‘What Do You Do?’

13 Mar

It’s 8:00 a.m., Saturday morning, and I’m not in my big, blue robe.  I’m at the optometrist sitting in an examining chair- squinty eyed. I’ve dutifully removed my contact lenses; I can only make out forms, and assume that deep voice is coming from a male doctor. It’s either a male, or a woman whose been smoking unfiltered cigarettes since she was six. He asks me a string a questions about my overall health, which I beam, “Is fine.” While scribbling in my file he asks, “What do you do?”

What do I say?

I want him to re-phrase, to clarify the question. You mean, what do I do all day? What did I used to do? What will I be doing in ten years? What did I think I was going to be doing ten years ago? What do I want to be doing?

What. Do. I. Do? I don’t know how to answer. Why does my optometrist need to know what I do? Doesn’t everyone need 20/20 vision? Does it matter what I do?

“I’m a stay-at-home-mom,” I say. Meanwhile, my inner gaffe -radar is crying out: HALLELUJAH!! Did I just say that? It sounds like I’m headed straight to house arrest after this appointment. I’ll always be a mom, God willing, but I don’t envision staying home forever. Through my strained vision, I can make out that he is writing more notes in my file. Oh no! He’s recording it. “Stay At Home Mom.” Maybe he’s even writing the oft-sighted short hand form: SAHM. My mind races. My file?! I’m going to go down as: Stay-at-Home-Mom with Stigmatism,-5.50 Vision in Left Eye, Lady.

Aww, heck no!

“I’m an attorney,” I blurt out. He pauses. I can’t see his expression, but I imagine he’s contorting it and scratching his head. Are you a stay-at-home mom or an attorney? I feel like one of those traveling con-artist who carries a different business card, depending on the city, and the image he needs to procure. I scan the horizon for a way to rehabilitate my character. I feel like I’m in a courtroom on the stand. Why am I cross-examining myself?! This doctor is just doing his job. He wants a simple answer. Give it to him!

“I’ve put my profession aside right now to focus on my family,” I say. Now, I sound holier-than-thou, or a wee bit narrow-minded about what focus on family means- depending on who you ask. Gosh, this is getting worse. Why didn’t I just stick with the stay-at-home-mom gig? Why do I sound so insecure? I’m surely going home to call my long-time friend in Texas; we go back to undergrad days, before law school and before kids. She has four, I have three, and neither of us practices law anymore. I’ll re-hash all of these details and feelings. In her calm, reassuring voice, she’s going to take my anxiety back down to sanity levels, then tell me: “You should write about this.”

“O.K.,” he replies with a little jaunt, “You’ve got a couple of titles; let me write all of that down.” Oh please don’t, I say under my breath. I excuse ”stay-at-home mom/attorney,” from the stand, having nothing more to extract from my witness. Her conflicting answers, voice inflections and awkward pauses have sufficed to incriminate. On the other hand, as the witness, I stash those cacophony feelings into my mental piggy bank to take out later and analyze. The eye exam can now resume.  I take my prescription for bottle caps from the receptionist, dodge the sales lady in the lobby, then fly out of there- leaving my file with its titles behind. 

Why didn’t I just say: “Mom of three, no other profession?”  Wouldn’t that be more accurate? I can’t, which gnaws at me. On a purely cerebral level, I realize that my life is made up of stages. For this stage, accepting all of the consequences, I’ve made the deliberate choice to have no other profession – to solely focus on raising my children. I desire to return to a profession, not necessarily in the capacity of an attorney, but using that skill-set to advance me in which ever field I pursue. If I know that, then why does it matter if my optometrist knows that? Why does it matter if anyone knows that? Why can’t I go down in any file as, mother of three – no other friggin’ profession? Who cares?!

When I surgically analyze these feelings, though it pains me to admit, I get the answer. I can’t say mother of three-no other profession, because that’s like dropping a keg of acid on my delicate ego. It makes me feel diminished in front of another professional. Society does not groom mothers, with no other profession, to feel part of an educated, professional and privileged class. Society was so considerate to my ego when I was a law student, and every day after that, until I became mother of three – no other profession.

I remember attending my freshman orientation as an aspiring law student, the summer before my first semester. I glibly sat down in a large auditorium surrounded by fellow classmates to the tune of the law school’s dean telling us how many students applied for our single seat, hence, how brilliant and accomplished we were already to be sitting there. The same was repeated in so many ways just a few years later at our graduation ceremony and sprinkled throughout our law school education. It wasn’t just the institution telling me that; everyone seemed to agree – my parents, my friends, strangers on the street, oddly even people who hated attorneys.

In law school we were constantly ranked according to how special we were. I graduated with a sparkly “cum laude” title, fancy for “with honors,” just to let me know, if I didn’t know already, that I was darn special. This was nice, but not quite so nice as those who graduated with the title, “magna cum laude,” fancy for very darn special.

After getting my, “Congratulations, smarty pants, for passing the bar exam,” letter in the mail, I landed my first attorney job. My employer did not waste any time telling me that fifty people applied for my job. There was my feel-good fix and I hadn’t even completed my first assignment! Whenever my work product was critiqued, if I submitted an exceptionally polished motion or legal analysis, it was likely followed by a concentrated dose of praise. All I had to do was get up in the morning and go to work to feel exceptional. My life had become of a series of work hard- eat cookie exchanges. This cycle of effort and reward was very predictable. Folks were petting my ego left and right; in fact, it was so ordinary, I did not even realize it was happening until it stopped. And, it did stop- suddenly and coldly. I got cut off from the drug as rapidly as the flash of light from a solar eclipse extinguishes itself from view behind the moon. It took me two years (a modest estimate) to get over that chill, and accustom myself to 24-hour cycles without the work hard-eat cookie fix.

Mother of three- no other profession, is nothing like attorney. If the attorney motto is: “Work hard, eat cookie,” the mother of three- no other profession motto is: “Work hard -clean up all the cookie crumbs.” If I accuse my husband of not telling me enough how special and important my role is, that is glass houses material. Honesty requires me to tell you that I’ve never greeted my husband at the door to tell him how much of a stud he is every day for working to provide for our family, and more. My husband and I don’t operate that way. We are of the “I’m OK, You’re OK,” species of couples. We value each other’s contributions to the family, but we would feel awkward, and downright scripted, to look into each other’s eyes and enumerate all the reasons for our gratitude. We show it by getting up every day and doing whatever it takes to make our house a home.

It is not much of an ego trip to be mother of three- no other profession. You’d have to veg out in the ‘Happy Birthday Mom’ section of a Hallmark store to get that effect. In fact, it doesn’t even spark interest. Invariably, in the past, when I told someone I was an attorney, the next question was always, “What kind of law do you practice?” followed by a further series of questions and answers. Juxtapose that to my current situation. If I tell people that I am a mother of three- no other profession, they usually just nod and smile.

I’m not bitter about this, and I don’t take it as a slight. It’s pretty obvious what moms do all day if they have no other profession. They model character, nurture, cook and clean, nurse and taxi, educate, coordinate and facilitate every aspect of their children’s activities. Of course, all moms do this, but mothers with no other profession, typically, don’t outsource any of it- they do it full time, even during lunch. Oh, and they budget, because one is always less than two, and that fact is especially punctuated when it comes to salaries. 

Moms with no other profession choose this route either because they think it is the most wholesome lifestyle they can give their children and/or they don’t want to miss out on a 40+ hour chunk of their children’s lives, and they don’t want their children to be absent from their mother’s embrace, if ever her baby should need it. I fall into the later camp. I’m willing; in fact, I needed to parachute out of the office to land here.

As much as I wince (wail) at the serious grunt work involved in mother of three- no other profession routine, at the same time, on a sunny day when my daughter spots a new word that I taught her, and I can remember the exact spot where we were sitting, and what she was wearing, and how she was twirling her brown locks, when I taught her that word, and there is no one for miles to tell me how great I am…in that moment, all is bliss. I do not care that I don’t have a profession that can be summed up in a word, or one which sparks any other conversation, except in my own head. I love that moment down to the scent of it, and hold it under my breath, then exhale, with more pleasure than I ever extracted from my previous profession, even with all of its fringe benefits.

I love it so much that I recoil upon the realization that it is not forever; my needs will change just as surely as my children’s needs will change. Life is movement; it only guarantees change. One day, I imagine, I will be ready to move into a profession that does not revolve exclusively around my children. But, for the time being, I push that thought as far from my mind as I can throw it because I do not want to be anywhere but here – in my home or at the park, or on a sun-glittered hiking trail, with my youngest, now squirming his fleshy rump into my arms, and telling me to: “hold me, Mama,” only it sounds more like “whole me, Mama.”

Then, I nestle my nose into the folds of his gritty, sweaty neck that smells like the earth, heated under his rapid pulse, in my make-shift cradle, and he giggles – his laugh drifts far and wide, and reverberates into the calm chambers of my heart. My daughter’s laugh, too, takes me to other worlds, behind veils- to unsoiled serenity and joy.

I am so relieved that I don’t have to be anywhere but here. This is what I do.

Tags: , , ,

Mountain Climbing in Dollar Store Flip-Flops

9 Feb

 Mamahood can feel like climbing an icy mountain wearing dollar store flip-flops. On a recent weekday during a trip to a big box store, with two of my young’uns, I felt like I was wearing those flip-flops. I planned to buy just one simple rug. Before leaving the house, I went through the rigmarole: lunches, check, clean change of clothes, check, bathroom break (even for the one who claims he doesn’t need to go), check, money and cell phone, check, hairbow, check, matching socks, never mind!

Next comes the difficult part – the eternity it takes to get both of my kids strapped down into carseats. My daughter insists that I take off down the road with her door open, and let her shut it when we get to full-speed because, “Mama, I know what I’m doing,” and “Why don’t you ever trust me!” Meanwhile, I’m cold. It’s February. I just want to slip behind the wheel, and thaw out behind the heater vents, on my way to buy this rug. Why so complicated?!

We arrive at the store and I can’t find the rugs anywhere, which I’m sure is a scheme. I have to pass by every Euro-trashy trinket in primary colors, made in China. This store feels like a destination for the self-righteous consumer who balks at a Wal-Mart shopping experience- which is by the way, much closer to where I live. My kids are loving it. Suddenly, they need everything in the store and the prefix to my name becomes: oooooooohhhhhh, as in: “Oooooooohhhhhh Mama, can I have this?!”

Soon, they are bored with sitting in the cart. It is more fun to drive it into objects…and people! My youngest son gets a sharp jab after backing into one of the corner displays and begins to scream loudly. I have to somehow translate my inner-freak out into a sympathetic hug and medicinal kiss. Where are the rugs!? Thank God for my health-nut makeover; otherwise my low blood sugar would have driven me to the cafe for a sugary, refined, Euro- inspired pastry and coffee to go.  

I turn a corner and instead of arriving at a polyester blend, Persian knock-off, I run into something else. There is a box spring on a red-tag sale, it’s down from $100 to $50.00. I actually need two box springs for my kids. Heck ya! However, one problem- I don’t have a large enough vehicle to make the trip back home. I drove our four door sedan with room for five only. No problem, the store clerk assures me. That’s what “the man” is for downstairs. She explains that it is his job to load the merchandise (which can be placed on the top of my car) and rope it down for easy passage. Sweet! I was starting to like this store. They even have Rent-A-Daddies! She congratulates me on getting a good deal, because, “At these prices, they won’t last long.”

Not long before the inventory warehouse and exit, I spot the rugs and pick up not just one simple rug for my daughter, but two more….on sale, of course! Then, giddy, I make our way to the aisle where my box springs wait. An intercom recording informs shoppers that in order to keep the prices low, the company has the customer do their own work. Huh, I thought to myself, I thought it was because it outsourced all of its manufacturing labor overseas to countries without labor attorneys and lax safety standerds. On a flat bed cart I manage to load the beds and then steer both carts and kids to the check out line. Behind me are two strapping, store employees, talking up a storm; neither man offers to help with my loot. Never mind, I just have to make it past the check-out line, and there will be my Rent-A-Daddy, ready for the rescue. Maybe he’d even take the young’uns out for ice cream and give me a chance to catch my breath.

All check-out lanes are self-service, so after man-handling the scanner-gun from my kids I contort my body around the merchandise to find the bar codes. I am dutifully playing my part in this big-box scheme like a good customer. I had to call my kids back from every direction. They are like frantic bees in the late fall, knowing that soon they will be strapped back into car seats. Keeping an eye on them, as they peak to spend the last ounce of energy, makes it difficult for me to multi-task both scanning and entering my payment information. Finally, I yank my receipt from the feeder and head off to Rent-A-Daddy. In the distance I can see him, clad in a neon, sleeveless smock. Now, I’m picking up my pace, trailing the kids behind me. As I come closer I can see his form better. Huh? Is that him?! A scrawny, teenager (early twenties at best), and pale to boot. This isn’t Rent-A-Daddy! This is Baby’s Daddy. He comes, however, with an endearing Collard Green accent and explains that it is the store’s policy to only assist in loading merchandise, not to rope it down, “for liability reasons.”

“But, the lady upstairs told me ya’ll would rope the beds down,” I explain.

“What lady?,” he asks.

“I don’t remember,” I say, flustered, “One of the sale’s clerks.”

“I know,” he shrugs, “It happens all the time.”

In that case, I say, I’d like to put the merchandise on hold until my husband can arrange for it to be picked up. He lets me in on another one of the store’s policies which is that it does not hold paid-for merchandise, which makes me, in effect, stranded unless I want to pay the hefty transportation fee. Heck no! There’s a reason I just bought all these items on clearance in the first place. The fee for the transportation costs more than the total sales amount of my purchase.

Sensing my alarm and frustration, baby’s daddy drops his voice down low, while scanning the horizon, ”I’ll tell you how to rope it, then I’ll come back and pull a rope from the hood of the car to the trunk of the car to keep it steady,” he assures me. ”This never happened,” he warns. Turns out Baby’s Daddy is even better than Rent-A-Daddy, who would have been too frightened over the prospect of losing job benefits to plot an escape. I was a bit intimidated by doing the first part of the roping myself, but got my Big Girl courage up and set to work. It turns out to be very difficult because every time I make another loop my daughter opens that door just to say: “Hi mama!,” thereby loosening the loops I’m making. There’s a real able-boddied daddy parked next to my car. He never offers to help. I’m thinking that I need to move out of the North and head back to Collard Green country, where a real man would feel awkward just to idle there without offering assistance.

It was awhile before Baby’s Daddy comes back. Again, he scans the surroundings carefully then quickly sets down to work, sliding rope, like a master weaver, in and out of my front grill. He’s amused all the while: “My sister had a car just like this,” he recalls and smiles. I like this kid and think he’d do well in the real world where a cool head under pressure and a sure-footed gait, takes the cake. He obviously enjoyed the thrill of rule-breaking; meanwhile, I stood on the look-out – as scared as a schizophrenic squirrel.

Suddenly, a voice calls out from inside the car. “Mama, he’s voooooomiting! You better hurry up!” It’s my daughter’s voice. I rush to the rear passenger seat, and sure enough, my youngest is vomiting up his afternoon snack, in heaping chunks.

“Oh sweetie,” I start, “It’s o.k., calm down, you’re alright. Take a deep breath. Mama’s here. Drink some water.” You know the routine. I reach in to hold his head, clean him up, and ease off his top-layer sweater. Within ten minutes he’s fast asleep and reeking of stomach acids. In my quest to buy just one simple rug, I’d left his spare clothes at home.

Baby’s daddy was still fast at work- he doesn’t let the panic and putrid smells from the car deter him from this 007 task. Before long he’s done and standing near the hood to examine his handy work.

“Do you think this will hold?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he says as he tests it by jerking the beds every which way to see if they will give, “It ain’t goin’ no where.”

I look around, and not seeing any other store employees in sight, reach into my purse and grab the wad of cash on hand, and hold it out. He hesitates, but I stay steady. After another quick scan of the premises, he says: “Well, I can take that.” Baby’s Daddy winks and swipes it without another word, then takes off like Spiderman. I imagine him springing to assist another stranded, jilted mom from the bedding section.

I set down in my car, relieved, tap down on the hazard lights and set off. Just before turning onto the highway a State Trooper pulls up behind me. My grip strains over the steering wheel. Then, apparently, slowed down by my speed, the officer jerks around and takes off. Whew!

On the highway I stay in the far right lane and try to keep my speed slow enough to be safe, but fast enough to beat the angry onslaught of rush hour traffic. My GPS takes me through a long underwater tunnel. At some point in the middle of the dark tunnel, the top box spring starts to slump forward over my front window. I start to panic for lack of a smarty-pants solution. This is not the way I’d come at all. My GPS was going off script, as if it had a personality to enjoy a good laugh at my expense. Finally out of the tunnel, I drive off on the margin of the highway, and look back at the kids. They are still asleep – at least I’ve got that going for me. I slip out of my car, pull myself onto the hood (no easy trick in a long skirt) and proceed to shove and shift the top box spring back in place. Here I am in a hijab and long skirt wrestling with box springs on the top of my car. That must have been a sight. I made du’a (prayer) and coaxed my inner soldier-girl the whole time.

After that, I decide to slow down which indeed brings me into rush hour traffic and under the wrath of all those drivers, who I sympathize with more than myself. I feel like that guy in Morocco, trolling on his mo-ped with a sheep carcass saddled over the ride- holding up all the smokier engines behind him. People are peering in and likely thinking, what is THAT?! 

Just as I turn the corner to my street, I tally the days humiliating events. I glance my sons’ sleeping face in the rear-view mirror. Hopefully, I’ll be able to inch into my driveway without getting heckled by any of the neighborhood kids. I say this because during the last mile the top bed had started to lung forward, again, making my loot look pathetically flotsam as if I’d just robbed the Bed Barn.

As I turn the corner, my elderly neighbors inch from the opposite direction. Just as my bed lunges, they lunge forward to see my car’s freakish top-hat. I want to slide down under my steering wheel, but instead I manage a hearty wave as if I was steering the premiere float in a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

Once parked, I abandon the box springs on my car to wake my son up and ease him into a warm bath. All was well in the world. If anyone looked out from their window, they now question my sanity, and maybe wonder if I really did rob a Bed Barn. I certainly climbed to the icy peak in my flip-flops that day, and I either earned another resiliency badge or killed a few brain cells. Whichever, my box springs are not just any box springs. They tell a story and they make me laugh, whenever I want to- for no particular reason.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Post-Fast: Brand Spankin’ New

1 Feb

Its been five days since crossing the finish line on my ten-day juice fast. Since then, I’ve made radical dietary changes along with my family. Yes, it takes some bribing (and culinary tigress) to get my kids hooked on plates of green leafy vegetables, but like any seasoned mom I’ve got a doctorate in bribery and a gazillion continuing education hours in the art of negotiation. And of course, I go undercover; over the weekend I simply nodded when my daughter assumed that (“YUMMY!”) tofu was eggs. When my ten-year old asked about the seared, white chunky blocks on his salad I said (non-nonchalantly) that it was croutons, of course! From the corner of my eye I glimpsed him stealing his little brother’s “croutons.” A fourth grader sneaking tofu! Who would have thunk it?

How did I celebrate after the finish line? With friends, of course.


Nuriman, my fellow-faster, threw a girly-girl party complete with green-juice,

one of her famous salads,

and home baked kale chips. I whipped up a mango salsa for added fun.

Its been five days and I feel brand spankin’ new! Here comes the bragging part; brace yourselves! (My smarty pants are about to un-leash, ya’ll).

I wake up and instead of wishing that someone could hook me up to a sweet, smoky java-infused IV drip, I’m ready to start my day. I don’t have to commit to faux-joy in front of my dewy-eyed young’uns in the morning. Now, I’m  bright-eyed -  ready at the starting-gate, and yet unflinchingly calm. I enjoy my mornings like I did as a kid and I enjoy my kids in the morning for a change.

In the past, after my morning cup of coffee I was good to go until….until….my second cup of coffee. Now, instead of quivering, make-shift energy, I’m charting my days on natural energy! Even though I’m off the juice fast, I’m still juicing at least once a day, and mostly with carrots and green leafy vegetables. My symptoms of hypoglycemia (one of my principal motivations for going on the juice fast) have vanished. I am now able to perform supererogatory, religious fasting (no food or water from sun up to sun down), as I did last Monday, without getting the shakes, vomiting, and sharp headaches suffered in the past.

I’ve also switched to preparing meat for my family just one night a week and on those nights only chicken – no red meat or cheese. My husband is acting as a very good sport; which, if you are a modern-day Moroccan, or are married to a Moroccan, you can appreciate this switch-over even more. This is one of those moves that is making me fall in love with him all over again.

I’m off refined sugars and onto small amounts of raw honey, maple syrup and organic cane sugar for baking and sweetening my herbal tea. I’m off cartons of bargain-brand pasteurized milk and onto spoonfuls of homemade organic yogurt (with fresh berries).

I’m off flavoring my savory dishes with vats of salt and too much olive oil and onto finding creative ways to make a saneful (not sinful), whole-foods plant-based meal.

I assumed my diet was healthy. After all, I ate salads, preferably looming with salty cheeses and buried under a scattering of lip-smacking olives. I poured olive oil on anything that would stand still, plus served up lots of piping hot home cooked meals, saddled with plentiful helpings of white basmati rice. Whilst living in my insular fantasy of good health I was forgoing a lot of brightly-colored, robust fruits and vegetables.

I was lulling my sweet tooth to sleep on late-night dark chocolate bars flavored with sea salt, and anything as moist and dense as a warm brownie. I had a decadent diet that made me feel fatigued and tethered to a cycle of sugar, caffeine, and salt (my terrible trio), and I too-often confused fine eating with healthy eating. What can I say, I’m a product of a few too many Food Network shows in my college days when I was taking off my training wheels and learning to become a “good” home-cook.

Going cold turkey on that toxic trio was easily the best move of my mamahood career and a fabulous starting-gate for my Big Girl Life.

In fact, I haven’t had an ah-ha moment this sunny since my conversion to Islam the decade before last! The best part is that the solution was so self-managing and so darn easy. After the initial detox from the terrible trio, I was able to easily forego a store-bought sweet or an extra crunchy bag of potato chips. I’ve made peace and bid farewell to those fried mac n’ cheese balls at the Philly’s Reading Terminal Market, Cajun station over the Thanksgiving weekend. The Italian Market can keep her cheesesteak too (gasp!). A healthy dose of heresy  is very good for my arteries.

I simply don’t want those “treats,” anymore. In fact, I imagine them draining my energy reserves and zapping the vitamin contents of my new sun-drenched, wholesome good eats.

A little imagery and a hearty mantra go a long way to paving the way for sustainable lifestyle changes. The equation is simple – the more good you eat, the more good you want; the more crud you eat, the more crud you want. I’m following that guide and reaping the benefits.

My dear friend, Pauline, walked into my kitchen last Saturday and saw me stirring a pot of shaved soap – the makings of homemade laundry detergent. She gasped, then laughed, and cried: “I’m not sure if I like the new Danette! I liked the old Danette who used to eat fried chicken and not think twice about it.” “Don’t get too serious,” she cautioned me. I might mention – this girlfriend just got herself a brand-spankin’ new juicer to start her own juicing fast and was a special source of encouragement for me while I overcame my bad-food addiction. She watched her aunt make a stunning recovery from cancer, using as part of her alternative regime, juicing. She’s a bonafide friend, so she’s entitled to want to hold on to some relics of the old me.

Alright, Pauline, I shall try to temper my ye-haw! As for now, I’m a friggin’ zealot! I feel good and I don’t ever want to feel haggard again, if I can do something about it. I’m not burning my bra, but I am burning a TV star’s chili recipe (which involves Frito Lays and Cheddar Cheese).

That’s where I am folks. Thanks a billion for all of your support along the way. Pretty please keep your comments coming. I’m eager to hear about your own journeys, in your own ways, or ways that are similar to my ten-day, detox juice fast.

Much Love,

Danette

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Spend Of The Good Things

24 Jan

The weekend before last my children were psyched to watch a performance by Baba Ali. Had I known how much I was about to laugh I would have been just as fired up. If you can attend one of his live performances, don’t miss out.  For my Florida friends, he is scheduled to perform on January 28th in Orlando. Here is the flyer.

My friend and fellow-faster, Nuriman, who directs a boy’s youth group in our area arranged the boys to meet and greet Baba Ali “back stage.”

How often do you meet someone in person who matches up to the positive impression you had beforehand? Baba Ali is that kind of person- the real deal. He is just as nice and down to earth face-to-face as he is on camera. 

That night my family learned about the organization which hosted the event, known as Helping Hands for Relief and Development (HHRD). Its logo bears the statement, “Muslims for Humanity.” In this way, it is shares the ambitious goal of Islamic Relief Worldwide, another worthy cause. HHRD works in the U.S., Japan, Haiti, Sudan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Indonesia, Sierra Leone, and many more areas in the world.

It carries a stellar four-star rating by Charity Navigator. HHRD has created a matching gift program that operates with over sixty companies who will match their employees’ donations. I discovered that HHRD, among its varied relief programs, provides skill development for women, to empower them to provide a sustainable quality of life for their children. HHRD provides physical therapy and artificial limbs to patients in disaster areas. Also, through HHRD you can sponser an orphan for only $1/day.  The organization not only looks after the child’s physical well-being but holistically provides for her education, protects her legal rights and even provides for social uplifting through extracurricular activities.

While I was giddy for my kids to meet Baba Ali, at the same moment, somewhere in the world there are single mothers who cannot find work to feed their children; there are mothers whose children have lost legs and need prosthetics; there are mothers who are not even alive to care for their children.

I have to reconcile with the notion that I am not somehow worthy to be set apart from all of these tragedies. I have to sober to the fact that just because these tears do not gather at my own doorstep, still, they gather. They are  jagged, painful, heavy tears that a mother or her child is enduring at this moment.

At a stop light yesterday I idled near a Toys-R-Us. The sign said “Store Closing. Everything 40% Off.” I thought about my oldest son’s lego collection, that truck my three year old asked for, the doll clothes that my daughter keeps reminding me to buy. The parking lot was packed. My heart palpitated a little thinking about all the good deals inside and about how happy my babies would be to get a surprise (for a fraction of the cost). Maybe I could get even give them something ordinarily out of budget? I’m always inching to get that “good-mama” badge.

Then, I sighed thinking of my kids, with a basement full of toys, and friends, and warm, home-cooked meals at a family table every night. My kids have plenty, and then some.

And if you would count the favors of Allah you will  never be able to number them, Allah is Forgiving, Compassionate. An-Nahl (The Bee), verse 18.

The real challenge is to remember the children who are not sitting at my table or any other table for that matter and to do something, without delay, as easy as making an online donate.

O you who believe! Spend of the good things which you have earned, and of that which We have brought out of the earth for you. And seek not the bad [with intent] to spend of it [in charity]; and know that Allah is Rich, and Worthy of Praise. Al-Baqarah (The Cow), verse 267.

Much Love,

Danette

Tags: , , , ,

Day Three: A Kale High and Diving Deep

19 Jan

I always thought I needed caffeine to stay awake all day long. That was until I discovered the kale-high; this green juice is the fountain of youth. Listen to this, on Tuesday night I went to sleep after midnight and woke up very early Wednesday morning. I enjoyed a busy day with my kids, plus a half hour work-out, and I did not get tired until close to midnight on Wednesday.

Even after the fast, this drink is going to be a daily staple, God willing. It is a must-have, especially, in the last ten days of Ramadan when fasters seek to increase ibadah(worship), most importantly throughout the night. In the past I sipped on coffee after the adthan (call to prayer), but now I hope to grab a glass of kale. Sounds funny, I know, and not something I ever would have said before starting out on this mission. Without the best nutrition, spiritual practices can be difficult to sustain, especially for mothers who have to get up early no matter how late they prayed into the night.

I am loving this juice and the taste grows on me with every sip.

I’ve learned that leafy greens are the key to targeting a host of ailments. The Juicing Bible provides recipes that address specific illnesses and stages of life.

Green leafy vegetables target water retention, depression, skin conditions, ADHD symptoms, indigestion, headaches, hypoglycemia, and is highly recommended for pregnancy, breastfeeding mothers, and menopausal women.

This was my breakfast on day one. I tossed all of it into the juicer.

It was super tasty, as you can imagine; unfortunately, the acidity in the fruit did not bode well for my stomach after last night’s cranberry fest. No matter, the kids slurped it all up and I was thrilled to see them chugging sugar free, homemade juice.

Besides all the gushing, how am I doing? I have more clarity of mind and enough energy to tire my kids out instead of the other way around. Unfortunately, I still have painful salt cravings. I dream of tearing off a piece of white, crusty french bread and sopping up the juices of my favorite mediterranean chicken dish- pre-marinated in garlic, lemon, oregano and plenty of SALT! Even though I haven’t had a Star Crunch in years, I want to eat one, or two…or three!

A dear friend of mine in Texas, who recently gave up sugar, told me that her husband brought home boxes of Girl Scout cookies. She said it best: There is a certain sweetness to beating the temptation though. Stay strong! 

I am not just giving up food that is bad for my body as well as my psychology, I am struggling to break my strong emotional attachments to things that don’t bring me any closer to As-Salam (The Giver of Peace), Al Mu’Id, (The Restorer to Life), As-Samad (The Eternally Besought), An-Nur (The Light).

Today I am so grateful for a bag of crunchy apples that my friend, and fellow homeschooler, Aasma, left on my door and on the door of my fellow faster, Nuriman. It was a special gesture that speaks to the intangible, enduring value of sisterhood, and it sweetened my broco-carrot juice sublimely.

My plan from here is to use the next seven days to strengthen my resolve further. Besides one post that I am inspired to share about a worthwhile charity, God willing, I will sign off for the rest of my juice-fasting journey. I have miles to dive deep in order to serve my ultimate purpose for the fast. My Big Girl voice is telling me to savor this time in as many joyful, quiet moments as a mother of three can manage. I look forward to recounting my experience and telling ya’ll about my Big Girl journey after the fast.

Much Love,

Danette

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Day Two: I Will Survive!

18 Jan

Day two and I’m already over my vegetable grudge. That wasn’t so bad! My friend and fellow faster, Jacqueline, gave me a recipe called green juice which was featured in the film Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead. It consist of kale, apples, celery, cucumber, lemon and ginger. I was afraid to drink it at first, it is slime green after all, but hunger got the best of me.

After two swigs of the drink I was sold. I even got a kale-stache with no hard feelings. The apples give it sweetness while the lemon and ginger make it tart. It helped me to endure the deep muscle aches that I experienced over a seven hour period – the result of toxins fleeing my body. Yeaaaah!! I finally succumbed to two Advil to cope with the aches in the afternoon. After three child labors, you’d think I could handle a little detox. Thank God, by night, the aches completely subsided.

In the early evening hours I tried a vitamin C mix, consisting of grapefruit, orange, lime, and cranberry.

It was ubber tart and refreshing.

The zing of it gave me courage to watch my family eat puttanesca sauce over a bed of steaming penne pasta, without having a fit.

I chased the drink down with a tall glass of water and a hot cup of detox herbal tea. I’ve even started cutting out the teaspoons of honey. I have to pinch myself since last week I was consuming cups of sugary, creamy coffee, and this week I’m sipping on unsweetened herbal tea. Can ya’ll believe it?! I’m impressed by my tastebuds’ ability to switch over in such a short amount of time, or at least endure with minimal whining. Someone is making du’a (prayer) for me, I can tell! Keep doing it, pretty please.

Conversations with three of my fellow-fasters is helping tremendously. Whilst in the vegetable market today I got a call from my buddy Kim. I dropped everything to talk to her, even though it required letting my daughter stand up in the cart and do a booty-shake to the store’s background music. Just chatting about our journeys gives me energy to keep going. I was there looking for coconut water that my friend Jacqeuline recommended earlier. Hearing about her success and challenges gives me strength and pause to make du’a for her along with my other fellow fasters. Calls and texts from supportive friends is also a saving grace. I am convinced that embarking on this challenge with a team is key to enduring the rough and tumble first 48 hours.

As for my husband, he’s in a little hot water right now. He thinks juice fasting is so funny; the extent of his support system is in chugging down the vegetable juice I make for him nightly. Since he is not even feigning support, it is giving me a little bit of selfish joy to watch him try to camouflage his own gag reflex.

If he makes one more joke about putting fried chicken in the juicer I am going to…going to….umm….actually, I’m not going to do anything. This juice fasting has had a surprising sedative effect on my nervous system. I am calmer and more optimistic than ever.

Can ya’ll believe that just 24-hours ago I was personifying vegetables as villains? After day two I can say that, God willing, I will survive! I am even giddy about the next eight days. I’m relieved that something as simple as dietary changes is making such a dramatic, positive shift in my feelings of well-being and in my ability to concentrate and be mindful in my daily prayers.

I still have strong cravings. I won’t bore you with the details of how I wanted to snort a bag of tater chips. Even still, the siren call of snacky food and dairy products is loosening its grip on me just a little. I expect that in the coming days my defenses will be even stronger. After the fasting period, I have plans to continue my de-tox program with a free, personalized Reboot Your Life plan.

Stay tuned ya’ll for more on my Be a Big Girl inner-make over. If you are on the same track, please be in touch. I want to hear all about it.

Much Love,

Danette

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Day One: A Vegetable Grudge

17 Jan

I am writing on day one of my juice fast. I was glowing about it last week here, but I’m not glowing anymore. I crave bread and butter, salty chips, and mocha ice cream, and I discovered in just 24-hours that I don’t really like vegetables; I love the stuff that you sprinkle on vegetables - plenty of salt! This is how I want to eat vegetables.

Even better is the stuff you can smear on vegetables -butter!

I’m writing on day three of my life without coffee. Pouring a cup was always a worthy excuse to consume sugar and cream. I can’t believe how much my life has changed since last Friday, when I comfortably sat in a friend’s kitchen, mopping up a tomato and feta love story with fluffy pita bread, and digging into a heavenly omelet. It paired perfectly with my piping hot, sweet and creamy coffee.

Why did I give it all up for tepid glasses of beet, kale and spinach  juice? Come to think of it, beet, kale and spinach should never be used as adjectives to describe a beverage! Beet juice is so conniving. It looks so sprightly with its dazzling red color; it begs to be gulped. Do you know what beet juice actually taste like? A mouthful of dirt.

You may be wondering what keeps me from quitting. Well, for one, I’m stubborn and when I decide to do something like this I am compelled to finish. Another reason I keep going is because I’ve joined a Dead Poet’s Society of kindred juicers – women who have vowed to detox like me and keep the health-nut momentum going even after the fast. The foundation for my detox is to strengthen my body, and dilute my nafs (ego), in order to strengthen my resolve to Be a Big Girl. I’m making a lot of du’a (prayers) lately.

Our first meeting, the night before Day One, took place at a local buffet which serves only halal food. I haven’t been to a buffet in ages, but it seemed fitting to swear off naughty food at a naughty place.

Here is a naughty moment courtesy of my friend and mother of four. I told her I was going to post this photo online. She just smiled and said, “Go ahead,” followed by more poses. That is just one of the reasons I love her. No big girl should ever take herself  seriously at a buffet.

Isn’t that the grossest thing you’ve ever seen, and yet, it did not give me half the trauma of raw, liquified kale and beet juice?

This is my new buffet – our local fresh food market. These vegetables look so innocent. They’re not.

I prefer to loiter in the fruit section; and of course, with a juicing fast one is not allowed to consume too many of the naturally sweet fruits. I want a “Vegetables are Bullies” bumper sticker.

I had such romantic visions of purifying my body with clean vegetable juices. After day one, in all honestly, I have a vicious vegetable grudge. My fellow juice-faster and friend coached me to visualize nutrition flooding my cells with each sip, but all that responds is my gag-reflex.

I did not realize how much comfort I derived from food and coffee; indeed, how tethered I remained to meal times and rituals. This is probably one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever done. Others who have tried this path and conquered it tell me that everything gets better at some point in the first week. I left a pitiful voicemail on my friend’s phone just to be sure. She called me back and reassured me again, as did my brother-in-law. They say that you will even start to crave vegelicious foods. Crave raw kale? Really?! I’m dubious on the veges.

In regards to coffee, I am a believer. After just 48 hours off the caffeine I felt more calm, and slept more peacefully. I even woke up without the customary fogginess. Regrettably, though, I did suffer considerably during the initial 24-hour haze and even ended up attending a fundraising event wearing my red house shoes. I forgot to change into my black pumps on the way out the door and did not realize the mistake until well after leaving home. I was so delirious I did not go to any length to hide my fashion hiccup.

As for the juicing, here I am, chugging along – literally. I hope to fully recover from my vegetable grudge. At this point, I feel that the only antidote is a warm, buttery croissant.

Much Love,

Danette

Tags: , , , , , ,

A Double Dawg Dare

12 Jan

Last week before I caught the stomach bug, Old Woman in the Shoe, mentioned a documentary called Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead. Then, another mom recommended the film through a homeschooling listserve. I intended to watch the movie when I found the time. As it turns out, the next day I was hung over the toilet vomiting up all those collard greens. If you did not read about that adventure it is here.

Once in a blue moon when I get sick on a week day and my husband’s work schedule permits, I can actually take a day off from the young’uns to recuperate. Last Friday was one of those days. No one ever told me before kids that I might be a little giddy about getting a stomach virus one day, if only, to be able to stay in bed. Had I known that, I might have elected to be in a corner office by now. Fortunately for the human race, moms find out later.

So what did I do on my barfing-sick day off? Well, for one, I wrote a blog post. I also listened to some excellent lectures from a deen-intensive retreat which had been held in Bursa, Turkey last year and is now available with a online subscription.  Finally, I watched Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead. It features two men with chronic diseases who were able to rid themselves of powerful pharmaceutical drugs by radically changing their diets and becoming more physically active. They started out with sixty days of a detoxing juice fast, whereby they only consumed fruits and vegetables prepared with a juicer.

I enjoyed the documentary so much I watched it again last weekend with my husband, and then I announced my intention to embark on a mini version of this detoxing program for ten days to see if it would help alleviate my  hypoglycemia and caffeine dependence. I have another health condition; it occurs when dinner is on the stove, and the house needs picking up, and the kids are getting cranky, and my husband isn’t home from work yet to help out, and my son reminds me that he needs materials for a science project, due soon, and I want to run like Forest Gump- far, far away. I’m sure there is a multi-syllable medical term for that illness, but I call it: Totally-Want-to-Freak-Out!

My husband snidely congratulated me, and when I prodded him to see if we might partner on this project, he said he’d drink the juice as long as he could eat his fried chicken with it. Never mind, I consoled myself, that’s what girlfriends are for. So, my friend and I are scheduled to go out this Sunday night for a last meal before going cold turkey on Monday, God Willing.

I needed a juicer, of course, to start the detox which I did not have, and soon found out that a swank Breville juicer like the one featured in the film can run upwards of $300. The last pair of never worn name-brand shoes I bought cost $3.50, thanks to my thrifting-swagger, so the thought of paying $300 for something that was intended to make me healthy actually made me feel a little bit sick. We’ve got orthodontics and tuition to blow our money on, we can’t afford to party on juicers.

So, armed with a recommendation from a subscription to a consumer reporting agency, I discovered that a $70 juicer ranked just a little bit higher than some of the ubber-expensive elite brands. Hamilton Beach, Baby!! When it finally arrives in the mail, it’ll go right next to my chichi Oster Blender.

As ecstatic as I am to start plunging my system with juice, I know, the minute a cold glass of kale hits my taste buds I’m probably going to have convulsions and beg one of my small children to inject a cup of coffee into my veins, ANY VEIN!!

As hard as mamahood is I have to go and do crazy stuff like this. That is true, but I feel that I need a jumpstart on my health. I don’t have weight problems, but having a high metabolism is not synonymous with being healthy. I have an active lifestyle, especially in the warmer months when I live outside, which is great. I even consume mostly a Mediterranean diet, sans the alcohol and with liberal helpings of collard greens. Still, I consume plenty – too much -sugar, salt and caffeine. 

I came across this hadith recently which increased by desire to rid my diet of creature-comfort food and my beverage of choice:

“The family of Muhammad did not eat two meals on one day, but one of the two was of dates.” (Narrated Aisha, Sahih Al-Bukhari, Hadith No. 462, Vol. 8).

This statement stands in contrast to the amount of preservatives and artificial fuel we feed our bodies. Many of us, absent Ramadan, are constantly feeding ourselves and our children a constant flow of meals, snacks, and beverages. It is as if we are depriving ourselves of something if we go hungry between meals. This cycle makes supererogatory fasting more difficult and muddled with brain-fog.

I pray that this detox works to cleanse my physical state, with which I hope to climb more mountains in my spiritual life. In short, as part of my Be a Big Girl challenge, I hope it will be a catalyst to de-clutter my body and soul.

I hope to blog more on this in the upcoming days and weeks. If you are detoxing yourself, or if you have detoxed before, I’d love to hear your comments. Please tell me there is life after coffee. If you’ve never detoxed before then I double dawg dare ya’ to try it out with me. I don’t know about you, but when someone double dawg dares me to do anything it usually means I’m going to live to tell about it. How about you?

Much Love,

Danette

Tags: , , , , , ,

The Oil Lamp

10 Jan

“A person who teaches goodness to others while neglecting his own soul is like an oil lamp, which illumines others while burning itself out.” - Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) At Tirmidhi

Giving ourselves personal space to develop God-consciousness and self-awareness is a very Big Girl thing to do. Ironically, once we resolve to become grown up we have acquired so many duties, however joyful they may be, that personal space is deemed a luxury instead of a nutrient. Just a few months ago personal space was not part of my life. I was homeschooling my ten-year old son alongside my kindergartener, plus chasing after my two year old and keeping house. I was resentful which was not very big girlish of me. 

The story goes like this: when a mama raises children it is called motherhood, but when a mama homeschools her children it is called motherhood on steroids. (It’s just a joke, and I’m covered by the “unorthodox humor” disclaimer on my About page.)

Folks who find out that I homeschool my kids say roughly the same thing: “I just don’t know how you do it! I know I couldn’t do THAT.” This can mean one of two things.

If another mama gives you this line with her hand on her hip that is code for: I don’t believe anyone can do it, including you! This is true, especially if the next declaration concerns how anointed her kids are because they’ve all tested into elite classes and how much she just, “loves, LOVES, their school!!!”  Meanwhile I’d be saying to myself (hand on hip), that thar’ is a bonafide smarty pants! Then, I’d feel so pitiful and petty for fussing up my emotions like that instead of feeling plain old tickled-pink for her brood.

Now, if a mama gives you this line with her hand on her heart, then she really does think you are a saint and she only wishes you the very best. In that case, I’d wish to pour my heart out: tell her how strung out I felt, how exhausted I was, how insecure, and how scared I was to choose otherwise. I wanted to confess that it really is miserable to be potty-training one minute, critiquing a writing assignment the next minute, only to turn around and pretend to eat ‘princess cupcakes.’ Yuck! I’d want to fess up that the thought of waking up in the morning to be mama/teacher for the long haul depressed me to no end. I just wanted to tell her how friggin’ resentful I was. But, instead, I’d just give her some feeble, self-depreciating line like a good, little girl does and go about my day.

I wasn’t always resentful; most of the time, in fact, I was not. More often the satisfaction of being able to provide personalized lessons in a wholesome environment was highly motivating. In addition, I was learning along side my eldest on a wide array of subject matter so it was intellectually stimulating. What is even better, I live in an area where there are a plethora of resources and organizations to support homeschoolers, and homeschooling is not exactly the third rail. There are museums galore and it seems that all of them have a special event set aside for homeschoolers, or a series of classes catered to providing them with a hands-on multi-sensory experience.

Not only that, but I participate in a well-organized homeschool co-op with other families where my children take classes that indulge a range of their extracurricular interests. Even better, the co-op mothers are some of my closest friends and our children share a deep bond. That’s not all; a parent where I live need not strictly homeschool every subject. From science to history to writing courses – there are many series advertised at community colleges and centers which cater to homeschoolers. Minus the end of school year burn-out, homeschooling is mostly a sweet life. 

The crisis I encountered was not homeschooling, per se, but balancing my  eldest son’s educational foot-path with that of his younger brother and sister. Complicating life further was the fact that I was not using a prefab curriculum; rather, I was tailoring every subject with a special set of resources to try to offer the best mix. Everyday was an obstacle course, but not a course that one could study ahead of time; rather, it was a surprise obstacle course every day – no fail.

Younger children are less predictable in terms of their health and emotions which is why I never knew when I’d get surprised with a feverish child, one throwing a temper-tantrum, or simply one just wanting to squat down and play blocks with me for a while, just for the heck of it. While on one hand my adolescent excelled on structure, on the other hand, my younger children needed me to be more flexible. I was succeeding only by waking up everyday and performing lunatic acrobatics. As a result, my oil lamp was extinguished. For the first time in my life the only thing I could passionately identify with was the common phrase: going through the motions.

Strangely (and clearly a symptom of my condition) it wasn’t the fact that I was miserable that caused me to quit, it was the fact that my son was no longer motivated to study. School was drudgery. He started making careless mistakes on his work and the only clever edge he demonstrated was in trying to get out of assignments. 

 In retrospect I realize that the reason my son was no longer motivated to study was that I was no longer motivated to teach. My attitude had become infectious and malignant. The obstacle course I was running was stunting my spiritual growth because all of my resources were going just to running it. At the point when my light extinguished, and every day thereafter, I was of no benefit to my family besides taking care of their physical needs. Though I wanted to impart goodness; indeed, the very idea of it kept me on this blistering course, I simply could not succeed because I hadn’t been feeding my soul.

However terminal my condition, in the thickness of it I couldn’t sober up to the reality that no amount of tinkering was going to fix the problem. I felt guilty that I just couldn’t make it work and my guilt was shrinking my sense of empowerment to try something different and trust in Allah (SWT). It did not occur to me that my oil lamp had burned out. Didn’t it have some kind of auto-burn option!? Didn’t good intentions light it? If my ideas and my goals were so right, why did it feel so wrong? Why was it so unfair?! How come some women could do it and I couldn’t? Why couldn’t I just be more like sister so and so? How come my kids couldn’t just be more like her kids?! Maybe this is really my test in life; I need to keep a positive attitude and all will be well. Why can’t I keep a positive attitude for more than one stinkin’ hour!!??

I could only answer these questions after lightening some of my load and looking back on my circumstance. At the point when my oil lamp ceased to incandesce, I could scarcely remember that it once functioned, much less locate the means to light it again. My condition was so severe that it was not the loss of light which caused me to initiate a radical change, rather it was an event which happened outside of me to cause that shift. 

The fact that my son was no longer motivated to learn, of which I had tangible proof in the form of his written work- indeed, something out side of myself, made me sober up to the reality that would ultimately save myself. I picked up the phone, called my husband at work, blind with tears and said: “Baby, it’s time to outsource one of the kids.”

He immediately went into daddy-mode- enumerating the means and logistical steps to execute the outsource. Meanwhile, my alarm and skepticism grew under the impression that we were about to ship our eldest off to Kathmandu. What made it especially hard were the pleas of my son who was adamant that he wanted to continue homeschooling with his friends.

Armed with conviction, I steam-rolled the process of getting him enrolled. I made my first stop at a private school run out of our local mosque. I already knew mothers there, and best of all, my friend and former homeschool mom taught at the school. My heart sank when they told me there were no spots available. No mind, I got back in the car determined to go to the public school, which boasts a very good reputation. Two of our neighbors send their children there and since they are all sweet-natured, I was hopeful.

The grounds of the school were very tidy; as soon as I walked into the building on the left was a large, colorful display of a world map with a fanciful marker on every country to note all the places in the wide world where the attending students come from. A quick scan put my heart at ease that my son would not be the only Muslim there. Then, I walked into the front office and proceeded to wait in line. Naturally, no one gave me the familiar, warm welcome of “Asalaamu’Alaikum,” peace be upon you. Actually, I didn’t even get a hello, which is understandable given the busy mass in the office. As time passed it did feel a bit like the DMV, only much cleaner and without any Mountain Dew.

While waiting our turn, my two-year old started flailing because he thought we were in a pediatrician’s office and said he didn’t “want to get shots!” This scene, however embarrassing, did invite them to process me faster. They gave me a shiny stack of papers to fill out and sent me on my way. I asked if there was anyone I could talk to just to answer a couple of questions about the school’s pedagogy and policies, but they reminded me that I would need to first fill out those shiny papers. 

I left and went home to do what any aspiring Big Girl would do. I set my kids down to a kid-flick in the basement, proceeded to my bedroom, called a good girlfriend, sat on the edge of my bed and loudly sobbed over the phone. She said she’d come over later, but in the meantime I needed to chill out. The next morning I received a call from the private school that they would be able to squeeze our son in after all. After a prayer of istikhara (special prayer when facing indecisiveness) my husband and I decided to enroll our son in the private school. On the first day, we were all restless and scared, but it did have the edge of making us feel like we were merely outsourcing him to his cousin’s house for the day.

Our son made a relatively easy transition to school and, academically, he has excelled so far. Even better, I see his old ways coming back to him – that of getting excited about his subjects and crafting his own questions. He claims that he wants to return to homeschooling next fall, but he is just as likely to look forward to an upcoming project or period at school. I am still teaching my kindergartener and find that I enjoy homeschooling as much as before. I feel my lamp rekindling a little more each day.

A major life lesson I learned on my way to becoming a Big Girl, was to never wed myself to an idea so passionately that I starve my soul in the process. It is not that I must put my needs before others; it is that I need to prioritize my missions. 

When duty calls, I must interrogate my own persuasions to determine what relevancy they have juxtaposed to my daily pursuit to live courageously and authentically as a true servant of my Creator, and in proximity to my Lord. If I cannot truly seep into the pursuit of closeness to The Most Loving (Al-Wadud); if I can only speak of it to my children, whilst hibernating in the cloistered cave of my lofty ideas, then I am useless to them. My light will have gone out and they will, eventually, find no place near me to keep warm and seek sustenance for their own journey.  

The resolve to Be a Big Girl is a stranger odyssey than I ever imagined. It is sprinkled with mirages, no doubt. When I’ve mastered my thirst to the point that I no longer cry out for water…when I should be forgotten, at once, large founts of crystal clear liquid burst out, and I am brought back to my center. I remember the spiking, levitating stabs of thirst, which are remarkably more comforting than the narcotic of my former state.

Alhamdulilah. All Praise Be to God.

Much Love,

Danette

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

Sick as a Dawg

6 Jan

I hate malls and I try never to go to them. I prefer to be outdoors and when I have to shop I enjoy the thrill of finding a cry-good deal at a thrift store. Malls take all the gritty, scavenging-fun out of shopping. If I have to be indoors I’d prefer it to feel more like outdoors. Plus, when I shop at thrift stores and my three-year-old picks up a nifty Goodwrench tool box filled with lots of kiddified tools and begs me for it, that will only set me back two bucks.

My dear friend who also prefers thrifting to strolling the malls invited me to have morning coffee at a cafe in the mall. My intial reaction was: No thank you. Then, she said on Thursdays the kids get a free carousel ride. You don’t have to twist my arm. My babies would squeel for that. So, I went but didn’t last long at the cafe because I had my kids with me, of course. What was I thinking?! I regret that I did not get to chat longer with a very nice fellow-mom who my friend introduced me to. My kids wanted to speed right to the carousel, which is where we journeyed just after watching a free magic show which was actually corny, except for the dove trick at the end. These mall people work really hard to get moms to spend money during the weekday. I’d like to sit in on one of their strategy meetings with a bullhorn.

The Carousel was a hit, naturally, and very crowded which made it even more fun.

Pure fun

I couldn’t very well take the kids home after a carousel ride. I needed a tapering activity. I hadn’t been to one of those rubbery, foam play places in the mall in several years, and my cousin recently reminded me how nice it is to read something while the kids play. I didn’t have anything to read, but I thought the kids would get a kick out of  it, so away we went. I did make a stop over at Claire’s Boutique to get a couple of hairbows for my daughter. I’m such a sucker!

Oh my gosh! The “park” was crowded. I’ve never seen so many children in such a small space. In less than a half hour I saw five kids get whacked in the face by five other kids, followed by their bashful parents admonishing them, and then a thousand apologies. One accompanying dad was trying very diligently to look cross and study something on his Blackberry. It must be hard to be surrounded by so much estrogen and still feel like a macho man. My kids lasted only a short time before leading me out by the hand.

Within a few hours my youngest came down with a stomach virus, followed by his sister that evening, and followed by me at 3:45 a.m. I kid you not- I ate collard greens and kale, again, last night for dinner, and it all came back up. I love my husband, he always holds my head up and my hair back, but I didn’t appreciate him telling me something along the lines of, “gross.” That is what Collard Green people call being sick as a dawg.

I think the worst is over. I’m blaming it on the mall’s cootie kiddie park and I vouch never to return to one, at least not in the winter months.

The kids sprung back after the last vomit tour. I’m still recuperating with a cup of herbal tea. May Allah (SWT) make it an expiation for my sins and bring me to a full recovery.

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

← Older Entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 41 other followers