perhaps- like having a child with autism- homeschooling Khalid and Iman will be an enriching and life-changing experience that takes my patience, time-management, and parenting skills to the next level. InshaAllah.
Please remember us in your duas, that we’ve made the decision that is best for Khalid and Iman’s education and development as little humans and little Muslims, and that Allah blesses me with the time, patience, and ability to manage home, work, and homeschool without compromising the quality of any of the above.
Ameen, Ameen, Ameen.
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Iman’s Dua
Oh Allah, thank you for aaaaaaallll the gifts.
Oh Allah, thank you for paradise.
Oh Allah, thank you for aaaaaaallll the children in this life.
Oh Allah, thank you for the nice clothes.
Oh Allah, thank you for aaaaaaallll the buildings
Oh Allah, thank you for aaaaaaallllthe grandmas and nanas.
Oh Allah, thank you for me.
Ameen.
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Cleaning up my desktop
I have the bad habit of using my desktop to keep unsorted files in view until they can be assigned to a file in my vast, over-sorted dropbox. Some things though, aren’t like to find a home, and fit into the category of: Stuff I’d like to read again. Tonight though, my beloved lappy is scheduled to be
brainwashedformatted, so it’s time to move some of the miscellaneous desktop stuff to a new home- this blog.___________________
Unfinished Blog: Highway Hifz Program
You may be one of those people who sings in the shower, hums in the kitchen, and has every infernal lyric to every song you’ve ever heard- good or bad- written in stone in your head. Bad news- you are a human mp3 player. Good news- you’re a prime candidate for a highway Hifz program.
Good news for human mp3 players- I used to commute 120 miles, 4 days a week for my son’s therapy program in Dubai from Abu Dhabi, and I learned lots of things from the drive. One is that the best shawarma in the UAE is at Baraka Grills, near exit 366 on theDubai-Abu Dhabi Highway. The other is that time spent in the car can be time invested in your deen, via your own personal Highway Hifz program. All you need is a good CD or mp3 of Juz Amma, and the desire to memorize more Qur’an, and pretty soon, not only will you have revised and fine-tuned recitation of verses you already knew, but you’ll begin adding more and more slowly to the playlist in your heart.
Other benefits include:
1. Using your commute for Ibada, and not just getting from point A to point B.
2. Reprogramming your mental jukebox by converting more of your mental tracks that benefit you and increase your status on the Day of Judgment instead of bring you down. We all suffer from a certain song that pops into our head uninvited and escapes from our mouths unintentionally. Having Qur’an on the brain means you’re more likely to be reciting Qur’an than singing, and the amazing thing is, it’s guilt-free, it’s refreshing to the soul, and the more you beautify your recitation, the more it penetrates you heart and the more you increase in love for recitation. I never enjoyed listening to the Qur’an until I started reciting it myself.
3. (Crash into the gates of Jannah?) Increasing the likelihood of dying with Zhikr on your lips in case of a car accident. If you’re going to crash and die, wouldn’t you rather be reciting Qur’an from the depth of your heart rather than singing Lady Ga-Ga at the top of your lungs? Or worse, screaming four-letter words about excrement? Increasing the likelihood of dying with Zhikr on your lips in case of a car accident.
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Inspiring Hadith: 70,000 without Reckoning
Narrated Ibn ‘Abbas: Allah’s Apostle said, ‘Nations were displayed before me; one or two prophets would pass by along with a few followers. A prophet would pass by accompanied by nobody. Then a big crowd of people passed in front of me and I asked, Who are they Are they my followers?” It was said, ‘No. It is Moses and his followers It was said to me, ‘Look at the horizon.” Behold! There was a multitude of people filling the horizon. Then it was said to me, ‘Look there and there about the stretching sky! Behold! There was a multitude filling the horizon,’ It was said to me, ‘This is your nation out of whom seventy thousand shall enter Paradise without reckoning.’ “Then the Prophet entered his house without telling his companions who they (the 70,000) were. So the people started talking about the issue and said, “It is we who have believed in Allah and followed His Apostle; therefore those people are either ourselves or our children who are born m the Islamic era, for we were born in the Pre-lslamic Period of Ignorance.” When the Prophet heard of that, he came out and said. “Those people are those who do not treat themselves with Ruqya, nor do they believe in bad or good omen (from birds etc.) nor do they get themselves branded (Cauterized). but they put their trust (only) in their Lord ” On that ‘Ukasha bin Muhsin said. “Am I one of them, O Allah’s Apostle?’ The Prophet said, “Yes.” Then another person got up and said, “Am I one of them?” The Prophet said, ‘Ukasha has anticipated you.”
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One of the upsides to autism
Last week over breakfast, Khalid sneezed and then said: “Alhamdulillah. Momma, now you say- Yarhamakullah, and then I say yahdeekumAllahu wa yuslihu balakum.”You can stare blankly for a moment. That’s what I did, and then I realized- he’s been reading through every page of the Dua Kids application on my iPhone, and as usual- he’s not just reading it- he’s memorizing it. It’s not a fast process by any means, Khalid is like a slow, logical locomotive. Or rather- an intellectual iceberg- most of Khalid goes on way below the surface, and we only occasionally get an idea of how deep he goes.
A few days ago, from the dining table over dinner- he gave me precise road directions to reach Ski Dubai from Abu Dhabi. Then he ate a french fry. He asks me the names of the roads we’re driving on, and when I’m wrong he corrects me. He tells me the interchanges we’ll be driving past before we’ve passed them. Of course, he still can’t answer simple questions like- Khalid, why aren’t you wearing pants yet?- but he is storing massive amounts of interesting information in his beautiful little head and it comes out in the most hilariously brilliant ways.
And that hilarious brilliance is why I am blogging right now- because I end up forgetting too many of Khalid’s pearls of wisdom, and ten minutes ago, he said one that I want to remember forever.
For a job well done, Khalid and Iman were both awarded two mini marshmallows. Iman, in typical teasing fashion, said: Khalid, I can squash your marshmallows!
Khalid, without even looking up from his trains said, and I quote:
“The Messenger of Allah, salAllahu Alaiha wa sallim said ‘Do not squash marshmallows.”
-end quote-
AllahuAkbar
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Well, at least she’s honest.
Me, Holding out a pile of hair that Iman has just cut right off the top of her head: Iman, why did you cut your hair?
Iman: Because I want you to take me to the beauty salon?
