Mommy Lessons 34,612 and 34,613

Mommy Lesson #34,612: Icing without cake is just icing.

A definition...

Outgoing: extroverted, talkative, or sociable

I submit that there are times when a Mr. (or Ms.) Outgoing  can turn out to be a lowdown, backstabbing Class A jerk. That is, there are a lot of people in this world who've got lots icing, but no cakey goodness inside.  IOW, good personality, but bad values or ethics.

(Oh, you don't know anybody like that?  Maybe you haven't looked hard enough?  Think.) 

(Still no?)  

(This is awkwaaaard.)

(Because I'm probably talking about you.)

Extrovert or introvert is icing.  What constitutes cakey goodness?  Compassion, kindness, respect.  Stuff like that.  You know, values.

Before I became a mother, I had a vision of the perfect child.  

Outgoing, a risk taker yet very obedient, popular and friendly, talkative, charming, confident, strong, aggressive when she needed to be but extremely compassionate, intelligent, a fighter, a winner, the list goes on and on.

Three years later, I'm beginning to think that people who are overly invested in visions are either messengers of God or just clinically insane.  

My daughter, N., has a lot of the qualities that I dreamed of in that original vision, but not all of them. (You can read more about her personality and my opinions regarding it on the post, Shy Kid.) 

Oh, I know she may change dramatically, and I understand that she's only three.  But, know what?

I don't care if she stays exactly the same. (Well, I could do without the feet stomping that occurs following a negative response to "Can I have Teddy Grahams for dinner?").  

I love her because of  her quiet ways, her discernment, and her reserved manner in the company of whomever she deems an outsider.  And please notice that I didn't say, "I love her, anyway."  

Because there's nothing wrong with the kid who doesn't hug strangers or the kid who still won't hug you after she's met you five times.  Extroverts don't hold superiority over introverts. A talkative risk taker is no better than a reflective thinker.  Talkative and reflective, after all, are descriptions which are generally independent of ethics, values and morals.

I've thought very hard about my original "I want this kind of kid" wish list today, the day after I've withdrawn N. from preschool because of three weeks of non-stop crying. 

A lot of books and a lot of people said she would cry because of separation anxiety.  That she would stop about twenty minutes after I left.  Well, she didn't stop.  She cried.  And cried, and cried.  Some of you might offer one of the following nuggets of wisdom:

  

I'm not doing her any good by coddling her, she has to learn to work this stuff out on her own.

She's never going to learn how to be social if I don't put her in social situations.

Children learn when they're pushed.

Change is always uncomfortable.  

Well, "some of you" can just zip it and mind your own business.  The rest of you can keep reading.

I know, in my heart, that my daughter's crying wasn't normal separation anxiety.  It was a meaningful attempt on her part to tell me and anyone else who was willing to listen that she is not ready for this.  

Mommy Lesson #34,613: No PhD, M.D., other kid's parent, friend or teacher should hold veto power over one's feelings about what's best for their own child.

N. told me,  I'm not ready, Mama. (Yeah, she calls me Mama, how precious is that?!)

I hear you, N., I hear you.  You're not ready.  That's fine.  I'm not ashamed of you for not being ready, and you don't have to be ashamed either.

Another definition...

Respect: due regard for the feelings and desires of others.

Now that's some seriously delicious cakey goodness.

Ugggh.

I hate Taco Bell. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Hate it.

Which is why I cannot begin to wrap my mind around why I ate a Nachos Belle Grande and a bean burrito two days ago from there.  

Actually, I have a theory.  Somewhere in my crazy little brain, I seek out new and interesting ways to punish myself.  I like pain because it absolves me of guilt.  

And punish myself I did.  I have heard of this disease called dysentery.  Without going into the nasty details of it, I'm pretty sure I have it.

In other news, I've decided not to postpone my Pakistancation, despite the following:

U.S. Falls Out With Key Ally Pakistan

Awesome.  If my three year old wasn't tagging along, the prospect of visiting a country on the brink of international and civil war might have actually been fun.

I would love to blog about why I'm going forward with the trip, but you'll have to wait on that. I have to use the bathroom.  

Dysentery is fun.

     

You Ought to Read This

I was watching television on Sunday afternoon, and heard a foreign policy analyst say something uncharacteristically brilliant. "Sometimes," he said slowly, "we need to focus not on what we ought to do, but what we can do."

Whether his statement holds true with respect to foreign policy, I don't know. It does seem to be one of those fundamental truths that might apply to my daily life, though.

Sometimes, I need to focus not on what I ought to do, but what I can do.

I have a coffee mug that has a great quote from JFK on it.

Stop smirking, there's nothing remotely funny about owning a coffee mug that has JFK quotes on it.

It says, "Ideals are like stars. You will not succeed in touching them with your hands...[but] if you choose them as your guides, you can reach your destiny."

Ideals determine how we decide as individuals and communities what we "ought" to do.

Ideally, polite people always say thanks and please.

Ideally, a parent is always empathetic, and never resorts to power plays to get what they want.
Ideally, a spouse is compassionate, giving and understanding when it comes to their husband or wife.

Ideally, a blog post doesn't ramble on with numerous examples when trying to make a point.

But ideals are not real, and I tend to forget that.

My coffee mug is right, I can't touch ideals with my hands. When I think I can be my ideal, instead of recognizing it as an implausible guideline, I find myself teetering on the dangerous path towards apathy and even inaction. Sometimes, it seems that the whole universe moves against my quest to attain my ideals, and doing what I ought to do to reach them proves totally impossible.

On a day, for example, where I think I can be the ideal parent, the following can (and has) happened.

I conduct a daring rescue of my daughter from her fourth day of preschool only to be handed a pink folder by her teacher which contains twenty minutes worth of homework in it. Instead of sitting her in my lap and letting her recuperate from the trauma of preschool in front of an episode of Diego, I must now sit with her at the breakfast table and do her "math homework." Being only three years old and having been at school for six hours, my daughter thinks it is way more fun to play "Pencil Pick Up." I finally lose it after the fourth round of this game and tell her if she doesn't start paying attention to me, I will give her a time out. And that I might, and I'm not proud of this, send her back to school today.

Not my finest moment as a mother.

I ought to have just let her watch TV. I ought to have laughed at her game of picking up her pencil. I ought to have understood that she was tired, and she didn't want to sit. I ought to have remembered that there is something fundamentally flawed in making a three year old do homework. But I didn't.

Days like that make me want to just throw my hands up and scream, "You know what, this is just stupid. I am never going to be able to (end world hunger, make people listen, be a size 2), so I'm just going to (become an investment banker, watch TV, order a Big Mac)." And, then, instead of doing what I can, I beat myself up because I think I'll never be the person that I "ought" to be.

But, you know what? A foreign relations analyst on CNN reminded me that doing what I can is just as good as doing what I should. Because, often, what I can do is all that's possible.

Trying to be ideal and doing it badly is far better than having no ideals, or worse, doing nothing about them at all. There's nothing wrong with wanting perfection or trying to achieve perfection as long as you know that perfection is not real.

Real is what you do and why you do it.

Rocked Me Like A Hurricane

Running a refugee camp is pretty easy. Oops, I didn't mean refugee, I meant evacuee camp.

The earlier part of this week, my home served as shelter to four wayward New Orleanians fleeing from Gustav. My evacuees were my brother, his very lovely wife (let's call them Jack and Jill since they're painfully old fashioned and think someone will stalk them to death if I put their names on the Internet) and their two very crazy dogs.

It was awesome!! We watched CNN all day. When they weren't trying to pretend to stay calm as water pushed over levee walls, we founded a country called "Liberalistan" in my living room and proceeded to reenact the perfect Democratic National Convention.

Jill pretended she was Hillary, Jack pretended to be Obama, and they had a wrestling match where Hil won and Obama cried like a little girl. Tariq pretended he was Bobby Jindal announcing that he had finally decided to become a Democrat, and I got to be Soledad O'Brien.

My daughter watched us intently and I'm pretty sure I saw the realization wash over her three year old face that she didn't have a fighting chance at a normal life.

Last time, Jack and Jill evacuated New Orleans, though, we didn't have so much fun.

Three years ago, with a week old baby in my arms, a father in the hospital from a triple bypass surgery, and a house full of in-laws, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a little hurricane named Katrina was tap dancing her way through the Atlantic.

I was raised in Florida, so hurricanes don't really inspire much fear in me. In fact, my general feelings about hurricanes center around disappointment. Here's how almost every single hurricane from my childhood played out:

Everyone: A hurricane is coming, a hurricane is coming. Sandbags, water, peanut butter, oh my!

Me: Sweet. I don't have to go to school. No Algebra (which should really have been called, "Let's tear Faiqa's self esteem down by making her feel like the biggest idiot in the world")?

Everyone: Oh, thank goodness, the hurricane turned. It's going to North Carolina instead.

Me: Kids in North Carolina are so lucky.

As Katrina edged its way towards New Orleans, though, Jill called and told me that she was evacuating the city. Jack would not be accompanying her immediately because he's a doctor and his hospital wouldn't let him to leave.

The hurricane finally hit and you're well aware of what happened to the city after that.

No phones, electricity or a way to leave the city translated into days that rolled by where we didn't hear from Jack. Twenty four hour news stations, also known as crack rock for the anxious, did nothing to assure anyone in my family of his safety.

Bodies floated through the streets of New Orleans and I pushed the worst thoughts about Jack's situation out of my head. For days, all that would come out of my mouth was, "This is America. This isn't supposed to happen here." But, it did happen here.

I will never really know the details of what happened in New Orleans that August. And I still can't imagine how it must have felt to lose your home, your pet or even your family to something as seemingly innocuous as weather.

But, I know what I felt. I felt angry because I had watched over my younger brother all my life. Now, the people "in charge" had failed me, Jill, my parents and everyone who loved him so much. Worse, I felt humiliated because I had arrogantly thought that we were better than this. That we were better than them over there.

About a week later, I watched my brother sleep off his Katrina hangover on my sofa, with my daughter sleeping peacefully upon his chest. I had never loved him more than I did at that moment. He was home, he was safe, and it was over.

I don't think it will ever be over for Jack and Jill, though. I remember them having a lot more faith in people before Katrina. Sometimes, when we talk of politics or society, I'll hear them say something that reminds me that a great deal of their faith in the goodness of people probably drowned in the flooded streets of New Orleans three years ago.

Now, if you ask Jack how he likes New Orleans, I swear you could see a shadow flit across his face before he answers. I suppose he's experiencing a sense of pain, loss or despair in that moment. The truth is, I don't know what lives in that shadow, and I can only make far reaching guesses.

The shadow does show me how Katrina still bears heavy upon the hearts of the people who lived it. And that it's not going to lighten up anytime soon.

** My sister-in-law, seven year resident of New Orleans, a former Katrina and Gustav evacuee, and all around awesome person will be guest posting on this topic on Monday, so be sure to come back!!

The Elephant in the Room

Yes, I know. Obamassiah said we weren't allowed to talk about Sarah Palin's daughter being in the family way. It's a private matter, I get that.

I am an evil, evil person because I've got to say something about it.

Bristol Palin is pregnant. To be completely honest, I really don't care. I completely agree with the right and left contentions that this is a family matter and the media or anyone else has no business discussing her or her unborn child.

Even if her mom is the one that told everyone.

But, you know what? I also think infidelity is a family matter. Remember that guy that was president eight years ago? Remember how he cheated on his wife with that White House Intern? I want to know where all the Republicans hell bent on protecting Bristol Pallin's right to privacy were when Chelsea Clinton's parent's marriage was being destroyed on national television.

Furthermore, when Clinton said he "did not have sex with that woman," everyone called him a liar. And they were right. He lied and it was a sad display.

But didn't Sarah Palin say that her daughter had not attended school in the last several months because she had contracted mono? Does anyone out there know if she actually does have mono?

One might argue that she did it to protect her daughter. O.K., I buy that.

But why couldn't one just translate that argument over to Bill Clinton, too? Maybe he was trying to protect his daughter from being hurt? Regardless, if Bristol doesn't have mono, her mother, gasp, lied about it.

And, I am curious, if Barack Obama had a seventeen year old daughter who was pregnant, would everyone applaud him for supporting her decision? Not likely.

People may not realize this, but I'm a very conservative person when it comes to family life. What I mean to say is that in my own life, I do not live an "anything goes" philosophy, and I'm pretty rigid in determining my own personal actions. See how I phrased that, my own personal actions?

I'm careful in expressing morality laden opinions or forcing others to follow my own set of rules regarding morality.

I'm even more careful about judging those who do not follow my personal beliefs, and I consciously make an effort not to evaluate other people's choices as "good" or "bad."

(God, I am so awesome. How can you stand it?).

I think a lot about what being an American means, and, to me, this is a very basic tenet: your personal beliefs are a valuable contribution to your nation, but your duty as an American is to respect and revere your fellow citizen's beliefs, as well. This is at the heart of the many other things that were meant to distinguish us from all those fascists in the rest of the world. (Back off, people of the rest of the world, that was a joke.)

As I said, Bristol's pregnancy doesn't bother me, nor does her decision to keep her child.

Good for her, she's displaying a real willingness to take responsibility for her actions at such a young age, I think to myself, on a personal level.

At the same time, people who choose differently from her are O.K. in my book, too. (As a side note, you can order this book from Amazon.com, it's called, My Book: 10001 Ways to Gain Faiqa's Approval).

What is disturbing to me about this whole situation is that young women who are in her same exact position, minus the Vice Presidential candidate for a mom, have historically not been afforded the respect that she is receiving right now from conservatives.

Someone from McCain's camp said, "This is what happens in families." That's absolutely true. It does happen. But, I don't recall that being the party line when we were discussing inner city teenagers.

I remember something distinctly different being said about them. While I won't repeat it here, I'm pretty sure it wasn't "While we advocate abstinence, and we know your parents did their best to teach you values centered on abstinence, it's okay that you are pregnant. We're proud of the decision you're making to keep your baby. We are so very proud of you. "

Familiar Faces

Let's face it, for many of us who grew up in America, television and movies represented integral teaching devices.

My TV taught me about the simple truths in life. For example, I learned that liberal hippie parents can actually produce Republican offspring, that alien life forms actually had normal human names and that a rich white guy adopting two orphaned kids from Harlem is just really, really funny because it would probably never happen.

But, you know, while TV and movies taught me a lot about other people, they didn't always teach me about myself.

At least, not the part of myself that had parents that believed that children who didn't agree with them were inherently evil and had no respect for "their elders" because said children were too "Americanized." Or that being a doctor, lawyer or engineer was not part of a cultural identity, it was the only cultural identity you had.

What I mean to say is that Asian Americans, particularly those from the subcontinent, were few and far between in movies and TV.

So, when I did see that occasional brown face on the tube or silver screen, my immature little mind clawed at a deeper truth. Surely, these characters could teach me about myself, the way Alex P. Keaton taught me that Republicans, too, can be kind of hot in a money grubbing, if not completely self absorbed, way.

Here's some of the stuff I learned:

If you walk around India in a white sheet and get a lot accomplished, maybe you will be lucky enough to have a very talented white actor play your role in fifty years.

Religious tolerance is critically important in America. Do not offer people's gods peanuts.


















If someone says you have an "exotic" look, retain your humility and think about how they mean it.



















Fake Indian accents are about as funny as Steve Guttenberg. Which is to say that they are not. At all.

On a side note, all of these characters were Indian in their origin. Even on that level, I had to compromise because I'm actually Pakistani-American. I would've posted a few people hijacking airplanes, but it would have been too depressing.

Be assured, I have a very good sense of humor about these things (or is it that I have simply given up?), so this wasn't some subtle diatribe about how racist American TV was when I was growing up.

I get that I wasn't a big priority in terms of advertising revenue in the 80s. I also appreciate the evolution represented in my own daughter's favorite TV shows which are about a little Chinese-American girl and a little Hispanic boy. (Where, exactly, does Diego come from?)

I'm curious about what other people thought of these characters and others like them, and how TV and movies might have affected the general perception about other cultures.

So, tell me how did television or movies affect your perception of cultures, whether that of your own or others?

Day of Humility Part I

Days of Humility are the days where people have every right to treat me like a jerk for compelling reasons, but instead they opt to show, through small and random acts of kindness, that the world is a good place with nice people in it.

The ability of a human being to return rage, ignorance and stupidity with love, understanding and patience is truly a superpower. Why don't they have an X-Man For that? They could call him MahaXma. Lame, I know

Interestingly enough, when we lapse sporadically into ignorant, stupid and rage filled behavior we can truly appreciate the superheroes in our life.

Uber Day of Deep Humility

My Carelessness rewarded with Patience and Understanding.
I got ready for my 10:30a.m. hair appointment which is on its third reschedule only to be called by the salon receptionist asking me why I missed my 9:30a.m. appointment.

She asked me to come in anyway, told me not to worry about it because they'll just call the next client and see if she can come in a little later.

When I walked in they said, very sincerely, that they were glad I could finally make it.


Impatience rewarded with Patience. Sort Of.
Had to fax papers for my husband at Kinko's.

I kept trying the stupid fax number over and over (and over) again on the Kinko's fax machine, but to no avail.

After a serious rant at my husband, I discovered that I had been dialing the main office number and not the one labeled FAX TO.

I was lucky enough to get away with a slightly disgusted eye roll.


Impatience rewarded with Love
A few minutes later, I found out my husband scheduled a massage for me for 4p.m. even though he has a terrible fever and would have to watch my three year old daughter who has also been sick.

Don't forget my scowling over the wrong fax number.

The man was a SAINT today.


Stupidity Rewarded with Kindness and Protection.
Went back to Kinko's to fax the document and realized that I had left my Check Card in their machine the last time I was there.

Shuffled to the desk, tried not to act like the idiot I felt like and asked if anyone had turned it in. Someone did, in fact, turn it in.

The guy at the desk told me not to feel bad, it happens more often than I think. (This point will be disqualified if my check card turns out having charges for a Wii Fit and liposuction within the next week or so).


Carelessness Rewarded With Kindness.
Stopped to get groceries on the way home, was fumbling with my iPhone and dropped an extra large container of Yogurt that went splat all over the floor in WD, right in front of the guy who was restocking that section.

He smiled politely and very pleasantly said, "don't worry about it." And he looked like he meant it.



Cynics might suggest that the secondary characters mentioned in these humbling moments were just doing their jobs, which is true. But they didn't have to be so nice. No one was there to see if the smiles they gave were fake other than me. Given the fact that I knew I didn't deserve a smile in many of these cases, I would've picked up on the proverbial SEG.

People, when they had a choice, chose to be nice, and, in many cases, to a relative stranger.

I'm humbled by that today.

Tomorrow, I will resume being a stuck up suburbanite with a German car.

Faiqa on Faye

Did you know the difference between a flood watch and a flood advisory? An advisory means that we might have floods. A watch means that we are either having floods or that they are imminent. Does anyone else wish that they would just say, "It's going to flood, go buy sandbags."

This whole Faye thing reminds me of this guy I knew in high school that told me I should change my name to Faye because it was way easier to pronounce than Faiqa. His name was Muhammad and he had started telling people to call him "Mo." I told him that he could shove it and if people thought my name was too hard to pronounce they didn't have to talk to me. True story.

Anyway, I cannot believe they've been interrupting Young and the Restless for this crap. I don't watch Y&R, per se, but if I did, I'd be damned upset. (On a different note, is it strange that the opportunity to use the phrase "per se" literally makes my day?)

Interesting to note that Florida's weather has the ability to turn the most easygoing individuals into anxiety ridden neurotics. When I met my husband ten years ago, he told me that the most significant difference between America and the other places that he had lived was that Americans worried too much, even though they had the least amount of things to worry about.

Yesterday, he went outside in the middle of a torrential downpour to drain the pool two inches because he was afraid our lanai might flood and bought 50 gallons of water for two and a half people after hearing that we might have a tropical storm warning in effect. My contribution? I pretended not to watch reruns of Oprah.

I'm just saying, whose the anxiety neurotic, now?

A Glass Half Full... Of What?

Okay, okay, Okaaaaay. I'm feeling a little better today. I ate two and half cupcakes, a quarter pounder and a small order of fries and I practiced smiling in the bathroom mirror for half an hour and got over my self imposed preschool blues pity party.

I know I said when I first started this blog that I wasn't going to ramble on about my kid, but I'm going to ramble on about my kid.  If you don't like it, well, respectfully, you can leave.

In the spirit of new-agey positive crap, I am going to make a list of five reasons why I know sending N. to preschool is a good idea.  The following list is not in any particular order:

1. She needs "real" friends.  As my friend Tami has said, "Dora, Tico and Isa the Iguana are not real people."

2. Not everyone will treat you the way your mommy and daddy do.  Expecting everyone in the world to discipline, care and teach her the way her parents do will create a pathology in my daughter that will leave her eternally disappointed in others.  Putting her in preschool now will teach her not to expect other authority figures to give her a hug after they've yelled at her for being an idiot.  (But, then again, maybe she won't have to expect the hug because I will have killed them for calling my daughter an idiot.)

3. Speaking of authority figures... anybody ever notice that sometimes people who are in charge really, really suck at being in charge?  I think school, not necessarily preschool, is a great place for kids to learn that just because someone is in charge, doesn't mean that they deserve it. 

4. My daughter is a gentle and compassionate child.  Regardless of what the Dalai Lama says, these qualities have to be turned off, sometimes.  (Think about it, if the D.L. believed in kicking ass every now and then, all those hippies wouldn't be sporting the "Free Tibet" bumper stickers.)  On Monday, her first day of school, this little boy decided that he was in love with her and kept trying to kiss her.  I have now taught her that if he does it again, she is to whack him as hard as she can.  I feel completely good about giving her this advice and cannot think of any other circumstance in which I would have had this lovely opportunity to encourage her to assert herself violently.

5.  I get to eat McDonald's and cupcakes to make myself feel better. 

Alright, I have to go watch ParentWatch and then cry myself to sleep until it's time to pick her up.  

Prepare to be Bummed

O.K., it's been sixteen days since my last post.  My daughter started preschool on Monday, and I just can't think straight.  The days leading up to it were difficult.  Now, that she's started, it's simply unbearable.  

I'm her mom, I know her better than anyone else in the world.  I knew back in April when I registered her for preschool that she was going to have a tough transition.

Still, I thought there was this tiny, little chance that she would run into her classroom screaming, "Mommy, thank you for bringing me here, this is the happiest place on earth and I never want to leave."

That obviously didn't happen.  Worse yet, since the school has a ParentWatch cam, I got to watch a live feed and experience first hand exactly how much she hated it.

I wish I could end this post on a funny note, or say something meaningful, but, guys, I'm just not in the mood.  

Right now, I hate that life has to change.  

I hate that we all have to grow up.  

I hate that a large portion of our lives are spent doing things that are scary.  

I hate that my daughter has to learn that even though you are scared and feel like crying, you have to try to be brave and get through it.  

I hate that I bear the responsibility of teaching her how to be courageous.  

I wish my daughter could stay home forever.  That we could wake up and watch Diego, eat Teddy Grahams at snack time and color in the afternoon until the end of time. 

And that she would never, ever have to do anything that she didn't want to do. 

    

Diversification

This is a particularly embarrassing story, but I'm going to tell it in order to legitimize my claim that confronting your shortcomings is a necessary step in personal development.

I was flipping through the channels this evening and the Oxygen network (you know, "television for women") was playing "The Best Man," starring Taye Diggs and Sanaa Lathan.  In case you haven't seen it, just know that it has an all African-American cast.

Nuha is coloring a picture of Dora and looks up just as Taye Diggs is giving the toast at his best friend's wedding.  "Look, Mama," she says proudly, "it's Barack Obama."

(Long awkward silence.)

I told you it was embarassing.

Arranged Marriages

Phone call, last Tuesday.  It's my husband, "[Here is the part of the conversation you don't give a damn about].  Oh, and by the way," he says in a suspiciously casual tone, "I got a call from X, and he said he might be getting married on Saturday, so you should probably reschedule dinner with [our friends who most likely wish to remain anonymous]."  

"Might be getting married?"  

It turns out that Mr. X has been e-mailing a young lady in Dubai for the past few months, she had accompanied her parents to Florida this past week, and this young lady and Mr. X went out for coffee.  Before the frozen frappuccinos they ordered at Barnes and Noble could get all slushy, they were engaged to be married for the day after tomorrow.  

Welcome to the world of arranged marriages, kindly leave your notions regarding prolonged courtship at the door.

Truth be told, I'm no stranger to arranged marriages, at least if one counts my experience as one of association.  My parents' marriage was arranged, as was my sister's (sort of), many of my aunts and uncles, cousins, and, of course, friends.  So, the fact that Mr. X's nuptials were of the arranged persuasion was not what floored me.  I was more surprised by the speed.  Coffee on Tuesday, wedding on Saturday.

Interestingly, this express train to marital bliss is actually not entirely unusual in the world of arranged marriages.  I suppose having grown up in the West, I'm supposed to take the position that this sort of arrangement is archaic and perhaps a little oppressive, but I don't.

I've thought long and hard about the issue of arranged marriages, and, in all truth, it's fine by me.  (Yes, dear friends, you may go forth now in the world and happily engage in arranged marriages now that you have the coveted "Faiqa's seal of approval"!).  

The courtship phase between my husband and I lasted almost four years.  Nothing that I learned in those four years prepared me for the arguments, letdowns or blind rages that are intrinsic in any marriage.  In fact, I would go so far as to argue that the longer the courtship, the more pronounced the lie becomes that you actually know the person you are going to marry. Our prolonged courtship did, of course, afford us the advantage of being friends long before we were husband and wife.  And, I suppose, that the adamant pursuit to preserve that friendship certainly preserved our marriage on some certainly rough occasions.  

But back to arranged marriages and my pithy defense of them.  Some people argue that marriage is just a piece of paper.  I don't agree that it is just that.  Marriage is a contract, a legally binding one at that. When two people enter into this legal contract, they are, consciously or not, authenticating the superculture which has, in fact, imposed this contract upon them.  They are accepting that being someone's wife or someone's husband is defined by entities outside of the two of them.  This overtly extends to financial obligations, but insidiously refers to other BS such as who is supposed to do the dishes and who takes out the trash.  (Everyone knows husbands are supposed to take out the trash.)  

The problematic nature of a marriage that is not arranged, then, rears itself when legally married people exhibit an unwillingness to adhere to their superculture's definition of marriage.  (Why does my Mac keep underlining superculture as a typo?  Did I just make up that word?).  

Those of us who do not have arranged marriages often want to redefine what it means to be a husband or a wife.  Everything is negotiable: is it, in fact, until death do us part, and in sickness and in health?  Do I have to call your parents mom and dad?  What do you mean you're not changing your last name?  I'm not implying that this renegotiation should not be done, all I am saying is that it is potentially problematic.  (Personally, Faiqa Khan is all for renegotiation).

In the most perfect sense, an arranged marriage, in which both parties are willing participants, fully acknowledges the cultural parameters of marital definitions.  Everybody knows their part in this play, and there is likely to be little improvisation.  

Some people actually like that.  Some people like to know exactly where they stand, what is expected of them and that they can hold others accountable to a prescribed set of obligations and behaviors.  Furthermore, while those of us who did not have arranged marriages have the friendship created before our marriage to save us from our incessant bickering, individuals who have opted for arranged marriage have entire families devoted to the preservation of their marriage.  Why should we raise our unarranged marriage eyebrows at that?

As a disclaimer, I have to mention that I am firmly opposed to the arranged marriage of children and unwilling participants.  But then again, I am firmly opposed to the unarranged marriages of the same parties.  

And another thing... a lot of people like to catch hold of the idea that arranged marriages bear particularly oppressive upon the women involved in those marriages.  I'd like to counter that, barring a "forced" marriage, which is an entirely different entity than an arranged marriage, I don't think arranged marriages are any more oppressive than plain old marriages.  I'm sure that any married woman who gets her legs waxed would be inclined to agree with me.

Strawberry Shortcake

Did anyone else play with Strawberry Shortcake when they were a kid?  Men, before you grunt, and roll your eyes, I assume you are familiar with the fact that there did, in fact, exist a Strawberry Shortcake?  Well, she still does.  Yesterday, N. accompanied us to Blockbuster and decided to rent Strawberry Shortcake.  Apparently, she didn't think our selection of "Dogma" would be entertaining enough.

Is anyone else completely taken aback from the difference in old school Strawberry Shortcake and the newer version (released in 2002).  The top one is the newer version.  Sorry, I haven't figured out how to caption images just yet.  

Why is Strawberry Shortcake so damned skinny all of a sudden?  After watching the movie with N., I learned that there is still a fudge river in Strawberry Land and that she continues to be best friends with Ginger Snap, nemesis to all dieters, who still makes the best cookies.  So, the only conclusion I can come up with is that in the past 25 years, Strawberry Shortcake has developed a very effective, but quite possibly dangerous eating disorder.  How else can she eat all of that sugary goodness and still lose weight?  I haven't eaten anything that isn't baked, grilled or boiled in three weeks and am only down one and a half pounds.   

I watched that God-awful movie, whose name I will not tell you so that you will not even be tempted to rent it for your child,  and I had to tie my hands together so I wouldn't wolf down a box of cookies and chocolate bar.  And since I can't do that to N., I had to give her a piece of chocolate after it was over since she kept asking me for cookies and I didn't have any.

Strawberry, can I call you Strawberry?  Get some help.  You are perfect just the way you are. Why don't you move out of Strawberry Land?  I suggest D.C., Tariq tells me it's a great place to live.  Since there aren't any supermodels there, your treatment promises to be far more successful.  Best of luck.  Oh, and don't make any more movies. Please.

Running on Empty

Did I mention that Tariq is training for a marathon?  Oh, well, he is.  And, frankly, I'm getting a little jealous of all the attention and admiring looks he's getting in our COI.  I mean, come on, it's running.  Like it's hard.  All you do is put one foot in front of another over and over again for an hour or two.  

With this wonderful frame of mind, I spontaneously decided to start running today.  No plan, just decided.  I googled "running programs," and it turns out if you have never run before, you should walk five minutes at a moderate pace and then run for a minute at a light jog.  After a week, you increase to two minutes and so forth.  Like I said, is that supposed to be hard or something?

It went a little something like this.

1:15p.m. Google search took place

1:20p.m. I geared up for my first running outing since I was about five years old.  Oh, did I mention that it was 1:20p.m.?  In the afternoon? In Florida?  Now, I'm no meteorologist or anything, but I'm pretty sure that the Florida sun is at its hottest at precisely 1:20p.m.

1:21 p.m. Moderate walking

1:25p.m. Break into a run.  Hey, this isn't so hard.  

1:25 and 1/2 p.m. Could it be any hotter out here?!  Thank the Almighty I downloaded Van Morrison on my IPOD last night or I would have to do this and listen to "Pocket Full of Sunshine."  

1:26p.m. I'm still alive and it is truly only by the grace of the Almighty.  Resume walking at moderate pace.

Oh, did I mention that I am pushing N. in one of those running strollers while I'm doing this?  I made sure to supply her with a Ziploc full of Teddy Grahams and a juice box so as to minimize any complaints of being hungry and thirsty.  The juice box and Teddy Grahams lasted about five minutes and now she's decided that she's training the Pakistani cricket team for their next match in India and she's yelling, "Faster, Mama, Faster!!"

1:50p.m.  I almost passed out three times before the end of the walk/run, but it's over.  I'm pretty sure that I saw my neighbor's lawn guy whip out his cell phone to call 9-1-1.

"Hello, 911?"

"Yes, sir, what is your emergency?"

"Umm, there's this Indian lady lying passed out on the lawn that I mow on Fridays."

"O.K., sir.  Is she Indian or Pakistani?"

"Umm, I'm not sure.  Is that important?"

"Well, a lot of people think it is.  Never mind, what was she doing before she passed out?"

"Running."

"Running?  Is she crazy?  It's 150,000 degrees outside.  What an idiot."

"Umm, 911?  Her daughter keeps yelling, 'faster, mama, faster.' What should I do?"

"Do you have a juice box and Teddy Grahams handy?"

Who's The Boss?

Let me tell you what, working for your husband can be a total pain in the keister. (Yeah, I just used the word keister). Last night at 11:30p.m., I sat down to update this blog and Tariq came in and said, "Are you creating those social networking accounts for the site?"

"No, I'm updating my blog."

"Oh." Insert long, awkward guilt inducing silence here. "I guess you'll do that tomorrow, then?"

"Yesss," I hissed. Deep breath, stay calm, do not kill your husband. Teach your daughter, who is standing there (yes, at 11:30p.m.) how to maturely diffuse a situation that could rapidly escalate into an all out brawl.

I looked at my computer screen, then turned to him and snapped in a pretty ferocious tone "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!"

Who came up with the calming deep breath technique, anyway? It's totally useless. I mean, why would doing something like breathing, which I do involuntarily anyway, keep me from getting mad? I proceeded with the following argument.

When was the last time your boss called you at home while you were anesthetizing yourself in front of the television to ask you if you had completed this week's work? Could I please just sit here and work on something that does not revolve around you and your goals in life? I felt tremendously victimized, and the best thing to do in a situation like this is to stand up for yourself and really assert your right to do the things that you want to do for yourself without regard for someone else's guilt inducing agenda.

So, you know what I did? I gave him a dirty look, looked back at my laptop, and logged out of blogger and started creating social networking sites for our business. (Insert anticlimactic music here). Consciously, I am a Malcolm X, don't take no crap from nobody. Habitually and reflexively, I am a dead on Joan of Arc. Viva La Martyrdom. I really showed him.

In the end we worked it out. By "worked it out" I mean that I badgered him with guilt trips until midnight, he said at least fifty-five variations of the phrase, "I'm sorry," promised never to do it again, and proclaimed me as being "Her Exalted Faiqa-ness, queen of Justice, Being Right All the Time, and General Superiority."

Working for your husband has its perks, after all.

Getting a Real Job

That time is finally approaching.  My daughter is going to start preschool in August, thus rendering the hours of 9a.m. to 2p.m. of each weekday completely meaningless.  The only natural solution, of course, is for me to get a real job.

The thing is, I have a real job.  The pay is pretty good, lots of gratitude, hugs, kisses and the more than occasional bouquet of flowers.  The downside is that I can't deposit those thank you's in my bank account and head to the mall to buy that cream colored Coach bag that I've been eyeing for the last six months.

Mr. Faiqa (lol) has decided that he's not ready to play Daddy to kiddie number two just yet, so continuing on the current path of managing a baby is out of the question for now, at least.  Between the need to fill up my days while N. is at school and wanting to buy a three hundred dollar bag without sacrificing two weeks worth of groceries, the only option seems to be to enter the exciting world of employment.

First, I'm just kind of terrified of the process of figuring out what I'm going to do, exactly.  I want to do something meaningful.  Primary motivation, I'm not going to insult you by lying, is definitely money.  Still, I figure if I'm going to divert a portion of my energies away from the care of my family, I would like it to benefit someone in an important way.  

Because the truth is, when you're a mom, and I guess that this applies to dads, too, a job siphons off some of the creativity, energy and liveliness that you might otherwise focus upon coming up with cool ideas like building a log cabin out of carrot sticks with a ranch dressing lake as a snack for your two year old or maintaining the household tradition of daddy never ironing his own clothes.  Yes, ladies, I'm not sure that T. even knows how to turn on the iron much less use it.  

So, that's one level of inner resistance that I'm developing to getting a job for which I am monetarily compensated.  Second level of resistance comes from the fact that I really, really like my life.  I've established enough structure and order that I can reasonably anticipate what is going to happen next.  A job outside of my home is going to compromise that completely and totally.  I have no idea how I am going to react as a person to having two, make that three jobs. (Wife, Mom and Whatever I Decide to Do).

A realization washes over me at this very moment.  Order and structure are not really the natural state of things, though.  Life and the universe are inherently chaotic, aren't they?  Anyone who has lived in Florida during hurricane season can tell you that.  We were supposed to get, like, twenty hurricanes last year and I think we only got one.  The point is, life really is a box of chocolates and you never do know what you're going to get.

Catching Up with Canada's Capital

It's been a busy month.  In-laws flew in (not on their broomsticks, ha ha) about three weeks ago, left to spend a weekend in New York with some friends the following week, and then went to Toronto to see my brother-in-law's adorable newborn son.  So, between all that traveling, my mind is pretty much spent.  Forgive me for the lack of depth in this post.

I tend to be one of those people who try to rebuff all that others deem awesome, but I just really do love New York City.  I can't believe I don't live there.  Oh, yeah, I just remembered.  If I tried to buy a place there with the same square footage I have in Florida, I would have to be Bill Gates.  But, I wonder, what is square footage when compared with the prospect of going to the Met every single day of the week.

Visiting New York did make me play, however, the "what if" game in my head.   You know, what if I had gone to university in New York instead of staying in Florida, what if I had moved there after getting married, etc.  

About halfway through that thought pattern, I got bored and moved on.

I know some people find the "what if" game interesting, but I just don't get the point.  The same is true of Sudoku (or however you spell it).  Remind me, why would I want to play with all these numbers unless I am balancing a checkbook or doing Algebra homework? 

Anyway, New York was awesome and in some indescribable way, it was empowering.  Until I tried to hail a cab in Times Square.  Then, it was just demoralizing.  Oh, by the by, a shot out to the wonderful husbands of the ladies in the preceding photo who tirelessly and selflessly took care of our kids while we acted like high school students on Spring Break for three days in New York.   

Three days later, left for a five day stint in the Toronto area.  O.K., Canada has amazing foliage, their side of the Falls are waaay better than ours and the citizenry are just super nice. Other than that, not so impressed with Canada thus far.  Something about every building in Toronto just screamed, "I've been built by the lowest bidder for a government contract."  The suburban areas where I stayed was nice, but the city itself was just kind of shabby.  I just wasn't feeling the majesty that one expects when visiting the capital of a country. 

Wait, Toronto is the capital of Canada, right? Oh, crap, it's not the capital, after all.  I just googled it and it turns out Ottawa is the capital of Canada.  I can't believe I didn't know the capital of Canada.  Talk about demoralizing.  

P.S. Amreen, I hope you're happy now.

Shy Kid

"We are all something, but none of us are everything."  -B. Pascal

Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, N.  She's going to be three this year.  N. is the most girly-girl, precious and soft spoken three year old fairy princess wanna-be you might ever meet.  If you do ever have the absolutely divine pleasure of meeting her, though, you might not hear her voice during that first meeting.  (Unless, of course she's begging me to pick her up so she can bury her face in my shoulder).  In fact, if N. warms up to you in twenty minutes or less you might have to put smelling salts under my nose because I'll most likely have passed out from the shock of it all. 

 

Because of this, some people say she is "shy, " but I don't.  And let me explain why.

The Oxford American Dictionary defines shy as "having or showing nervousness or timidity in the company of other people." Another definition of the word is "slow, or reluctant to do something."  The major problem that I have with this definition being applied to my daughter, and other children like her, is that these children do not display nervousness or timidity around other people all the time.  They simply display what others interpret as timidity, and what I refer to as "caution," in the presence of some people, some of the time.  

That said, if you've ever said that N. is shy in my presence, I want to let you know it didn't make me angry.  I know the difference between malice and misunderstanding.  And I also know that we live in a world, actually a civilization, that undervalues the traits that seem, so far, to predominate my daughter's personality.  She behaves in very careful, cautious, reserved and measured ways (well, as measured as a two year old can be) around people with whom she is not completely familiar.  I respect these traits because they are traits that I have had to learn, often at my own peril. 

To me, children like N. are not shy, though they do act like it sometimes.  But you know what?  They also chatter, jump up and down on the sofa,  giggle, dance, have tantrums, give bear hugs and kisses and they've even been known to high five complete strangers at the supermarket.

So, what is the big deal with saying a kid is "shy"? 

Let's say your idiot boss has just done something idiotic for the fifth time today. You're upset and storm off to the water cooler to keep yourself from killing him or her.  Your closest water cooler buddy says, "Wow, I can see you're angry."  Are you actually angry?  

In my opinion, the answer is no.  You may be feeling angry right now, but in the grand scheme of it all, you are you, not the anger that you feel.  You are infinite possibilities, infinite emotions and far too complex and wonderful to be pigeon holed into the one feeling that you have chosen to act upon in this very moment.

As an adult, you have the understanding and wisdom (hopefully) to contextualize emotions with events.  In other words, you can say "I am angry" and understand that there is a cause behind it and that the feeling will eventually pass.  However, if an adult tells a small child that she is shy, mean, wild, crazy, or stupid, they tend to understand that statement as if it were a universal truth, not in the context of the current situation.  Incidentally, this also applies to comments directed at other adults within the hearing range of said child.

Really think about this, do you actually expect a three year old, or even a five or six year old, to have the advanced skill of contextualizing your judgement of them with respect to specific instances of behavior?  Well, they simply can't.  They hear things such as "He's so hyper/shy/mean" and they believe that you think they are that quality all of the time.

  

In this world, the majority of people either spend their lives trying to live up to or destroy the expectations that others have set upon them.  Furthermore, most of the dysfunctionality in this world emanates from unchecked self-centeredness.  I think these issues are connected by the way that children have been socialized.  It's unfortunate that the inherent goodness of a child is forever linked with his actions or specific personality traits.  

If you do your homework, you are good.  If you break something, you are bad.  If you say hello to a new adult, you are polite and outgoing.  If you don't, you are rude or shy.  If you sit quietly and play with your toys, you are well mannered.  If you jump up and down on the sofa, you're feral.  Hello?  Kids are always good.  A child might feel angry, shy, sad, mad, etc., but those emotions shouldn't define them.  There are times when they behave badly, but no child is inherently bad.  Love the child, judge (if you must) the behavior.

     

And we may not think that what we say or how we say it matters too much, but to a small child we are god-like in our wisdom and understanding of how things work.  They believe what you say about everything, especially what you say about them. Every single word.  By the way, I'm not making this stuff up.  This is what the "experts" on child development have said.  (Only they needed three hundred plus pages to communicate that while I did in a few paragraphs.  Is it even worth wondering why I still haven't finished writing my Masters thesis?)

A few days ago, we went to Target and N. held my hand as we walked into the store.  This is probably her thousandth visit there, so as soon as we entered she let go of my hand and just started walking.  I lingered behind her for a while, still watching, but very amazed at her dramatic show of independence.  I finally just grabbed her and put her in the shopping cart because I had a lot of shopping to do.  But I wonder, where was she going?  

Probably the toy section, or even the clothing aisle, she has become quite the little fashionista. Maybe, though, she was just headed towards the aisle called, "Infinite Possibilities."  Next time, if I don't have so much to get done, I might just follow her there.

Event Review: Kid Stuff, Toys from Our Past OCRHC Exhibit

I like to think of myself as "young."  Despite the fact that my feelings are totally harmless, someone has decided to put me and other people born before 1980 in our place by creating a museum exhibit that displays the toys we played with as children.  Nothing says "you are ancient" like watching a nine year old look at an Atari 2600 as if it were Alexander the Great's battle armor.

That said, KidStuff, now on exhibit at the Orange County Regional History Center is a definite must.  It is highly interactive, allowing kids (and their ancient parents) hands on access to toys that were popular in the past fifty years.  You can race Hot Wheels, play dress up like a princess and play Twister all in one afternoon.  Although dads, I recommend leaving out the dressing up like a princess part.  (Don't worry, there are pirate outfits, too.)

The OCRHC has also added their own section to this exhibit called "Video Stuff."  Gamers will love this section as it traces the technological development of video games.  The best part of the exhibit is that they have set up stations where you can play video games developed in the 70s, 80, 90s and, yes, they have a Wii(!!).  

Admission to this exhibit is included in the cost of general admission, which is $10 for ages 13 and over and $3.50 for ages 3-12.  Student and senior discounts are also available.  The exhibit runs until April 13.  For directions and admission prices check out www.thehistorycenter.org.