Abez sez Assalamualaikum!

Author: Abez

Red Velvet Ramblings

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

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

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

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

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

Her top speed is three diapers in five minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 9, 2011
And I quote

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

______

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

___________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

😮

June 24, 2011
The best kind of outsourcing!

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

Thursday, June 16, 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 17, 2011
Alhamdulillah 🙂

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

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

June 15, 2011
Status check

*pokes self*

Still here, check!

*pokes stomach*

*stomach pokes back*

Still pregnant, check!

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

You learn something new every day. :p

Nine days and counting, InshaAllah.

June 6, 2011
The business license should say ‘Frustrated Incorporated’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excuse me, I think my misanthropy is showing.

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

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

SubhanAllah. I do have some happy thoughts, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 3, 2011
At this point, I’ll take whatever compliments I can get.

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

Me: Like a Burj Khalifa?

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

May 24, 2011
Nine months pregnant. Again, Alhamdulillah 🙂

Here’s my post for nine months pregnant with Khalid

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

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

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

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

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

Me: My tummy is big?

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

Me: Thank you. I’m glad you like it.

Iman: Momma, P is for princess!

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

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

-return to computer-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

“Same shoes?”

“Yes.”

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

“Why would I need one?”

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

“Who would I give it to?”

“The center you work for.”

“I’m the director.”

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

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

The doctor looks at me again, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you dear.”

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

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

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

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

May 21, 2011
Her grasp of phonics can be… tenuous.

Look Momma, issa letter double-yoo!

Good girl Iman, you’re right!

Double-yoo is for Spiderman!

O_0

Web?

Yes, and big cookies!

Good job Iman.

May 18, 2011
A First, but Probably not a Last

This afternoon Khalid requested ‘momma’s kemtooter,’ so as I was heading out for a meeting, I came to turn my laptop on and log in for him so he can play games. My computer has been password protected for a few months now, roughly since Iman realized she could drag, drop, and delete icons from the desktop. Today, I turned on the computer and Khalid, instead of waiting for me to log in, plopped down in my chair.

“Oh, it’s password! It’s happy! 123! Let’s counting!”

I freeze.

“Khalid, you know my password?”

“Um, yeah!”

His chubby finger slowly types 1-2-3. And then instead of hitting enter, he accidentally hits backspace.

“Oops!”

He hits 3 again, presses enter, and officially becomes the youngest and most adorable little hacker in the history of both adorableness and hacking. No one told him what the password is, but it’s safe to assume that he’s just watching me type 1-2-3 enough times to figure out what I’m doing.

I am so proud. And I am so changing my password.

May 15, 2011
When good reporting goes bad, lol

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/05/05/osama-bin-laden-marijuana-crop_n_858301.html

I’m not usually a political or news-related blogger, but this had me laughing so hard I had to say something- Marijuana has been found growing near Osama Bin Laden’s hide-out in Abbottabad. Now speculation has been flying wild and free about whether or not he was a joker, smoker, or midnight toker- or maybe just a dealer to make money on the side, who knows.

I’m sorry, I lived in Pakistan for eight years, and in Islamabad and Rawalpindi, and almost the ENTIRE NORTHERN AREAS (like Abottabad) marijuana is a pernicious, giant weed. It grows knee-high by the road-side, it invades the common garden, it crops up in farm fields and the goats eat it and get all giggly. I’m serious. It’s like crab grass. Or dandelions. Except if you make pakoras out of it (which the villagers sometimes do) you tend to feel a bit mellow later. It’s an indigenous plant in Northern Pakistan, which is why so many unwashed westerners with backpacks and vacant stares disembark at the Islamabad airport and then wander aimlessly north. It’s a free drug destination. Pick it, roll it, smoke it. It grows everywhere. What are you doing to do, burn it?

Heh.

May 12, 2011
Khalid’s first blog: Dictated by Khalid himself.

My name is Khalid.

I am five years old.

I like strawberry milk juice.

My sister is Iman.

My baba is sitting.

My momma is sitting on the sofa.

Miss Taleen is big.

Miss Hind is big.

Swish milk.

Joy and Iman are in the house.

Iman is late.

Couting 123! 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10!

2 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 20!

A chocolate cookie is eating the brown cookie.

Where is my two hats?

Khalid is so hungry!

Eating the Khalid!

School bus is yellow. The school bus is going to the Arabian Center.

Khalid is big! Iman is small!

Wow! Wow! It’s something! Wow! It’s something yellow!

Ikea Carpet?

(Khalid leaves to drive his yellow school bus on the road carpet from Ikea)

By Khalid, the end.

May 2, 2011
Last Day of April

It’s been over two and a half years since I was thrown into the deep end of autism parenting and just over six months since I started AutismUAE, and while it’s impossible to say that you’ve heard it all, one can assume that they’ve heard a fair amount. But nothing I had ever heard before affected me like what I heard last night, first hand, from a behavioral consultant visiting from abroad.

She went to visit a family to assess their child. She entered and made small talk, and asked where the young boy was. They pointed her towards a room.

There she found, in an empty room, a little boy restrained and with his hands bound.

And that was how he lived.

Every day.

I’m not done crying about it yet.

April 30, 2011
Kids these days…

At the Arabian Center's 'petting' zoo

Iman: Look momma, issa angry bird!

April 28, 2011
Muslim Matters on Sexual Harassment in Muslim Cultures

Hena Zuberi just published a great, awesome, relevant, necessary, important article about sexual harassment in the Muslim community, and I found myself typing a comment so long it could stand alone. And I think it should, because the more websites, the more people, the more Muslims talk about sexual harassment, the more people there will be to stand against it, InshaAllah. Before reading my post, I recommend reading the original post here.

Unfortunately, I know the humiliation of the Pakistani bazaars and tailors too. I learned to carry a big, empty purse (empty, because the bag would be exposed to pickpockets) and place it over my backside while walking through the crowded streets, and to walk with my elbows out to make more space around my body and to move only in groups. We learned which tailors were safe and which were not, and it didn’t matter if he made your sleeves too big and your pants sideways, at least he was shareef and you could go back and have the clothes fixed without being groped. My extended family in Karachi has been using the same tailor for so long that he was the family tailor when I was 9, and I’m 30 now.

I have heard stories of getting fed up and screaming one’s head off, but in a tight crowd, you don’t even know who you’re screaming at. I’ve spoken to cousins who say they want to smash someone’s face in, but they turn around and don’t even know who touched them. Even here in Dubai there are cases of taxi drivers, men in shopping malls, coworkers, legal sponsors, even waiters and cleaners making deliberate, inappropriate contact with women. It is punished, *when* it can be proven, but when women are so shocked they don’t react or are too humiliated to draw attention to it, it simply repeats itself as silent abuse.
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Owl and I have both had plenty of experience with this, and I used to think it was because we were half-white, and therefore gori-chitti-ai hai recipents of unwanted attention anywhere we went. It turns out that this happens to any sort of woman in Pakistan- anywhere where molesters can hide in the crowd. Another one of my cousins told me about a man touching her through a space in the seats while seated behind her on a bus. Yet another got her chest grabbed by catering staff in typical wedding-buffet traffic, and for years afterwards we held our dinner plates at chest level for the same reason.

I was angry about it as a young woman, but now as a mother, I think I would fly into a face-punching rage if I saw someone inappropriately touching either of my children. I never reacted this way as a young girl or teenager, but perhaps I needed those years of suffering (I lived in Pk for eight years!) to help me break out of the passive shame. The first time I ever spoke out was at a wedding here in Dubai, and I was standing near the bride & groom’s seating area when I felt someone press very definitely against me. It was not a crowded space, and although there were other guests standing around and socializing in the same area, there was no question about there being enough room to pass me without initiating full body-on-body contact. At first I was stunned. I turned and looked behind me to see one of catering staff sidling away from behind me without making eye contact or even acknowledging what had just happened. Then I wondered whether or not I had imagined it, which I think must be a standard reaction when that happens. You doubt yourself, and sometimes if the groper is subtle you might even make excuses for them. Your mind would rather do anything than admit what had just happened, and that’s what my mind did.

And then I remembered Pakistan. And I remembered what it feels like to be bumped in to accidentally by a waiter (Oh, sorry! So Sorry! Excuse me!). And then I remembered being pushed against, brushed against, pressed against like this in bazaars, on crowded streets, sometimes within shops themselves by men craning to look at merchandise just over your shoulder, baji. And unless someone is walking pelvis-first and in slow-motion, there’s no reason why I should feel that part of another person pressing against me. That’s not how human beings walk, especially here in the UAE, where employees trip over themselves to stay out of a woman’s way for fear of being arrested and deported (and maybe a little beaten, too) by her angry husband. The police do not deal very graciously with groping here, so if you want to keep your job, you have the sense to watch where you’re walking.

So I told HF, and I adore him for this, his first question was Who? He didn’t say ‘are you sure?’ or ‘maybe he just bumped in to you?’ or ‘you probably imagined it.’ He took me on my word and even told his brother, who was also a guest at the same wedding. At the time I was embarrassed that he did so, but later I felt happy and relieved that HF found nothing shameful about what had happened and brought in reinforcements to help protect a woman in the family.

I was able to point the man out. HF made note of the name on his tag and discreetly found the manager. About half an hour later the manager came to apologize with the same server. He said he had tripped, and while the man looked blank and unapologetic as the manager issued an apology on his behalf, at least he had been caught out. About an hour after we left the wedding a higher level manager called to apologize, saying the man had stumbled somehow, but was profusely sorry. Nothing much happened, and nothing much came of it (as far as I know anyway) but hey- I did it! I told someone! And no one yelled at me, or called me a liar, or told me I was making things up. And most importantly, no one said it was my fault.

Alhamdulillah for good men, and Auzubillah for the bad ones. I guess every man needs to decide which one he’s going to be. And every woman needs to decide whether or not she’s going to suffer in silence or take a stand. Angrily turning around and yelling ‘who touched me?’ may not yield any immediate confessions, but at least a groper will think twice about whether he wants to be caught. The sooner we stop blaming and shaming ourselves, the sooner we can speak up and InshaAllah, give sight to the blind eye that is otherwise turned to casual sexual harassment.

Video from the Harassment in Egypt Blog

April 26, 2011
P is for poke, apparently.

(I am sitting at the dining table working on my computer, and suddenly I get a jabbing feeling in my left side.)

Me: Iman! What are you doing?

(Iman grins and holds up her pink pencil)

Iman: I poking you!

Me: Yes, I can see that. If you want to get my attention, say excuse me Momma!

Iman: Excuse me momma?

Me: Yes Iman?

Iman: Can I poke you?

:s

April 25, 2011
Knee-high Theology

So I’m home again in Dubai, 32 weeks pregnant and horribly sick- I’ve spent the last four days more asleep than awake, if you can count passing out punctuated by coughing myself silly as sleeping. Today I get to see an ENT finally, Alhamdulillah. We’re getting ready to pack the kids into the car and make a family trip to the hospital. In the background, onions are frying. Tonight, HF is making biryani. 🙂

A few days ago we sat down and watched an adorable anime called Summer Wars, which has a nice, non-violent, non-romantic story line that the kids enjoyed. There was only one problem though- Obacha dies. The old grandmother, who is the matriarch of the extended family, passes away in her sleep and animourning ensues. And of course, Iman fixates on this, and a full two days after having watched the cartoon, she pipes up at dinner:

“Momma, what happened to the gwamma?”

-pause-

(HF looks at me expectantly)

“The grandma died and InshaAllah she went to Jannah. Do you remember the story about Jannah? Jannah is the most beautiful place ever, with castles and lovely clothes and yummy food!”

“Werizit?”

“With Allah! Allah is up!”

“Up onna house?”

“No, higher than that. Up past the sky.”

“Up inna stars?”

“Even higher than the stars.”

Khalid swallows his rice and says, “Moon.”

“Very good Khalid! But Allah is past the moon too. He’s higher than that. And that’s where Jannah is.”

“Angel.”

-HF and I are collectively flabbergasted-

“Yes, the angels are in Jannah…”

“Angel fell down.”

*blinkblink*

“Shaitan wasn’t an angel, but he fell down to earth. You’re right.”

“Angels onna earth. Angel is there. Jumping.”

We turn and look towards the front door, where Khalid is gesturing.

“If you say so sweetie.”

The End. 🙂

April 24, 2011
How’s this for an update?
I’m sitting here waiting for the next interview to begin and thought I’d actually post something. Alhamdulillah, the trip is going well. Yesterday we held a 2 1/2 hour orientation for therapists and some seniors from a local center. After that we interviewed four of them, hopped into a taxi, and then went to the other side of town to meet with the Executive Director of the Autism Society of the Philippines (ASP). He was such a lovely person to talk to,he was very helpful and gave us the inside-out of how ASP works, what the structure is, how they’re funded (or not!) what their projects are, etc.

Joy renewed her membership, and I signed AutismUAE up as a member as well and we’re very happy to support them in any way we can. The ASP reminds me of us, really. The Executive Director- Ranil- sits in a one-room office with a total staff of four- there are fifty national chapters, but he’s still the one driving around, making phone calls, running errands- the fancy titles don’t mean much and everyone does whatever is required regardless of the job description.

It felt a bit strange introducing myself to a board room (eep!) full of therapists yesterday as the Director (eep!) and I felt like I had to specify that I was also the driver, the clerk, the web designer, and the office boy- but after having met Ranil, I feel less self-conscious. I feel less like I’m ‘pretending’ to be a director and more like making coffee and copies is actually part of the directorial job description.

Yes, I’m sure there are people in managerial positions out there who pay other people to wipe their noses for them, but I don’t see that as anything I aspire to. And I feel better now that it doesn’t seem like that would be expected of me, either. *phew*

The interviews that I mentioned in the first paragraph actually happened some time between the second and third paragraph, and now that they’re over, I can talk about them. We have two potential therapists who both have their Bachelors degrees in Child Psychology, are in their final year of Masters in Special Education, and have four years of ABA experience with two very reputable centers. We’re not hiring them yet though, we’re giving them three months to develop… the powers of speech. :p They’re too shy, too quiet, too polite, not loud enough, not verbal enough, and not confident enough to swim with the sharks in Dubai, the sharks being the demanding, inquiring, and highly verbal parents that they’ll be working with.

Unlike center-based therapy, where contact between therapist and parent is very limited, home-based therapy involves complete immersion of the therapist into the child’s home environment. There is no middle-man to mediate, and since therapists and parents together form the team that is responsible for the materials, the learning environment, and the consistency of the behavior modification plan from each family member, the therapist needs to go in wearing their own pair of bossy boots.

Yes. Bossy boots. Big, steel-toed, bossy boots. You grow them after developing the confidence that you know what you’re talking about and it’s more important that the child be taught correctly than to be mis-taught because you’re afraid of offending a ‘senior’ therapist or parent.

These two therapists were not wearing bossy boots. They were wearing what we call the too-nice loafers of Pinoy Politeness, where the cultural norm is that it’s more important to be polite than honest, and rather than say ‘no’ to anything (because it could potentially offend someone) it’s better to say yes and then disappear. I’ve been in this situation twice or thrice already, and twice (TWO TIMES!) this has involved people accepting jobs and then being nowhere to be found when it comes time to sign the contract. They don’t answer email, they don’t answer phones- they just disappear. And weeks later we find out from other therapists that, in one case, the therapist’s significant other didn’t want her working abroad, and in the other case, the therapist changed her own mind about working abroad but at no point whatsoever decided to inform me.

We’ve even had one candidate cut and run- literally- from the car of a family we set up an interview with, and disappear. After making a few phone calls, we discovered that her aunt had worked for the same family before, and reported that the mother could be verbally abusive. Why she couldn’t have told us this before we set up the interview, before she got on the bus, before she traveled for two hours and then gotten into the mother’s car only to jump out again a few minutes later- I don’t know.

I digress. Alhamdulillah, we have finalized and approved of our next three therapists, all of whom are wearing BIG OLE BOSSY BOOTS because they’re all senior-level therapists with years of experience managing other therapists in addition to their children, and they have the presence to prove it. Among them, even the quietest senior- who has been an ABA therapist for seven years- makes up in content what she lacks in volume. She reminds me of a neighbor that Erma Bombeck once wrote about in one of her many gems as a humor columnist. Erma described herself as a mother who screamed and yelled her kids into obedience (or some semblance thereof) and bitterly resented the demure Southern Belle who lived next door and never raised her voice above a whisper. Imagine her surprise one day when her kids came back home and reported that they had been gently told, in the most feminine whisper, that if they played ball on that lawn again they’d have their gizzards ripped out. 0_0

So yes, volume. You don’t always need it. 🙂

Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, by the time we’re done processing papers (which could take two months) our team will be comprised of:
- Joy: My lead therapist and Khalid’s ABA therapist who commands such authority that if she weren’t handling kids she’d be bossing around a naval fleet somewhere. She’s been with us for a year and a half now.
- Jel: A superstar Physical Therapist turned ABA therapist who earns rave reviews from the parents as well as the visiting case managers and psychologists. She’s been with us since the beginning of this year.
- Grace: An English teacher turned ABA therapist who is four and a half feet tall but manages older, more severe children two feet taller and double her weight. She’s been with us for two weeks and is already garnering good feedback from parents.
- Cheng: She’s the senior therapist with seven years of experience, a degree in Child Psychology and the authoritative whisper. We hope to have her in Dubai within the next two weeks, max.
- Adrian: A broad, tall Physical Therapist and senior ABA therapist who handles the 16 year olds and physically demanding children. He is scheduled to be down by mid-May of this year at the latest, InshaAllah. He will be joined by:
- Sherry: His wife, who is also a senior therapist, possibly even smaller than Grace but with no less command in her personality.
- Jan-Jan: A senior therapist, Physical Therapy graduate with a Masters degree in Special Education who has also been giving speech therapy to deaf children for the last three years.
- GNet: Another triple-header- A Physical Therapist, Special Ed Masters, and senior ABA therapist- GNet also taught high school for four years, so she’s got the kind of bossy-boots that you come to expect from someone who has taught teenagers.
After that, we have our two too-nice Pinoy Polite aba therapists with Child Psych degrees. They’ve been given three months to take up public speaking, debate, or just arguing with people around them :p and then they’ll come back for a reevaluation. Not for their ABA skills, but for their confidence and ability to communicate effectively.

And now that we’ve wrapped up three intense days of work, Joy and I are heading to Qiapo- the Muslim part of town to visit the only Mosque in Manila and maybe find a halal lunch, InshaAllah.

Ma’Assalam!
April 13, 2011
Live from Manila…

Wow, the Philippines looks a lot like Karachi- but with more shorts and flipflops and no donkeys. 🙂 And no one even stares. Which I am amazed and impressed by. Am here for one and a half more days of interviews and meetings, but I’ll try to update tomorrow if I can. 🙂

A Jeepny- a bit like a stretch-limo rickshaw, lol

I did a double-take when I first saw this- Yes, 7-11 is here, and apparently, they're here on every single block!

April 12, 2011
Y’all are invited!

You're invited! April 9th, Zaabeel Park, 12pm Gate 1. BBQ & Fun for Autism Awareness!

April 4, 2011
April is Autism Awareness Month!

Because it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t slather my blog in as much autism as my daily life is slathered in, this month, I intend to post as much as possible about autism. Whether you want me to or not. :p So here I go. 🙂

First of all, there’s this picture gallery of individuals with autism from around the world. Many thanks to Hemlock who mailed me the link today. I like to think that I’m seasoned enough to keep it together when talking/looking/dealing/interacting with autism, since not only do I do that at home with my own son, but also with the children and families that our therapists take care of, but I cried anyway. Maybe it’s because I’m pregnant and slightly more emotional than usual, or maybe it’s because I feel for each of the families in the pictures. I’m not sure, it’s a combination of both, most likely. But I know I’m not the only one who gets hit by this unexpectedly sometimes. A certain nice man who just happens to live with me (though I won’t say who) was once reduced to silent, manly tears by this Arabic nasheed about autism. Me? I bawled. And I don’t even think I was pregnant when I saw the video so that kind of shoots down the hormones excuse.

Second of all, Khalid turned five this March, Alhamdulillah. 🙂 And Iman turned three. Alhamdulillah. My amazingly beautiful, vicious, unexpected little savages- who are studying Arabic in anticipation for their entrance exam to a bilingual KG program- are busy running, jumping, arguing, and whacking each other out of babyhood and into young childhood. We’re praying that InshaAllah, come KG-2 in September, Khalid won’t need a shadow in school. At the moment, Joy goes to school with him every day to help him, basically, learn how to learn. He will always need some extra support, but if he can function independently in a school setting, then that’s a huge step towards independence in the real world. Please make dua that Khalid can take that step, because the sooner he can pass for ‘normal,’ the sooner teachers stop handling him with kid gloves- an educational tactic which is the frustrating equivalent of ‘give the kid what he wants, don’t make the retard cry.’

I know they mean well, but when Khalid is asked to do something by the teacher that he doesn’t want to do and Joy is working hard to teach Khalid to listen for the teacher’s instructions and follow through, it’s utterly useless for the teacher to backtrack as soon as she sees expectations being placed on Khalid and say “Oh no, it’s ok! He can lay in the middle of the floor while everyone else sits nicely on the mat!” or “Look class, Khalid is helping us choose a song!” as Khalid is gleefully pushing buttons on the CD player in the middle of the lesson.

The teacher is, in essence, undermining her own authority as well as Joy’s, and un-teaching the compliance skills that we’ve spent over two years building. Khalid’s motto is, and has been since birth, “You And What Army?” When other kids in the center got over their initial resistance to therapy within the first few sessions, Khalid insisted on crying himself silly for over three weeks. I would peek through the window in the therapy room to see him blowing bubbles- and sobbing. Putting coins in the piggy bank- and sobbing. Cutting toy fruit with a novelty-sized plastic kitchen knife- and yes, sobbing. He is still remarkably stubborn, strong-willed, and very determined in very nearly everything he does. He does not suggest, he insists. His train does not say choo-choo, it says beep beep, and if you suggest otherwise, he will get angry. RTA is not an acronym for Roads and Transport Authority, it is a word in itself and it is pronounced ‘ri-taa’ every time an RTA taxi, bus, or metro train pass by.

I digress. Compliance has been one of our toughest battles, and I get really, really annoyed when I pick Joy and Khalid up from school and Joy is sighing from exasperation because the teacher let Khalid lay at her feet as she stroked his hair while the other children sat nicely on the circle and listened to the story. (Teacher’s pet, literally?) Joy has taken to simply removing Khalid from these situations by walking him out of the classroom, much to the teacher’s confusion, as Joy basically has to step in and interrupt the lesson in order to reinforce such simple requests as ‘we sit in a circle during circle time’ which the teacher neglects because she ‘doesn’t want to make Khalid upset.’

SubhanAllah. Right. I think I’m supposed to be talking about autism. I am, really, but in a way specific to how people perceive a child with autism. I realize that people are trying to be sensitive, but my maternal hackles are raised (and teeth bared, too) every time people treat Khalid as something pitiable. Yes, fifty years ago they would have written him off as ‘retarded,’ because they didn’t realize what they are only slowly realizing now- that there is intelligence locked inside of body that fails the mind. Many non-verbal individuals still have 100% comprehension of what is being said around them, or have remarkable analytical, spatial, mathematical, or artistic abilities that go un-noticed for decades because they cannot be accessed, but not because they don’t exist.

So there.

April 2, 2011
Alhamdulillah for Clarity!

In the culmination of a journey that began in November, I finally have an assessment of my knee from Dr. Extremely Awesome of Harvard and pro-sports patients fame. OB’s have pictures of babies from happy parents. Pediatricians have thank-you’s posted on their walls that are drawn in crayon. This man’s entire clinic is cram-jammed with autographed jerseys, posters (and one basketball signed by Hakeem Olajuwon) from happy, rehabilitated soccer, football, and basketball players, so if he can fix them, he should be able to fix me, right?

Right? *earnest nodding*

*more nodding*

Right?

Alhamdulillah ‘ala kulli haal. Praise be to Allah in all circumstances. 🙂 Dr. Awesome and his Head King of Physio collectively concluded:

Surgery Number 1: Unnecessary. The surgeon says he is fixing a tear, but that’s not a tear. He melted it back together with laser. So he melted bits of my knee that never needed poking or melting.

(“You’re saying I have a chop-happy surgeon?”)

(“You said it, not me. In most hospitals surgeons only get paid when they do a surgery. In this clinic, they all earn a flat salary.”)

Surgery Number 2: Removal of problem that first surgery caused. Failed “repair” of meniscus then leads to partial removal of meniscus.

Surgery Number 3: Clean-up of back of knee cap can be warranted following a dashboard injury, though wouldn’t do much to help other problems in knee. Though it was nice that the crunching and grinding stopped afterwards.

The advice? If I meet anyone else who says surgery will fix my knee, run (or hobble) the other way. Apparently I have a combination of flat feet and knock knees that cause my legs to turn in slightly, therefore making my kneecaps rub against my femur lopsidedly. Instead of the force being distributed evenly between the convex femur and the concave kneecap, I have a 75% destroyed kneecap (grade 3 condramalasia [sp?]) rubbing against a the same side of my knee where the meniscus is no longer present, resulting in 1+1=3.

The solution? Very specific physio to tighten ligaments and muscles all the way up my leg with the desired outcome of properly re-aligning my kneecap so that the force is evenly distributed, reducing the pin-point wear and tear that is otherwise accumulating between my crooked knee, missing cartilage, and busticated kneecap.

I find this all amazing. SubhanAllah. I’m not sure how much of this is medicine and how much of this is physics, and I am even more amazed that it’s taken three surgeries and six years of physio, painkillers, and hyaluron gel injected into my knee to have- not a solution- but for once, an idea of what’s going on inside my knee. Everything happens for a reason, that much I know for sure, Alhamdulillah. At the very least, I got to post some cool surgery videos to my blog. Plus any trial/affliction that a believer faces with sabr and trust in Allah helps expiate sins and increase them in blessings. That’s a given too. Alhamdulillah. I’m still disappointed with the last two surgeons though. And I can’t help but wonder why they were unable to nail the problem down six years and three surgeries ago. It’s been six years since I’ve been able to do sajda and I miss it. I miss my face on the floor, feeling small and vulnerable and at peace, submitting everything that is human ego, “intellect,” and self-serving justification to Rabbi al-‘Alaa, my Lord Most High, before whom I am His servant, most low.

I miss being able to run, to walk any amount of distance, and it was only last year that I realized I wasn’t pressing for Hajj and Umrah because I felt humiliated by the possibility that I would do tawaaf in a wheelchair before I’m even 31. It stings even now, thinking about it, but who am I to feel stung by what Allah has decreed? Obviously there’s good in this for me, otherwise He wouldn’t have given me this challenge to overcome. And I may not be happy with losing what I feel is my physical capability, but I would be an idiot if I did not try to build my spiritual strength in its place.

I’m still human. Very much so. And my own frailty is frustrating. It always has been, but Alhamdulillah, I know it’s a test. I can’t climb a mountain. I can barely climb the stairs. But I have other abilities and Allah has given me the opportunity to do more than many, many other people. Yeah, so one knee doesn’t work so well. So the floor is far away and I keep my shoelaces knotted because I can’t tie them myself. Big whoop. I have my faith, I have my beautiful children, lovely husband and family, and the cognitive abilities to take my time and turn it into an act of service and a sadqa, InshaAllah. I can renegotiate my surroundings without being able to physically function in them, because I don’t need to climb over obstacles when I can work around them completely. I have resources, Alhamdulillah. And above all, I have Allah’s promise of complete justice, equity, and compensation for patience, faith, trust and hard work.

And at least now, Alhamdulillah, I have some clarity. There is no ‘fix’ for my knee. There is exercise and a long road of hard work for trying to physically change how the inside of my leg works. That’s ok. You know what else there is? Jannah. Where everyone has perfect everything. Perfect bodies and features- lovingly remade by Allah to exclude illness,tiredness, pain, and the impending doom of mortality. Nothing but perfect everything- not in the monotonous ‘strumming of harps on puffy white clouds’ version of eternity- but perfection in a capacity beyond the best conceivable spouse with the best, most emotionally, sexually, interpersonally fulfilling relationship you could imagine in the best, most amazing abode, with the best company among humankind, with the best food and having earned the best of rewards- Allah’s pleasure.

I want it all- safe, permanent, gorgeous, spacious home- a palace, in fact- the interior decorating of which is done by God Himself, which includes gardens and pavilions in an estate so vast that you’re suddenly the inheritor of an entire world of gardens beneath which rivers flow, where your next-door neighbors happen to be Prophets, companions, beloved family members- the best of mankind in the best form they could ever be remade in, free of pettiness, dishonesty, cruelty and sin, and retaining the personalities, souls, and memories of the lives that earned them Jannah in the first place.

I want all that’s good from this world, magnified and exponentially increased without any of what’s bad. I want an all-you-can-ea-buffet from Allah’s-Own-Catering that never causes fullness, obesity, indigestion- I want my husband six feet tall and sculpted like a work of art, I want everything that I cannot have here, the silk, the gold, the brocade, the rich carpets, the enormous estate, the wine without intoxication and the contentment without limit or end. And if I compare all that to wanting a working knee, well then I say nuts to the knee. I know that we’re supposed to ask Allah for everything we want or need, even a shoelace, but I’m not asking Him to fix my knee. I want him to replace it with a better one. A permanent one that never breaks, bruises, buckled, grinds, creaks, or aches. And I want everything else replaced too- the flabby body, the dry skin, the filled teeth, the indigestion- and in its place, I want Paradise.

InshaAllah.

March 16, 2011
And I quote:

HF, Iman and I are en route to Abu Dhabi for an appointment with my Orthopedic surgeon. We take the exit ramp for a gas station and…

Iman: I want special full please.

HF and I have a good chuckle.

Me: Ok sweetie, let’s go inside and get you a drink.

We go inside and stand in line at the cafeteria.

Cashier: Yes Ma’am?

Iman, from two feet below the level of the counter: Special full please!

****

We’re sitting at the dining table having dinner and Khalid suddenly jumps down from his chair, rushes to the front door, opens it and sticks his head outside…

Khalid: Oh, iss dark! I need an umbrella!

***

Banging urgently on the bathroom door, which I am on the other side of:

Iman: Momma! Momma!

Me: Yes Iman?

Iman: Have you seen my toes?

Me: I think they’re at the end of your feet.

Iman. Oh. -pause- Ok!

****

Khalid is reading a book of old nursery rhymes, and comes across The Lion and The Unicorn:

Khalid: Oh, the lion is ow! The lion is hurt! The lion is go to the doctor!

Me: The doctor for animals is called the vet. The lion needs to go to the vet.

Khalid: No, the lion is go to the pharmacy.

****

Iman is feeding grass to a cow at the Bahiya Kids Park & Zoo, and gets slightly nibbled in the process.

Iman: Ow! Bad cow! Time out! No biting!

***

A car cuts in front of us as we’re driving on the highway, and HF honks the horn:

Iman: SubhanAllah!

Khalid: Bad car!

Iman: Time out!

***

As usual, Khalid gets to go into the Ikea play area, and Iman stands beneath the 95 cm mark on the wall, aspiring one day to reach it.

Attendant: I’m sorry, but you’re too small.

Me: I’m sorry Iman, InshaAllah when you’re a little bit bigger you can go inside too.

Iman raises her hands.

Iman: Oh Allah, please make Iman bigger. Ameen.

***

Khalid wanders through my peripheral vision with something in his hands:

Khalid: Oh, iss hungry!

I’m working on my computer and take little notice.

Khalid: Oh, it’s eating!

Still no blips on the momma-radar.

Khalid: Eating curtains! Scissors is hungry! Om om om!

And suddenly he has my full attention

March 11, 2011
CINDY IS BACK!

Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah. 🙂 and w00t

Did I mention w00t? Even as we speak, Iman is at the park running wild and fancy-free, and I have managed to put an entire two hours of work in, which is, frankly speaking, two more hours than I had done all week. And the house is clean. And dinner is made. And the laundry mountain has been conquered. We did it. We survived a month without Cindy, and even brought her home to a clean house with minimal dust-bunnies and a large slice of lemon-cream cake. And we learned some things about ourselves in the process too. Like how I’m not good at cleaning because I am just too good at it. Case in point:

I went to clean my bathroom.

It looked like it could be better organized.

So Iman and I went to Ikea and bought a shelf, as well as some markers to entertain Iman.

In order to make space for the shelf, I had to hang the mirror in the bathroom that had been leaning against the wall for the last eight months.

I needed to drill holes in the tile first. So I went to the storage room to find the drill.

I found the drill, but I couldn’t find the size eight wall plugs.

The storage room was messy. It looked like it could be better organized.

So I spent two hours cleaning out and reorganizing the storage room.

Then I drilled the holes in the bathroom tile and hung the mirror.

Then I assembled the shelf.

Then, as I was transferring the miscellany of toiletries onto it, I noticed that they looked a little messy. They needed organized.

So I threw away anything expired, wiped off everything dusty, and made some tough executive decisions on whether or not to keep the tube of facial scrub that gave me an allergic reaction just because it was still full.

(It’s still here. Apricot scrub, anyone?)

And by that point, five hours had passed since I first decided that I needed to clean my bathroom, and Iman and I were late to pick Khalid and Joy up from school. And the bathroom was still dirty, but hey, at least it was organized!

I have discovered why Cindy can clean the whole house from top to bottom in four hours and still have time to browse facebook. It’s because she doesn’t care if the tupperware is alphabetized. This is a very important skill in a housekeeper, and rather than feel inadequate about not having it (crippling inadequacy about my level of huswifery is so last week) I prefer to see myself in light of other skillsets. I may not be a very efficient housekeeper, but I’m a very good corporate communications monkey. I can organize files and create style guides like nobody’s business! Everything will be fine long as their design specs don’t look messy, lest I should try to organize them or something, in which case I get paid for my nit-picky, hair-splitting tendencies and lauded for my attention to detail.

Now there’s something that doesn’t happen when the tupperware is alphabetized but the sink is still full of dishes and dinner hasn’t progressed farther than the ‘thawing’ stage.

Oops, gtg! It’s time to go pray and supervise the washing of the sandy savages. (Translation: It’s Maghrib and the kids are back from the park). The kids look messy. Maybe they need organized.

March 2, 2011
w00t! -yawn- w00t!

Lil Grey Crayon and her three lovelies are here, and we ‘ve had a great time today despite Khalid being up all night w/a cough, Iman being up since 6:30 am, and HF being all the way over in OMAN of all countries. (He’s no good at helping w/the kids when he’s in another country. pffft!) Also, Joy was off today. But we did it. We’re still alive. We’ve had a long and fun day and both of the kids are asleep and it’s 7:45 in the evening. Alhamdulillah.

I even managed to send a few work emails this morning, and tomorrow I have an autism parents meetup to attend. On the plus side, Joy will be back tomorrow, and InshaAllah, InshaAllah, I’m hoping I get more than just a few hours of sleep tonight. Last night Khalid woke up around midnight and fell asleep shortly before Fajr. Then, when I got out of bed to do wudu, he woke up, panicked, and ran after me half-asleep, thinking I was leaving. I told him I was praying, so he got back into bed.

Then, a few minutes later, my alarm went off again while I was already praying (I must’ve hit snooze before and not realized it) and because I couldn’t do anything about it, it went off with its brazen ‘red alert’ sound until Iman sat up, climbed over to my side-table, and expertly slid the ‘slide to stop alarm’ bar. I wouldn’t have believed it unless I had seen it.

“There,” she said, climbing her 2 years and 10 months old self back into bed. “Iss finished. I did it.”

But she was awake then. And maybe Khalid hadn’t been back to sleep yet. But the kids were both up. So we had omelettes with a few slices of turkey and peppermint tea for breakfast. And eventually we woke and fed everyone else, and Lil Grey and her crew walked to the masjid for Friday prayer while Owl watched my lil savages so I could take a desperately needed nap.

Then we went out for lunch and Lil Grey took her lil shorties for indoor skydiving. (Welcome to Dubai. We ski in the mall, too.) Khalid and Iman got to run amok in the indoor play area, but having been poorly slept, they both started to break down by 5:00. Beebs, Lil Grey’s sweet and helpful eldest, helped me take the kids home and bathed Iman and even washed off most of the lipgloss that Iman adorned herself with while I was busy bathing Khalid. Then I put the kids to bed, one kid at a time, and now here I am, trying to remember my day in chronological order but also remembering the laundry that’s still in the machine as well as the assortment of dishes waiting for me in the sink. Which reminds me, there’s a half-made pot of daal on the stove too. Hmm. I should probably stop blogging now. 🙂

February 18, 2011
SCORE! 🙂

Time is a funny thing. You think you have lots of it and then before you realize what’s going on, another day has passed, another week is ending, another month is almost a third gone.

Cindy, our housekeeper/Iman-chaser/Jill of All Trades who holds down the fort while I’m off pretending to have a job or two, has been gone for a week and we’re learning to adjust accordingly. I drop Khalid and Joy off at school in the way-too-early am. Iman and I run errands together. Then we come home and make lunch or something close to it. A part-time housekeeper comes for two hours every other day to help with floors and bathrooms and other tasks that my knee, back, and pregnancy don’t totally jive with. We use paper plates. We buy ten-dirham roast chickens occasionally. Sometimes the kids have peanut butter for lunch.

I remember, three years ago, crying on the sofa with a new-born Iman in my lap and Khalid whining at my knee, spit-up on my shoulder, still in my pajamas, nothing cooked for dinner and the house a wreck. HF came home smiling and spoke three magic words that helped me redefine my measure of success or failure as a mother: “Lower. Your. Standards.”

These magic words were not carte-blanche for neglectful parenting or non-housekeeping, but rather of realistic goals and priorities. And I have remembered them ever since, and HF, my HusbandFriend and superhero holds me to them, and and even good naturedly helps out and looks rather dashing in an apron with suds on his elbows. Also, he makes bath-time more exciting. And story time before bed perhaps a little too exciting. Come to think of it, everything he does is exciting to the kids, and when he worked from home today so that I could get a little rest and attend a meeting in the afternoon, the result was that he and Iman went out for parathas and nihari at Karachi Darbar for breakfast and Iman came home with a squashy, melted chocolate in her tiny fist and a delighted grin on her face. I got to sleep in to the extravagant hour of 9am, and after my afternoon meeting, even squeezed in a half an hour swim before rushing home to find the kids happily eating french fries, roast chicken and hummus. Alhamdulillah 🙂

So yes. Kids fed? Check!

House still standing? Check!

No food being left out or wasted? Check!

Table has crumbs on it? No prob!

Back screaming in pain? Email can wait!

Everyone alive, healthy, happy, and grateful to Allah for His Mercies, great and small?

Score!

Now all we need to do is help Khalid get over tonsilitis, Iman get over a throat infection, and help me get over whatever it is that makes me pout and stomp when it’s time to go to bed in Iman’s room every night because she and Khalid cannot sleep in the same room. They wake each other up, and after an all-nighter earlier this week with Iman crying that her cot was ‘yukky’ and Khalid waking up to see what all the fuss was about, HF and I took the cot down and put Iman back in her ‘bonk’ bed.

(We bought the kids a bunk bed. We told them to NOT jump on the lower berth. We told them they would hit their heads. They didn’t believe us. “Ow!” Iman cried two seconds after ignoring my warning,”I bonked my head onna bonk bed!”)

So now Iman and I sleep in Iman’s room, she’s got the top bonk, and I crawl into the bottom bonk, and in the middle of the night she wakes up and asks me for stickers (really, stickers!) and I tell her to go back to sleep. And she cries, but Khalid is safely outside of earshot, sleeping with HF IN MY BED so Iman has no choice but to stave off her sticker pangs and go back to snotty, tearful sleep.

And now that I’ve polished off a few important emails and (with HF’s always charming help) brought the house to within regulation minimums for cleanliness for the evening, I’m going to pray, change into my PJ’s, and crawl into the bottom berth of a child-sized bed covered in pink flannel and nearly obscured with stuffed animals. And I will try not to bonk my head.

February 8, 2011
If this post had a theme-song, it would be ‘Me & My Shadow’

Iman is “flying” a kite in the front yard (*hint, Momma hung it on some fishing wire tied between the car port and the gazebo) and singing a song of her own making.

She’s been playing happily outside on her own for the last fifteen minutes or so, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness for her- Khalid and Joy are at school. Cindy is on leave and will be back home in the Philippines for the next month.

I’m home, but before I can take Iman out for some quality Momma/Iman time, I need to wash the dishes, cook lunch in anticipation of Khalid’s return and sweep the livingroom floor clean of the pancit noodles that Iman decorated it with for breakfast. I also need to make a few time-sensitive phone calls, and visit the bank (with Iman, of course).

Then I’m going to buy paper plates/cups/bowls/napkins and heck if they made disposable pots I’d buy those too. Without Cindy for the next month and no replacement available, I’m adding full-time housekeeping and Iman-entertaining to my directorship and corporate consultancy roles.

(And I’m thinking that when the mountain of laundry overwhelms me, I could start dressing the kids in paper towels. Hey, they’re recyclable! )

I wonder what only-children do. Iman is so bored. It’s only ten am, and so far we’ve “flown” a kite, had a manicure, cut pictures out of the sales papers, drawn pictures of all the family members, and had not one, but two breakfasts, the first being pancit noodles and the second being cranberry juice and cereal.

Ah well. Time to get to work and start sweeping, cooking, calling, driving, and somehow attending to Booboo, who has just informed me that she ‘needs to change clothes, to nice clothes.’

Off I go!

February 1, 2011
Treading water, I think

The Mad Hatter’s advice was to begin from the beginning, but if you’re not sure where things began, then sometimes it’s best to jump right in to the middle.

So we’re in week three of real-time operations, we’re processing contracts and visas for three more therapists and trying to juggle parent meetings, the waiting list, recruitment, questions about expansion, etc. My head is spinning. On the plus side, the rest of me is doing the same in a tiny, heated, ladies-only gem of a pool ten minutes from my house, and while week three of operations in a newly launched business might seem like a ridiculous time to take up a luxurious new hobby, I’m swimming moreso out of necessity than anything else. Alhamdulillah, I am 19 weeks pregnant now. SubhanAllah, my back is in agony. I cannot sit, stand, or lay down for more than a few minutes at a time. I ice my back daily or suffer the stabbing, burning, aching consequences, and I have to swim in order to maintain some semblance of fitness that doesn’t make my knee worse and helps to take the pressure off of the rest of me. I can’t sit on a dining chair for more than ten minutes at a time, but hey, I can float!

Another unexpected side-effect of not being able to sit is not being able to work (or hey, blog!) properly. Right now, the computer and I are reclining on the sofa in a position that’s tolerable for my back but likely to give me carpal tunnel syndrome. Usually, I work standing up at the dining table (it’s a tall dining table) or sitting on an exercise ball at my desk. Usually, I have to call it quits after about half an hour to go stretch or lay down or ice my back. Hurts to drive, hurts to work, and surprise surprise, these days I am doing an extra whole lot of both driving and working. I had to end a meeting early last week because I just could not sit down at the office’s conference table any longer, and the table was too low to stand at. I’m weeks behind in both work and email, but Alhamdulillah, I’m ok. I’m in deep water but I haven’t drowned yet.

*sigh*

There are so many things that come up that I want to blog about, but because I can’t, they get forgotten. Just today I was watching Khalid and Iman “hide” in a tent, giggling and eating apples, and it was a shock to me- all of a sudden, I realized that I had two kids, almost 5 and 3, and that I would have another one soon. They’re growing so fast, life is changing so fast, and where my life was once a to-do list, now it’s looks more like a whole bunch of flowcharts all loosely held together by a tired-looking paper clip holding an icepack to its back. We have rent coming up, school fees to pay, admission to set up for next year’s school and some KG’s are full all the way until 2012! Parents call me every day asking when their therapists will arrive, pending projects are inquired about and I’m sure more than one colleague has heard the audible ‘whack’ of me slapping my forehead when reminded of a project that I just forgot to do. Eeek!

But I’m not complaining. I’m… sharing. Yes. I’m not asking to have this removed from me, I’m just marveling at how busy I am now versus how busy I was before, and how I sometimes wish I wasn’t quite so busy. So yeah. The blogs might be a little scare here and there, and the updates few and far in between, but I’m still here, I’m still alive, and I’m still running around like a chicken with my head cut off.

By Abez, the end.

January 25, 2011
Busy in wonderful ways 🙂

Alhamdulillah, we have our first two therapists starting with the first five families who will be sharing their time. Tomorrow I have three meetings in two separate emirates to collect all the contracts and make it all official. Please make dua that Allah make this venture a sadqa-jaariya- a blessing in this life and the next, through the families we are able to help and the good it will do in the long-term, InshaAllah.

May Allah protect us from abuse, from our own hands to others or from the hands of others to us. May Allah facilitate learning, progress, and the potential for a more independent future for the five children who will be beginning therapy with us tomorrow, and guide us all to truth and patience.

Ameen

January 7, 2011
Blue, Pink, or Betrayal?

We do not yet know the gender of the baby, but for future reference, let’s call him or her Stringbean. No HF, I am NOT calling the baby Grandpa Wilkins. Yes, I know it’s a perfectly nice handle. No, I don’t want to attach it to a baby.

So yes, Stringbean. Khalid was my Jellybean. Iman was my Mysterybean because she evaded gender detection for almost 7 months via artful positioning and kung-fu fighting during ultrasounds. Stringbean is Stringbean because at my last ultrasound, the doctor took a look at the screen and said oh, that’s a long baby! I asked her what she meant. She said the head size was normal for the number of weeks of pregnancy, but the rest of the baby looked to be pretty long. This, she said, made sense because I was ‘tall too.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell this lovely, petite Asian OB that I’m only tall compared to lovely, petite Asian OB’s, but that’s ok. We have a long baby. We have a Stringbean. 🙂

When I first learned that we were expecting Stringbean, I refused to admit that I was hoping for a Boybean or a Girlbean, and I held the line that I would be happy with whatever Allah gave us and that was that. I already had Khalid and Iman, Boy and Girl, Salt and Pepper, so it’s not like I needed any specific pieces to complete the matching set but the truth is, I was in denial. I wanted a boy, and I wanted a normal one. I felt horribly guilty about this, and when I finally confessed this to HF one tearful night, he hugged me and asked me why I felt bad about that. Hoping for a boy, I felt, was like implying that I didn’t already have a son- like Khalid was not valid as a little male human being and I was telling the Manufacturer this one’s not working right so I want a new one.

And HF nodded and said I know, I want a boy too. And I was shocked, but it seemed less heinous coming from HF than it felt in the dark and guilty recesses of my mind, because wanting a boy has nothing to do with Khalid and everything to do with Khalid at the same time. Wanting another son isn’t a matter of betrayal, but practicality. Khalid is special, unique, difficult, academically advanced and socially delayed, verbally unintelligible to the uninitiated and physically confusing in his quirks and stims.

InshaAllah, he has a future and a rizq and a place in this world because Allah has written all of these things for him and is not unfair to any of His creations. But Khalid is going to need some help, and one day, HF and I are going to die. Iman will be married, and while I have no doubt that she will always share a special bond with Khalid, she may not always be in a position to support or help him when he needs it most. Or rather, let’s put it this way: Iman will have an easier time looking out for Khalid if she’s not the only one. Adding another Salt shaker to the set means that Khalid has a matching set of siblings to count on after his matching set of parents- Father and Mother, Provider and Nurturer, Protector and Soother, are gone.

The pregnancy is starting to show, and other autism mothers I meet look shocked when they hear we’re expecting our third child. “You’re so brave,” one mother told me last week, whose son was just diagnosed a month ago and who has lost seven kilos from the stress. “We want to have another baby but we are so scared. We don’t want him to be left alone when we die, but what if we have another child with autism?”

I told her, frankly speaking, that when I found out I was expecting Iman, I cried and it was NOT out of happiness. It was out of frustration and hopelessness and the feeling of failure that I felt from raising a little boy who didn’t even respond to his own name. This was before Khalid was diagnosed, we just knew that Khalid was different and difficult, and I felt like I could barely handle him, so how on earth would I cope with another one? SubhanAllah, to say the least, Iman is a blessing. When most parents of autistic children pay over 300 dirhams an hour for their child to take part in a specially structured ‘play group session’ with neurotypical children, Khalid lives with one. Iman was his first play-mate, his first enemy and the first peer he had ‘conversations‘ with. Iman taught Khalid how to pull hair, pinch, kick and run- and also, how to defend himself and rise to the defense of others.

Iman has been a challenge, a laugh-riot, a pretty pink princess crowned with ferocity, slathered in resilience, and lovingly adorned with sweet little kisses and precise deadly pinches. We will never need a TV- watching Khalid and Iman simply coexist is more hilarious, dramatic, entertaining, riveting, frustrating, and awe-inspiring than Comedy Central, Discovery, NatGeo, and Hallmark all rolled into one.

And now, InshaAllah, there’s going to be three of them. And what if the next child has autism? Well, the good news is, we already have a full-time therapist. And program materials. And a great case manager and a better idea of which nurseries, schools, play-areas, toys, people, malls, shopping-carts, are best for children with autism. So SubhanAllah, we’re better prepared now for an autistic child than we ever were with Khalid. So if Allah decides to grant us another special little child with very special needs, than I am grateful that we’ve been prepared this time. 🙂

And what if the next child is a girl? Then I would like her to be named Khawla, after the amazing Muslim heroine that would have been completely unknown to me were it not for a cross-posting on Badass of the Week (actual site name, pardon my French). Khawla travelled with the army of Khalid bin Waleed, ironically enough, accompanied by her brother, a commander and famous warrior-poet named Derar. She would tend the wounded and sick, but one day, would move beyond that role when her brother went down in battle and was captured by Byzantine soldiers. Khawla, seeing him taken from a distance, dropped what she was doing, covered her face with a strip of black cloth and her body in a shawl, and rode off, sword in hand, to go rescue him.

“Khalid watched a knight, in black attire, with a big green shawl wrapped around his waist and covering his bust. That knight broke through the Roman ranks as an arrow. Khalid and the others followed him and joined battle, while the leader was wondering about the identity of the unknown knight.”

Other soldiers in the battle saw her fighting with such ferocity that they thought her to be Khalid Bin Waleed himself, and when Khalid Bin Waleed appeared with a number of knights to reinforce Khawla, one knight turned to him and said “Who is that knight? By God, he has no regard for his safety!”

Eventually the battle was won, but her brother was nowhere to be seen. Khalid Bin Waleed demanded that the unknown knight reveal his identity, and when Khawla was discovered to be the sister of Derar, Khalid ordered his army to chase the fleeing Roman Army with Khawla leading the attack.

I won’t give the entire and seriously awesome story away, you can read the entire (and profanity-free) article here and I am not linking the place where I originally read it, due to the use of four-letter words used gratuitously, albeit, in admiration of Khawla. But I digress.

It is a mercy, blessing, and gift from Allah that when we see things through the lens of trust and Taqwa that we have the opportunity to relax. All good is in Allah’s hands. All difficulty is a trial through which we may become stronger. All ease is a blessing and there is no hopelessness for those who trust unfailingly in His will. If our next child is a healthy, neurotypical boy, Alhamdulillah. If our next child is a healthy, neurotypical girl, Alhamdulillah. And if our next child is autistic, regardless of the gender, Alhamdulillah.

I am praying for a healthy boy, because Allah tells us to call upon Him and ask of Him, even for a shoelace. He is, after all, the Owner of every treasure, known and unknown, seen and unseen, in the universe and beyond the known universe. Hoping for a healthy boy and then not asking the One who can provide one would be a gross oversight on my behalf. But I am also praying that Allah grant me a child who inherits Jannah, and if that means a person who is never questioned because they can never tell the difference between right and wrong, then that too is a blessing.

Alhamdulillah. 🙂

January 3, 2011
Busy few days…

Sorry everyone, I know I’ve been AWOL. Both kids are sick, Khalid has been up at night last two nights in a row, and he’s coughing and snotty and fevery in the day. Last night he coughed himself awake around 11 and was awake until Fajr. Iman is getting over her ‘fezer’ and has stopped telling people she’s ‘not good.’ She’s still snotty, but she seems to be over the worst of it.

HF is doing well, his chronic nosebleed has subsided and he went to work today without the risk of redecorating the office walls with red polka dots. (in case he sneezed, God Forbid!)

It’s 11:30 at night, I’m behind in my work (as usual) and am starting to get a but sniffly myself, but Alhamdulillah should be fine. I’ll try to update properly soon and respond to the comments in the last post too. Gtg, Khalid is fussing in his sleep again.

December 27, 2010
Also, I hadn’t planned on making this such a long post!

Alhamdulillah, HF had surgery today to fix the wildly deviated septum and outrageously deviant sinuses in his nose, and everything went according to plan. And lots of this went according to a totally different plan.

HF had planned to check in to the hospital at 6 am. I had planned to accompany him, so at 5:30, we carried Khalid, sleeping, into Iman’s room where it was planned that he should sleep so that if he woke up, he wouldn’t be alone and afraid.

We had not planned for him to wake up when we moved him though, nor had we planned to give Iman a fever the same night, so that when Khalid woke up and panicked in the dark, Iman woke up and started bawling- burning hot and shaking. Cindy hadn’t planned on waking up at 5:30 to give Iman more fever-reducer and soothe her to bed while I tried to calm Khalid down and get him back to sleep, but then, things don’t always go according to plan.

HF hadn’t planned on going to the hospital without me, but with both kids crying by 5:45, he had to.

I had planned on putting Khalid back to sleep, but Khalid had plans involving lemonade and cereal, which he whispered to me in the dark as HF drove off. So there was a change of plans, and Khalid settled for apple juice and some cereal in a tupperware while I quickly dressed him so we could take the second car and join HF.

I had planned to get there and surprise HF in his room. Surprise, HF wasn’t in his room. So Khalid and I waited for HF to come back from Fajr prayer. HF hadn’t planned on being welcomed by a completely awake little boy who was supposedly back home sleeping, but Alhamdulillah, Khalid ran and greeted HF and both grandparents at the door with hugs and much rattling of cereal in its plastic box as he jumped excitedly up and down.

I took Khalid out of the room before HF was prepped or had a canula inserted, so that he wouldn’t freak out. It was bad enough when the male nurse took HF’s blood pressure, Khalid first yelled at him, then pinched him, then attempted to kick him, and when that failed, he tearfully pointed a finger at the nice man (Mark) and yelled “Time Out Mark! Time Out!”

I invited Khalid to come and walk with me, as compared to ‘Hey kid, let’s go home’ so that he would come peacefully and without screaming through the OPD. That went according to plan until we got as far as the car and Khalid realized we were driving home again. “No Mama! No home! No!” *kickkickkickkick* He cried all the way home.

When we reached home and I quietly unlocked the door, I hadn’t planned to see Iman sitting at the dining table, but there she was, still in her pajamas and looking flushed and wilted and definitely miserable. Neither she nor Cindy had been back to sleep. I asked Iman how she was feeling. She said “Not good.” I asked her if she still had a fever.

“Yes, a fezer,” she nodded sadly. “In my head. Iss ow.”

Khalid was passed to Joy for the beginning of his morning ABA program. Iman and I went to wash her face, change her clothes, give her some more medicine, and just generally to try to help her feel better. We selected the red overalls that Khalid out-grew at the age of 18 months which flap loosely around Iman at 2 and 3/4 years. We paired them with a white shirt dotted with tiny red flowers. And by request, Iman’s pink tiara. Then, socks and sneakers and by then the medicine was kicking in, so Iman and Cindy went for their morning walk to the park with Iman’s eyes red and puffy and her Hello Kitty tiara pink and sparkly in the early morning sun.

I had planned to take a power-nap, then wake up and cook some food to take to HF’s hospital room for him as well as his parents, since the City Hospital is nice, but hospital food is still hospital food. However, I had not planned on spending so much time with the kids before they left for the park, so by 9:00, I realized that I would have to change my plans. No nap. Just cooking. I made chicken pilau, some hot-as-heck chutney, a thermos of karak chai, and set it all up with a bottle of water, some disposable glasses, HF’s clothes, his pillow, a box of orange juice, and some packing and logistics help from Cindy, who by 10:30, was back from the park.

I had planned to be there when HF came out of recovery, but I hadn’t planned on fighting a last-minute battle with Iman, who flatly refused to let me take the pink paper balloon with her hand print and a red heart on it that she had made especially for Baba. She made it, so it was hers. Since it was hers, it wasn’t right for me to take it away from her. Naturally. And since it was a balloon (albeit one made out of a paper plate, some yarn, and two sheets of construction paper) she insisted that it go ‘up inna sky,’ and nearly cried from the frustration of having her ‘balloon’ dangle very non-buoyantly from the end of its yarn leash. Joy bribed her with the opportunity to make another pink balloon, and to even wield the much-coveted glue-stick. Iman conceded and I rushed out the door with her balloon as well as Khalid’s- his was personally lettered and signed and it reads love you baba, khalid, in a gorgeous child-like scrawl that only children are really good at.

HF made it to the room before I did, and was laying there with his nose swaddled in bloody gauze and medical tape, too out of it to stay awake for more than a few words at a time. I had planned to bring the kids later, but I messaged Joy and Cindy and let them know there was a change of plans, no kids. I had planned to stay awake until HF woke, but then I was so exhausted that I fell asleep sitting in his wheelchair and leaning against the foot of his bed where he slept and (often) choked, groaned, woke up slightly, and then fell back asleep again. Apparently It’s hard to breath with your nose taped closed and your mouth raw from intubation.

Alhamdulillah, HF finally regained consistent consciousness around one in the afternoon. So we all hung out- his parents, and eventually his sister and niece as well- and ate chicken pilau and cookies and poked gentle fun at his nose job, asked him whether he couldn’t have gotten his chin done, and whether or not next time around he could get a six-pack installed. He was able to eat by around three or four o’clock and Alhamdulillah, the next few hours were just spent sitting in his hospital room and munching and chatting.

I came home after praying Maghrib and found Khalid sobbing on the sofa because Cindy had just closed the front door, which he had just opened for the Nth time waiting for me. Joy had told Khalid that Momma was on the way, so Khalid had planned to stand there with the front door open until I arrived.

Iman was warm, but not burning hot. Both kids had already eaten dinner, and I had a quick bite while the kids watched Meet the Sight Words. By 7:30, Khalid and I were in bed, reading his favorite Eric Carle books and commenting on certain deficiencies in the plot. Khalid does not understand that ‘In the Hungry Little Caterpillar,’ the egg that we see on the first page hatches and -pop!- out comes a very tiny and very hungry caterpillar whose quest for food (as well as meaning in a meaningless world) we then follow for the rest of the book.

The caterpillar makes some poor food choices, which culminate in some binge-eating, which he then repents of and makes absolution for by eating (instead of a smorgasboard) ‘one nice green leaf, and then he felt much better.’ In Khalid’s mind though, that nice green leaf is where the egg was on page one, so when he sees the caterpillar sitting on the leaf, he always asks “Oh, whereza egg? Where izit” And then we go back to the first page and I try to explain that the caterpillar was actually inside of the egg, and when he came out -pop!- then the egg was gone. Khalid has either never fully understood this, or never believed it. So today, when he asked where the egg was, I told him I didn’t know. So he told me. “Iss cook egg. Oh, caterpillar cook iss egg.”

And I hadn’t planned on writing all of that in this same blog, but it was so adorable that I didn’t want to forget about it. 🙂 It’s been a long, long day, and I had planned to be asleep by now, but I had an unplanned power-nap just before Maghrib on the couch in HF’s hospital room. That might be why my brain is awake even though I’ve been up (apart from two short snoozes) for nearly 18 hours. It’s been a good day though, a busy and unexpected but good day Alhamdulillah. And Allah is the best of planners. 🙂

December 21, 2010
Apples versus oranges, lady.

The Ikea in Festival Center (Dubai) has a lovely little play area for kids, and Alhamdulillah, Khalid is able to play inside by himself as long as there is someone on the other side of the glass watching in case of the unexpected bathroom emergency or melt-down. Alhamdulillah, neither happen very often.

It’s a neat little place, with a slide and a large ball room and some tables and chairs with paper and crayons. The only bit of poor planning in there is a water cooler at toddler level with bright, easy to pull levers and only the tiny, standard drip-tray underneath- sorely inadequate for the number of kids who come, play, pull, and cause the occasional puddle. I don’t know whether the other children are less interested in water or more compliant with the attendants, but the water cooler isn’t so big an issue that they’ve had to move it or anything. But then, there’s Khalid.

One of Khalid’s latest fascinations is with pouring. He’s been in to pouring for a few months now, and it began with us losing five or six full pumps of liquid hand-soap in one week. Khalid would open the lid and pour the soap down the drain, then he would fill the container with water and pour that down the drain too. We lost a few economy-sized bottles of baby shampoo that way. Sometimes he would find water bottles and pour those down the drain as well, and then transfer the water from one container to the other, just to watch it pour. Needless to say, we no longer own or use liquid hand-soap. Bar soap is safer because it lacks a certain… flow.

So Khalid likes liquid, he likes watching it pour, he likes filling and emptying things, and he likes the water cooler at Ikea. Apparently he likes filling (but not drinking or pouring) glasses of water and lining them on up the shelf nearby, and apparently, the lady on duty last Tuesday had gotten a little annoyed. When I came to pick Khalid up, I saw him filling himself a glass of water, and I told the attendant that she might want to move him away from the cooler, since I was on the other side of the gate and couldn’t come in. She turned around, and from where she stood, over ten feet away, called out in a sing-songy voice, “Baby! I told you, don’t touch the water cooler!”

“His name is Khalid. He’s not going to respond to baby.”

“Okay, Khalid! Come here!” she sang out again.

Khalid, who heard his name and probably my voice as well, turned and ran excitedly towards me, knowing it was time to come home. When he reached the gate, the lady had to remove his numbered vest (that’s how they keep track of the kids) and retrieve his shoes and backpack. In the middle of this, she decided to kneel down, point her finger in Khalid’s face, and scold him.

“If mommy tells me you have been a bad boy I will not let you back in here.”

I waited to see what Khalid would do. No reaction. He was too excited about coming out. But then she said it again, more loudly and in his face, “You have to be a good boy! Otherwise I will not let you come back!”

That got Khalid’s attention. Khalid looked at her, saw the finger in his face, and pinched her. Hard. She stood up, rubbed her stomach where he had pinched her, and handed me Khalid’s shoes and backpack. As I signed Khalid out, she asked, “Ma’am, is this your only child?”

I thought she was asking if Khalid was my only child in the play area, so I said yes.

“Oh,” she nodded. “No wonder he is so spoiled.”

I think if this had been last year, and I had been more raw and less experienced, then I would have been seething. If this had been two years ago, I would have been in tears. But this was 2010, and I’ve been an ‘autism mom’ for long enough so that I don’t see peoples’ ignorance as insensitivity, or their criticism of Khalid’s behavior as a scathing judgment of my parenting skills or the lack thereof. As it is, I was warily amused. And, I felt a sorry for her. Khalid does pinch really hard.

“He’s not spoiled actually, he’s autistic. You know autism?”

She looked blank. And then looked at Khalid.

“He didn’t understand what you were saying.”

And then she looked really, really embarrassed.

“But, but he looks so normal. He looks ok!”

“Most children with autism look completely normal.”

Khalid was holding my hand now, and as he bounced in place, his dog tags- engraved with his name, nationality, contact info, and AUTISM in capital letters- jingled a happy tune.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“It’s ok,” I said. And really, it was.

I think the next time I go down I’ll say hi and strike up a conversation. She could use some pointers on addressing children directly and in an authoritative tone of voice. All kids, even the autistic ones and especially the normal ones, can tell who means business just by the tone of voice used. And it’s not about intimidating the kids into good behavior, but if your ‘don’t do that’ voice can be mistaken for a brief rendition of ‘twinkle twinkle little star,’ then there’s a good chance that you’re not getting much compliance out of any of them.

December 19, 2010
The Warmest Fuzzies Ever 🙂

Very typical of a person with autism, Khalid is much better able to understand written and visual instructions than he is spoken instructions, and so when it comes to difficult transition times, we use written instruction to help Khalid prepare for what’s coming up. Usually, his written schedule for the evening looks like this:

1. Dinner
2. Bath Time
3. Read Stories with Baba
4. Sleep with Baba

Today, our evening schedule was a little different, because HF had to go pick up some friends who were only in town for two more days and without transportation. Because Baba was unavailable for bed-time, and Joy would be putting Khalid to bed (Yes, she’s back!) the written schedule said only this:

1. Video
2. Sleep

So Khalid found a pen and made some corrections.

With ‘bAbA’. SubhanAllah. 🙂

December 17, 2010
*rimshot*

One of HF’s coworkers came over for lunch today, and as per tradition, Iman decided that the new person in the house must absolutely be her new best friend forever in the entire world. So she climbed in his lap, fawned over him told him everything that she knew about everything, which is something she does to newly introduced people all the time. Iman doesn’t require any warm-up time for new people. In fact, the newer the person the better- she’ll adore them all the more.

So, as Uncle BFF was getting his own son ready to go by helping him with his socks, Iman decided that was the perfect time to plop down into his lap (between his busy hands) and poke him in the nose. And then she poked herself in the nose and initiated the following conversation. And I quote:

Iman: I bonked my nose! I got it an ow!

Uncle BFF: Oh, you bonked your nose? Did it hurt?

Iman: Iss pain-fo. I go to the doctor.

Uncle BFF: You took your nose to the doctor? What did the doctor say?

Iman: No more monkeys jumping on the bed.

End quote.

December 11, 2010
Kill all Kafirs, 72 Virgins in Paradise

While an agnostic Jewish author doesn’t fit in the same category as Abu Huraira, this video shared by one of the MM writers is definitely worth watching. Lesley Hazelton has an appreciation and understanding of the Qur’an that, I am sad to say, many Muslims don’t even have. She talks about her attempt to ‘really, properly read the Qur’an in research for an upcoming book, and the hubris of allotting herself three weeks for a task that ended up taking her three months. May Allah guide her.

Definitely worth watching, and addresses two major myths about the Qur’an- permission to kill all kafirs and 72 virgins in Paradise.

December 9, 2010
Lessons from Abu Huraira’s fingers 🙂

May Allah be pleased with Abu Huraira, he was an amazing man and I love his kuniya. Abu Huraira means father of the kitten-you see, he used to have a pet kitten. 🙂 And I know I just updated yesterday, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm my *vast* readership with such excesses as *daily* posting, but I found this gem in my email while cleaning out my inbox just now, and I want to put it somewhere where I will see it again. So here it is- Lessons from Abu Huraira’s fingers. 🙂

“I, ya Rasulullah!” Such were the words of the great Companion, Abu Hurayrah (radhiAllahu anhu) in acceptance of the request of his beloved, when he asked, “Who among you will accept of me the following words and adopt and execute their meaning or teach someone to adopt them and act according to them?”

Then, as Abu Hurayrah recalls; “So he held my hand and counted five things according to my five fingers as follows.” Upon pondering over this sentence, one can rightfully assume that this act of the Prophet (sallaAllahu alayhe wasallam) of teaching Abu Hurayrah in such a personal manner – one by one, on the fingers of his hand – was a significant step in the effort to keep these words etched in his heart. In fact, it was a method of aiding him in fulfilling the responsibility to which he agreed to moments earlier.

So, what were these teachings that numbered the fingers of Abu Hurayrah’s hand?

عن أَبِي هُرَيْرَةَ رضي الله عنه ، قَالَ : قَالَ رَسُولُ اللهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ :
( مَنْ يَأْخُذُ عَنِّي هَؤُلاَءِ الكَلِمَاتِ فَيَعْمَلُ بِهِنَّ أَوْ يُعَلِّمُ مَنْ يَعْمَلُ بِهِنَّ ؟ فَقَالَ أَبُو هُرَيْرَةَ : فَقُلْتُ : أَنَا يَا رَسُولَ اللهِ !
فَأَخَذَ بِيَدِي فَعَدَّ خَمْسًا وَقَالَ :
اتَّقِ الْمَحَارِمَ تَكُنْ أَعْبَدَ النَّاسِ ، وَارْضَ بِمَا قَسَمَ اللَّهُ لَكَ تَكُنْ أَغْنَى النَّاسِ ، وَأَحْسِنْ إِلَى جَارِكَ تَكُنْ مُؤْمِنًا ، وَأَحِبَّ لِلنَّاسِ مَا تُحِبُّ لِنَفْسِكَ تَكُنْ مُسْلِمًا ، وَلاَ تُكْثِرِ الضَّحِكَ ، فَإِنَّ كَثْرَةَ الضَّحِكِ تُمِيتُ القَلْبَ ) .
رواه أحمد والترمذي والطبراني في الأوسط

Keep away from prohibited things and you will be the best of worshippers.
Be content with what Allah has given you, and you will be the richest of people.
Be good to your neighbor and you will be a true believer.
Love for other people what you love for yourself and you will be a (perfect) Muslim.
Do not laugh too much, for excessive laughter deadens the heart.

(Recorded by Ahmad and al-Tirmidhi)

The rest of the article is here, and a great read for anyone in need of a refresher of some fundamental standards of Muslim character. 🙂 And really, who doesn’t?

December 8, 2010
Momma’s Dinner Salad
- One sliced tomato
- One cucumber, but only half should be put into the salad because Iman will have walked away with the other half
- One scrambled egg that Khalid didn’t want for breakfast
- A handful of sunflower seeds, because they’re healthy or something like that
- A handful of spicy roasted corn, because it’s tasty though definitely not healthy
- Three sliced mushrooms, which neither of the children are interested in
- Way too much full-fat ranch dressing
- A huge dollop of yogurt
- Oh, and some lettuce. Somewhere.
Salad is healthy, right? *nodnodnod*
December 7, 2010
Because sometimes, you really need a hamster…

(I am in bed falling asleep for a much-needed power nap when Iman lets herself in and stands at the head of my bed.)

Iman: Momma, I get it a wabbit?

Me: (trying to talk and not wake up at the same time) A rabbit? Honey, you don’t need to get a rabbit.

Iman: I get it a ham-sto?

Me: We’re not getting you a hamster.

Iman: Momma, I need it a ham-sto.

Me: Ok, go get a hamster.

She leaves the room and I start falling back asleep. I am vaguely aware of Iman returning, putting something next to my chin, and then patting me. And when I wake up half an hour later, I’m cuddling this:

It’s Harry the Happy Hamster. Lil Grey’s kids left him here once upon a time, and he’s been an important member of Iman’s ridiculously diverse collection of stuffed toys ever since.

It was a nice nap. Alhamdulillah. 🙂

December 5, 2010
And now that the cat’s out of the bag…

Phew! I can finally blog about what’s been on my mind!

Ok, what’s up with the Nuchal Translucency screening? And why did my doctor ask me if I wanted one? I asked her what it was for, and she said that measuring the Nuchal fold in a developing fetus could help determine whether or not your baby has a chromosomal abnormality.

*awkward silence*

And then what?

Well, if it’s positive, you can get further testing done to determine whether your baby has Down’s Syndrome.

And then?

Well, then about 90% of fetuses with Down’s Syndrome are aborted.

You know, they’re working on a prenatal screening for autism. So that potentially, individuals who have autistic traits can be identified before they’re born.

I wonder how high the abortion rate would be, and I think of how amazing, how silly, how sweet, how challenging and fulfilling it is to have Khalid as my son, and how awful it is that parents should choose to kill their children out of… what, fear? Laziness? A murderous need for the neurotypical? An overpowering revulsion to special children? If both of my children were normal then perhaps someone who supported prenatal screening (and subsequent abortion) could tell me to get off my high horse and that I shouldn’t judge a man until I’ve walked a mile in his moccasins, etcetera etcetera. But I don’t have a horse and I know for a fact that Allah does not test anyone more than they can bear. I’ve walked a few miles in special needs moccasins, thank you very much, and I think parents who kill their children out of fear should have their moccasins removed and thrown at them.

And do not kill your children for fear of poverty. We provide for them and for you. Indeed, their killing is ever a great sin. The Qur’an, Surah Al-Isra, 31

Is fear of poverty the same thing as whatever it is people are fearing when they abort babies with Down’s Syndrome? I’m not sure what exactly it is they’re afraid of- fear that their child will be made fun of? So let’s screen for babies with really big ears. Fear that their child won’t be able to hold a job? Let’s screen for incompetency too then. Oh, and blindness! Don’t forget blindness! Maybe it’s fear that their child will never lead a ‘normal’ life? Well, I don’t know if they can develop a prenatal test for turning into an alcoholic or drug addict or someone with bipolar disorder, and I think humanity has yet to apply a standard for what a ‘normal’ life is, but let’s run with this, shall we?

Let’s develop a prenatal test to screen for any and all conditions that cause children to face challenges throughout their lives while causing their parents to sweat blood and bleed tears to provide medical care, education, and adequate opportunities for their children in a world that doesn’t give a hoot.

And then, let’s abort the entire human race.

Because every child is hard work. Every child costs money. Every child is in danger of ‘not leading a normal life’ and no child, no matter how thick their Nuchal fold is or how low their amniotic testosterone rate is, comes with a guarantee for an easy upbringing, a bright future, and a normal life. Being normal isn’t a guarantee of all things bright and beautiful any more than being ‘abnormal’ means a life-sentence of misery, toil, and complete unhappiness for the entire family + the affected child.

In all of this, I don’t feel sorry for the aborted children as much as I do the parents who chose to abort them. The children got a one-way ticket to Paradise. They were made for Jannah. It’s the parents who have cheated themselves out of the most rewarding journey they could possibly have embarked on, the greatest test of their patience and the greatest blossoming of love they could feel for another human being. On a side note, they’ll have some questions to answer in the next life. But in this life even, they have cheated themselves.

You’ll never know how amazing it is to stand on top of the mountain unless you’ve climbed all the way to the top.

I told the doctor no thank you, I have one special needs child and I can have another one. She nodded at me and smiled.

“Good,” she said. “I have a special needs child too. And I would not have it any other way.”

Me neither. AllahuAkbar.

December 1, 2010