'Dogged' & Grossed

"Where are we going?"

"Aahhhhh tell ussss!!!"

Hubby, as usual, told the kids that we would go somewhere, but didn't say where exactly. Of course, this sparked the ultimate curiosity in them, especially because the day that he said it, we didn't end up going there.

Today however, we did, and when we did get there, I think S was pleasantly surprised.

She has been lamenting over not getting to ride horses or touch or pet them for ages. Her love for horses seems overwhelming, and not wanting to deprive her of the opportunity, I googled horse-riding lessons in Columbus, Ohio.

We had missed the spring session, and I was hoping we could join the summer session, albeit being 30 dollars more in cost. In short, we signed her up today, onsite, since the owner is pretty bad at replying emails and returning phone calls. We decided to just go there and sign her up.

Hubby got out and tried to find the owner, who was working in the barn, and from our van, we could see a little dog following him, sniffing his legs.

"Look at the dog!"

"He's following Abi!"

Hubby came back and said that the summer session is still not filled, and I went with him to ask the owner some questions about paraphernalia for S to wear to the lessons. As soon as I reached the table where the lady was sitting, and this was outdoor, not indoor, out of nowhere, two dogs the size of a very small ponies greeted me with their snouts. Two smaller dogs followed suit, and on reflex, I screamed. I truly screamed, and upon instinct, I moved away from the, which only made them dog me more, whcih led to me screaming more.

As I moved away, I whimpered for hubby to come to my rescue, but he merely stood watching me and said,

"Don't run. If you run, they'll go after you."

Backed against the wall of the building, I held on to the forms, looked at the van, which contained the kids, while the four dogs sniffed me. I couldn't seem to stop screaming. of course the owner called them off, but I had already made a fool of myself.

"I'm sorry, I'm just not used to dogs," I said to her, thinking that she might be offended at my response to her gentle dogs.

"Oh, I'm sorry too. They won't hurt you, but in the beginning they can be pretty obnoxious."

We managed to sign S up for riding lessons, which will commence June 17 inshaallah, and when we walked back to the van, which had the door open, we found the great hound returning from our van.

"Did you all laugh at me?" I asked the kids.

"You screamed!"

"The hound came and sniffed Abi's crutches."

At home, I asked the kids again.

"Did I look silly screaming like that?"

"Yeah, you were standing with the papers in your hand, screaming!"

"Oh yeah, what would you have done if it was you?"

"I would have just stood there," replied S, and N nodded.

"How about you, H?" I asked H, who was busy playing a game on the computer.

"Err.. I don't know," he said, without looking at me, but I could see his cheeks bulging from a smile.

"H was chased by a dog once at the park. He ran and screamed," S said, laughing.

"When the hound came to the van, H hid in the trunk."

So! H jumped to the back of the van!

"I think, if it was him, he would have made his roller coaster face and screamed like mad," I said, reminiscing his roller coaster face when we went on the Calypso at Cedar Points a few years back.

Apparently, my fear, tendency to chatter, and squeamishness when it comes to the inner human body have all been passed down to my first son.

Hubby's MRI results showed an ACL tear, and I googled the surgical procedure on Youtube. When I found it, I called the kids to watch. H, being 'me' ran off shrieking, covering his mouth, when the animation showed a long metal stick being inserted into the knee. N remained beside me and watched it without so much as a cringe. S wasn't there, but for the rest of the evening, I went after them, describing the procedure as grossly as I could as loud as I could, while S and H screamed as loud as they could to drown out my voice.

Suffice it to say, I really had fun grossing them out.

"And they would drill the bones...drrrrrrrr!!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!"

"Okay, okay,..come..get ready for maghrib."

"Aaaahhhh!!"

"I'm not saying anything!"

"Aaaaaah!!!"

"I'm done."

...

"Ooh this big metal stick, they stuck it through the knee..."

"AAAAAAHH!!!!"

That's for laughing at me, kids.

"They would slice out the tendon and then staple the tendons together..."

Mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahah!

The Biting Baby

We all had a good laugh at this. For now the 'funny' theme in our household is

"Ouch! Z bit me!" (with British accent, exaggerated quite a bit by hubby)

Baby Z, with two incisors top and bottom, is now also a hazard for my 'health'. Suffice it to say, there are some screaming moments when he decides to clamp his gums shut on his source of milk. The thing is though, he only does that unconsciously, when he has fallen asleep, so it's not like I can 'train' him not to do it. Ahh...the joys of breastfeeding. One more year, inshaallah, and I'm sure when it's over, I'll sorely miss it. I already miss my 'baby' Baby Z. How fast time flies.

The Doodling Solo

As I have expressed countless times before, I don't have a good grip or handle on N's style of learning. Let's just say she displays a lot of the symptoms associated with Middle Child Syndrome. I am to blame for that, as handling four kids, (one of them a nursing baby, two of them a quarreling duo and of the same learning style, and then one of them N), is pretty taxing on the nerves, mental, and emotional capability.

I admit to not giving her as much attention as she should be getting. Thus, I truly savor the times when hubby leaves the house with both S and H, leaving me with N and Baby Z.

It is at these times that I am able to finally spend one on one time with N. She speaks very softly, and sometimes you can barely hear her, so being able to talk to her without feeling you have to rush to tend to someone else is really enlightening and refreshing. I can already see from her writings that she has a lot to offer in terms of personality, but because I'm hitting on the accelerator most of the time, I'm not able to get to know her really well. When I do, mashaallah, it feels great.

It's really a good family/parenting habit to make sure you spend one on one time with each child, and actually set aside that time. I have always resolved to do that, but I have failed each time. My most immediate response to why that is so would be: there's no time. But I know deep in my heart, that I have to make and find that time. That is still a work in progress, as of right now.

Subhanallah, I always wonder how mums with more than 5 children manage this. I recently met a mom with 9 children, the oldest being 15 and the youngest 3 months old. I have seen big families, and what I have always noticed is that when there are so many children, the children begin to take care of each other. Which makes a lot of sense, because the mother cannot afford to tend to each and every one of them all the time. So a young sibling might be tucked under the wings of an older one, and this is actually very heart melting to see, mashaallah.

I only have four live children, and I have trouble managing them. May Allah make it easy for me and guide me to manage my time more wisely. Ameen.
I was throwing out their finished OHVA workbooks, but before we finally dumped these books in the recycling bins, I figured I had to snap some pictures, for these are precious in and of themselves. N has always taken so long to finish her work, and she is always the last to 'finish school' on most days. Apparently there is a reason for that; she doodles her time away. Her mind works at a different wave length, in her own world, on her own time. I always rush her, just because everything else moves at a certain pace, and she is always behind, but no matter how much I rush her, she's always a step behind. Looking at these drawings (as creative as they are, and as amusing) I guess you can easily tell why.

Sure, now I can look at them and laugh, chuckle, chortle, giggle and be filled with motherly mirth, and okay, maybe a little motherly pride, but hand me these on a busy homeschool day, and I will rear my ugly monster head and bark at the guilty party. That is one reason I want to quit OHVA very very soon. Let's just say all the lessons they have us do leave us very little time to do anything else (and I'm not the only homeschool mother who have used the curriculum with the school to say that).

As we rid our small apartment of these clutter, my mind is able to relax at the space they leave behind. I feel like rubbing my hands with glee at the prospect of finally chucking all of them once we are done with this school year. Then, we can finally get on with 'homeschooling'. I have been writing up my own lesson plans, and I really hope I am able to do this, inshaallah. May Allah's guidance always be with us. Ameen.

Each child is special in his/her own way. What a challenge parents face, as a direct result of that fact, but what a pleasure parents are bestowed with, to be able to change gears to accommodate those differences. May I be one of those parents who are able to change gears without losing their cool and swerving to avoid hitting a tree. Oh Allah, guide me with patience and wisdom to manage my children in the best way. Ameen.

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? S & H, S & H...

H often talks in his sleep. S does too. I do too. I've even cried and laughed in my sleep, freaking hubby out, who thought I was possessed by jinn, nauzubillah.

One night, H had already fallen asleep on the top bunk, while S and N were still awake on the bottom bunk. I was gathering my stuff from the computer table to bring downstairs. Suddenly, H uttered something. Reactively, I asked,

"Huh?"

He moved and peeked at at S below, and said,

"Just think of someone."

Then he lay back down on his pillow and slept, or as I realized it then, continued sleeping.

I chuckled, and S's puzzled expression turned to one of amusement and then mirth. As I walked out the door, I was still chuckling. I wondered what he was dreaming about.

There was once when he was busy memorizing Surah Mutafifeen, and was stuck at this one ayah. Exhausted, he fell asleep on the couch while the rest of us bustled around the kitchen and living room for dinner. Suddenly, eyes still closed, he recited that 'problem' ayah out loud. A pity I can't recall the exact ayah.

The other night, the kids were all sleeping except for Baby Z, who was wailing at his diaper being changed. His diaper changing table is in the kids' room, so every night, around 11 p.m. hubby would wash his bottom under the running tap water in the tub, and head to the kids room. I happened to be there that night, with hubby and Baby Z when suddenly, S reached out both hands in Baby Z's direction, just as she always did whenever she wanted to pick him up. Her eyes were still closed though. I stood there agape, and turned to hubby, who had also witnessed it.

I stifled a bubbling giggle as I realized what had happened. Hubby, as usual, expert at making a joke out of almost everything, grabbed Lucy/Lucky (the big fluffy cream-colored teddy bear) and handed it to sleeping S. She took it and continued sleeping, unaware that her parents were laughing at her.

Talking in your sleep is pretty normal to me. Crying in your sleep is normal for me. I don't do it all the time, but I have done it, of course not on purpose. Laughing in your sleep is pretty bizarre, and I've only done it once so far. Nevertheless, loving your baby brother so much that even in your sleep, you respond to his cries by reaching out your arms to embrace him is ... amazing? (for lack of a better word, which seems to be eluding me this late at night).

New Word on the Block

"Whoa!"

"Z hadhlahed!"

"Go get kitchen tissue, N. H get me baking soda from the bathroom," I ordered, while assessing the extent of damage done by Baby Z's projectile vomiting.

He is running a fever again, with very labored breathing, that I fear another onset of pneumonia. Last night, he was screaming, pushing, flinging himself in frusration of not being able to sleep peacefully without breathing problems. Once, while hubby was holding him on his chest, Baby Z flung himself so hard that his head hit the wall behind hubby's head. Suffice it to say, neither of us (hubby, myself and Baby Z) had much sleep last night.

This morning, while I made up some of lost sleep after Fajr, the kids watched Baby Z. I only woke up to call hubby and ask if he had made an appointment for Baby Z to see the pediatrician today. I nursed Baby Z on one side, and he fell asleep, but when I put him down, he woke up and cried because he couldn't breathe that well.

I handed him to S, who was sitting on her bed doing her schoolwork. She sat him in her lap while I proceeded to measure 1.25mL of Ibuprofen for his fever. His tummy had looked inconspicuously huge to me since last night, but what occurred next was still astounding.

It was as if the Maarib dam broke again, only this time, a gushing flow of white milk escaped.

It is not the vomit that is the subject of this post here, but it was what I uttered in spontaneous reaction as I took stock of the situation.

"He hadhlahed," I said, without thinking.

"His hadhlah ..."

Apparently I couldn't stop using the word.

"Ummi said hadhlah!" H shouted in amusement as he bounded to the bathroom to get the baking soda.

S grinned, apparently amused too.

I didn't think twice about it, but I guess this new vocabulary they had created a while back has made its way into my pantry of 'in-the-house-word'.

Grammar-challenged Mother

"So did you learn about Grandma today?" my father would ask me every time he picked me up from my English tuition classes.

He would say Grandma on purpose, and I would nod. Not having had the opportunity to learn English growing up, my father placed a huge importance in having me learn the language from a very early age. It worked. To such an extent that hubby continuously makes fun of my Bahasa Melayu.

I don't enjoy the subject though, and when I tried to learn Arabic from an American friend who has a degree in Arabic, married to an Arab, and speaks the language, I struggled with the grammatical jargon.

"You can't teach Arabic in English," was what she would say, and I have to agree.

In desperation of looking for a job, a friend even suggested I take TESL so it would increase the chance of us landing a job in the middle east. I considered it, along with the other pile of 'ambitions' I have waiting to be achieved.

S has been doing her Grammar Usage and Mechanics by herself lately. I always feel guilty when they have to do school by themselves, as if I'm not doing anything to help them, but one recent incident pointed out the obvious: I was the one needing help.

She was on adjectival and adverbial phrases. Truth be told, I don't remember ever learning this back in 11 years of elementary and secondary schooling! So I had trouble understanding how to differentiate between the two. As I stared down at the page I was supposed to be marking, I hailed S, asking her to explain to me the difference. She explained, in her own very curt way. No big help. That was day 1.

The next day, I went ahead and marked her work, confidently gracing some of her answers with Xs. I called her, and when she looked at my Xs, she suggested,

"Let's look at the teacher guide."

Obviously the child didn't trust my grading!

She sat on the floor holding the teacher guide, and I sat on the swivel chair holding her book. She read out the answers and I marked them. Correct, correct, correct, correct, correct. The ones I had marked wrong were correct! She was right to not trust me.

The next day, she had to do a unit assessment on the subjects, and usual, she handed me her work wen she was done. I was still in the fog of understanding the difference between adjectival phrases and adverbial ones, even though I can recognize each one by itself. However, as I marked her work, it became somewhat clearer to me, and I marked with some degree of confidence. When I reached the end, there was a friendly 'note' waiting for me.


And to think I had considered doing TESL ...oy vey!

Nevertheless, this is what any homeschooler wants; a child who is able to learn by herself, and finally teach her parents, alhamdulillah!

Me = Miss Declutta?

Toys by H

Toys are the best,
better than a nest,
I sometimes go to toys R us
but parents don't let us
S, N and I
will just die,
because the fun is lost,
just of the cost
so now all is gone,
'cause miss declutta is here!

I giggled when I read this, and I was a bit indignant too! Fancy my son calling me Miss Declutta (declutter, hubby-style). In exasperation, I have been decluttering their room as of late, several times, whenever they fail to listen to me to clean their room. In dismay they have watched me throw some of their 'creations' away, and I told them that they can't buy new toys, even with their own money, until they learn to keep their room clean, thus the poem above. Our apartment is really being overloaded. The three kids are growing and their clothes are getting bigger, such that the little towel closet cannot neatly contain their clothes anymore. Such a contrast from the times when they were younger; one small shelf was sufficient to harbor each child's clothes.

"I don't like it when my closet's messy, but there's no space to put them," N complained.

OHVA books and materials are not helping either. They send us the kids' books, and if two kids are ding the same thing they one for each child, which just decreases space in our tiny abode. I was assessing their shelf space last night and it did occur to me that were I to get rid of the OHVA books, the room and the whole apartment would get more space, but alas, we have to keep these books until K12 announces it is time to return them, which usually is sometimes in June. How I can't wait to be done!

Then there's my baking paraphernalia. When they were younger, I used to bake, and decorate cakes, so over the years, I have accumulated various cake decorating tools, flower making tools, and many-shaped pans. Ever since Baby Z was diagnosed with multiple allergies, I have stopped baking. Just cooking alone is a feat for me now as I have to be careful of what I put in the food. So all the baking paraphernalia is also taking up space. I had asked S,

"Do you want to bake ? Because if you don't I want to put all the baking stuff away in boxes until we move."

She shook her head. I was surprised and disappointed, because she is able to bake on her own, and I somewhat expected her to do the baking now that I can't even eat anything with eggs.

Then there is my sewing paraphernalia. When they were younger, I used to try my hand at sewing and quilting, and now crocheting. Suffice it to say, we have lots of unused fabric which I have accumulated over the years. I was too scared to cut them for fear of ruining them, but I have also managed to make some clothes for the girls, rag dolls, curtains for the apartment, and other home decor stuff. So it's still an ongoing thing - sewing.

Then there are the books. These are things I cannot part with. Our living room probably looks like a library! And now that all the kids are avid readers, we always have library books filling up the two boxes we have allocated on one shelf in the living room and the two boxes upstairs in their room. And I've even thrown out some of my old Enid Blyton books that had sentimental values.

It's actually a cross between these two factors: we're outgrowing the apartment & we have too much stuff.

That's what happens when you like to stay home all the time and develop more than one hobby. So...here comes Miss Declutta!

Wahnan 'Ala Wahnin

وَوَصَّيْنَا الْإِنسَانَ بِوَالِدَيْهِ حَمَلَتْهُ أُمُّهُ وَهْناً عَلَى وَهْنٍ وَفِصَالُهُ فِي عَامَيْنِ أَنِ اشْكُرْ لِي وَلِوَالِدَيْكَ إِلَيَّ الْمَصِيرُ

Muhsin Khan: And We have enjoined on man (to be dutiful and good) to his parents. His mother bore him in weakness and hardship upon weakness and hardship, and his weaning is in two years give thanks to Me and to your parents, unto Me is the final destination.

(And We have enjoined on man (to be dutiful and good) to his parents. His mother bore him in weakness and hardship upon weakness and hardship,)

Mujahid said: "The hardship of bearing the child.''
Qatadah said: "Exhaustion upon exhaustion.''
`Ata' Al-Khurasani said: "Weakness upon weakness.''

"Ouch, ouch! eee! aargh! that hurts!"

"But look, the baby's so cute!" I exclaimed.

"But it hurts!"

Guess who among the three kids had the ouch response?

H, who shielded his eyes while peeking, and held on to his groin while cringing and wincing in pain.

The girls watched it with some interest, but in relative silence and surprising calm.

There were some questions about the umbilical cord, but that was about it.

I wonder what kind of husband H would make. The kind that would pass out in the delivery room while his baby's being delivered?

Now hopefully they understand more about wahnan 'ala wahnin, inshaallah.

The Dissertation

Last Sunday was dissertation day, where bleary-eyed and zombie-like, I sat in front of the computer from after Fajr all the way till midnight editing hubby's dissertation, the long editing session broken temporarily by the study session I attended on campus.

I didn't have much sleep the night before. I had underestimated the length of that paper, which was basically not a 'paper' at all, but a book! Or maybe I was just feeling Sunday-ish.

We changed the tenses, fixed weird prepositions. It took so long that I had to nurse Baby Z in front of the computer. As I sat there rooted in front of the computer, holding a squirming baby in my arms who would smack the keyboard every now and then, and reading strings of sentences out loud in what must have sounded like garbled English (due to 'rushing it), poor baby must have thought his parents had gone cuckoo.

Even H seated himself next to me at one point, and read out loud his father's dissertation, watching me fix technical errors. I ignored him, thinking he would get tired of it at some point, but he remained there, reading, until hubby had to call him away.

That night, even baby Z stayed up, since I was practically stuck there, so I somewhat abandoned his usual routine. I didn't finish editing it that night however. With bloodshot eyes, I went to bed, and as I nursed Baby Z lying down, hubby said to me,

"Tomorrow I'll bring the laptop up here so you can edit it after Fajr."

Great. Thanks!

Suffice it to say, my mind was harangued by this dissertation business for days after, and in fact, days and weeks before that editing day. I felt like I was the one doing the Phd.

But the climax of this dissertation business didn't happen until two days ago. Hubby had just given Baby Z his bath, and no matter how many times he has done it, he couldn't for the life of him remember what to put on Baby Z's eczema-laden body and cheeks. So he'd usually holler to me,

"What do I put on?"

All the way from the kitchen or living room, I would usually holler back,

"Hydrocortisone and then Aquaphor!" or

"Just Cetaphil!" or

"Hydrocortisone on his cheeks, wait a bit and then Cetaphil!" or

"Desitin on his bum!"

That morning, he asked me,

"What do I put on?"

Absentmindedly, I answered, my mind thinking 'Desitin',

"The dissertation."

Smart Mouth

"H, are you excited that Abi is now a Dr.?"

"No."

"No? but aren't you excited that your father is a Dr.?" Amused, I continued eating my lunch while H indignantly responded with another 'No'.

"But why not?" I asked, hiding a smile.

"He's not a doctor Dr.!"

"But, your father is a Dr.!" I said again, grinning at his indignant expression.

"Then you can ask Kak N, A, W, M how they feel too," he said, which left me gaping in surprise.

Kak N, A, W, and M are definitely children of Drs; Dr. M & N of USM.

It didnt even occur to me that H could make that connection and bring it into the conversation for use as comparison. I was too blown away to keep pestering him about it.

Later on, I asked him,

"H, how'd you get to be so smart?"

"I listen to people when they're talking," he replied.

"You mean you eavesdrop!" I said, laughing.

"Yeah, and I also look at the computer when you're reading or writing your email."

Uh oh!

Hello Cheeky!

S is my right hand man. She gives Baby Z a bath. She changes his diapers. She puts him to sleep. In fact, she has been putting Baby Z down for his nap ever since he was a month old. She could do it better than me, because with me, Baby Z will always look for a feeding even when he's more sleepy than hungry. With S, he falls asleep, mostly on her chest.

"He's sleeping?" I would ask disbelievingly, when S would come out of my room after putting him to sleep.

S would nod.

One evening, while waiting for hubby to come home, the girls and I were crocheting on the couch, while H played with Baby Z on the floor. Suddenly, H called out to me,

"Ummi, he's wet over here!" showing me two wet ping pong ball-sized spots on Baby Z's bottom.

Befuddled, I stared at it, trying to figure out if it was urine. It didn't seem to come out from any of the usual leakage point, which would be the sides of his waist. The spots were on his bottom where the diaper would have been covering.

"Do you want me to check it?" asked H.

I gave him the green light and he proceeded to unbutton his brother's onesie.

"Look!" H uttered, and all our eyes laid upon the most unbelievable sight of the day.

My jaw must have hit the couch with a thud.

Cooing and chuckling, Baby Z lay face down on H's lap while his left bottom greet us with a cheeky 'hello'. The diaper had come undone on one side, exposing one cheek, and opening the flood gate at the same time.

The minutes that followed were full of uncontrollable laughter and Baby Z's chuckles.

"S, you didn't put his diaper on properly," I said, still laughing.

"Yes, I did!" she insisted, still laughing too.

"Well, he must have tried to open it as usual, and you buttoned him up without fixing it," I said.

Meanwhile, Baby Z cooed and babbled away.

"Oh! Oh! get the camera!" I exclaimed.

'Oh no, the battery's low," I uttered, as I remembered that I had forgotten to recharge it.

Well, my right hand 'girl' is not without flaws, but I'll take those flaws if the lead to incidents like this. Now, if only she could also nurse him...

Appeasing Ummi

"Uh oh! It's open," S announced, as she closed the oven door after peeking in at the baking Fatayer.

"Ugh...I knew that would happen," I said.

I hate making Karipap, because for some reason, my fingers are stiff when it comes to anything that requires encasing filling and pinching the seams closed. I've had karipaps that open up while being deep fried, and boiling water turning brown from the leaking palm sugar filling inside poorly seamed onde-onde. However, that didn't prevent me from trying to make this Fatayer, even when I knew there would be filling and seaming involved.

While I was spooning the spinach filling in the circle of dough, H rolled out the other ball of dough for us to cut more circles out of.

Making the Fatayer had become a family affair. All cooking nowadays have become a family affair as there was always someone needed to tend to the crying Baby Z if it happens to be at the time I am in the kitchen. Sometimes, I would just direct S verbally while I sat on the couch nursing Baby Z. And don't you know it, Baby Z is a relaxed nurser; he sure does take his own sweet time.

"Ooh you can see the inside. It's gonna open up in the oven, I just know it!" I muttered, exasperated.

"Oh, I've seen some at the masjid that are open a little bit," said H.

"Really?"

H nodded, assuring me that I was doing just fine. That made me feel slightly better.

If the ones sold at the masjid have that flaw too then mine are not so bad, I thought.

"Oh..I hope they don't burn in the oven," I said, announcing another worry.

"Oh I've seen black ones at the masjid," H said.

"Really?" I asked again, disbelieving, but feeling better by the minute.

"Yeah, some are really black!" he chuckled.

As the oven door banged shut after S's announcement of the opene-up Fatayer in the oven, H again made a remark,

"I've never seen anything like that at the masjid."

Siblings Dynamics

I woke up yesterday feeling nervous about attending this event. Let's face it, I'm an introvert, and if it were totally up to my whims, I would be cooped up at home or not talking to anyone outside the house at all. But as it is, I do force myself to socialize for the sake of sisterhood, and for normalcy.

Left the baby at home with hubby, and drove to the library with the rest of the kids. It was the first time I drove at night with the new van too. Alhamdulillah the lights turn on automtically, I still remember fumbling for the light switch with the old van. It had been a while since I had driven at night, and I spent a good 15 minutes panicking that I would drive home with no headlights on. I think I did? I don't remember, but oh boy, do I hate going out by myself, especially at night! Last night, I was reassured that I was not alone since the kids were with me. It's funny how I already depend on them, when it should be me they would be depending on.

"Kids! I can't open the door! I can' find it. How do I open it?" I wailed in the dark, after killing the engine. (Ok, I'm really revealing my foolishness here, so please don't laugh)

I fumbled. Panic set in. (Did I tell you that I panic easily?) I fumbled again, all the while thinking,

I'm so dumb. How can I not know how to open the door?! It's so simple! Where's my brain?! Knock knock! Oh god! How am I gonna get out of the van?!

I seriously forgot how to open the door, and I kept pawing at the door handle and thinking,

How could it not be there? How could the thingy (whatever it's called) not be there?!

The kids didn't laugh at me, bless them! As they themselves got themselves out of the van, H scrambled to come and help me. They didn't laugh at their fumbling mother! Oh Jazahum Allah Khair.

I laughed at myself though, after he panic eased off.

"Oh, I found it!" I announced, laughing. (I don't know why I'm publishing this on blog, but I'm just elated I survived last night)

"Lock it, Ummi!" H reminded me.

Like a kid, I obeyed him.

"You know how to lock it, right? Press once," he said.

Mashaallah, the boy is really growing up. He'll be my bodyguard sooner than expected, I think.

I nodded.

On the bright side, all that panicking distracted me from my nervousness of sitting in a room full of other people. (I had done this before, come on! I even read out my heart's content to a group of people I don't know in a writing group, but, still, it just still feels...strange)

The session lasted for about one and a half hours. It was pretty helpful. I talked about the kids, how two of them quarrels, and the other one just wants to be left alone. She offered me suggesteions, but mostly it's about getting the kids to learn how to resolve conflict. Nothing I hadn't read about before, but still, it was refreshing to hear it firsthand, and most importantly, to be able to ask firsthand.

When we were done, I got to talking with a fellow attendee. The group moderator went out of the room, came back in and said to me.

"Are those three well behaved children yours?"

"Yeah, well now they're well behaved," I replied.

"It was so easy to tell. The older one and the younger one are playing with the trains and the middle one is on the computer by herself. So easy to tell which was which. You should go see. It's really funny," she said, nodding emphatically.

Wow, I had really painted the exact picture of my three kids when I described them to her in the session.

She did say in the session,

"The gift that they have, having this conflict is that they get to learn how to resolve it. If only more people are taught conflict resolution since they were young, we probably wouldn't have all these wars today. One less gun in the world is improvement to me."

She had pointed out that one reason why my kids are fighting is because they're together all the time since they're homeschooled. She also said that kids will always fight anyway. Knowing myself, I know I tend to go overboard when I describe the negative. The perfectionist in me filters out the positive and I may paint a slightly worse picture than the reality, and I guess I do realize that, which makes it consoling to know that my kids are not all that bad. It's probably because I'm with them all the time. People are always saying how well behaved they are, and I keep thinking,

Really?

but then I think back, and I say to myself,

Give them some credit. They are good kids. Alhamdulillah.

Recently, we went to Dr Mamdouh's talk on the Quran. A sister came up to me and said,

"You always bring your children to these events!"

"Well, who would I leave them with?" I responded with a chuckle.

"And mashaallah, their good mannerism is really something," she continued.

Alhamdulillah. I guess I do need to give my kids some credit. Don't get me wrong, I do commend them in their face, but of course when problems occur, I go into the 'oh how am I going to correct these kids' mode. But as Mrs. M reminded us last night,

"Nothing lasts forever. This will pass."

She's right. Nothing lasts forever. So I guess I should treasure the good moments and save the bad moments for laughing at in years to come inshaallah. Meanwhile, they will just need to accept the fact that they have a mother who may need their help trying to figure out how to open the van door once in a while.

Hadhlah & Muntah

"Hadhla means muntah," H exclaimed.

They had just come back from the masjid from their Arabic class. So far they had been 'teaching' me new Arabic words.

So I took in the new word as I did the others. Whenever Baby Z would spit up, they would all chorus,

"Hadhla! Hadhla!"

Eventually, I used the word too.

One day, they broke the news to me.

"We made it up."

Incredulous, I asked them,

"You mean, it's not a real word??"

"No, you think it's real?" they said, chuckling.

"Yeah!"

"When you muntah it sounds like hadhla, that's why we said hadhla," H explained, apparently very proud of himself for fooling me.

On the other hand, they also propagated the word muntah to non Malay speaking people.

I was holding Baby Z when he spit up, and if I wasn't mistaken, the Arab lady sitting with them exclaimed,

"Muntah, muntah!"

I didn't realize it at the time, but after we got home, I got to thinking and I am pretty sure she said 'muntah'.

She obviously had been talking with the kids. Oh boy!

Cosimo de Medici Song by H

Cosimo Song

My name is Cosimo Cosimo Cosimo
Me come from Medici family family family
Me love Reeba Reeba Reeba
Me have a wool shop wool shop wool shop
Me have big family family family

Today's history lesson was about the Medici family in Florence, Italy. Since they started banking in Florence, we talked about Riba'. Hubby had already mentioned it to the kids sometime ago, and when I mentioned it again, H piped up,

"Oh yeah!"

As a closure to the lesson, both N and H did something to put in their lapbook, and H came up with what he calls the Cosimo Song.

He took the paper he had written it on, and started his performance. Taking small steps, he hunched his back and started 'singing' the Cosimo Song. I burst into laughter. It was a very well done performance! You can count on H to give a funny twist to a 'normal' lesson.

The Ummi & Abi Poems

The Ummi Poem

Ummi smells good
Just as she should
Z does too,
Ummi, I like you



The Abi Poem

Abi drives
*Z has hives
Ummi eats
S cheats
N creeps...
while H sleeps


By N

"What do you wanna be when you grow up, N?"

"An author," she replies.

I'll have to start seriously looking for places to publish her.

*Shows how Z rules our lives now with his hives and eczema flare ups.

The Big Sheikh

"How did the Sheikh sound?"

"Was he good?"

"I tried listening to him at the door when you were in class."

"He went to Madinah?"

H is constantly asking about Sheikh Yaser. Usually, whenever an AlMaghrib class is in town, I would attend, and they would all come to campus too with hubby. This time however, I'm staying home because of Baby Z's bad case of eczema. I'm not going to subject Baby Z to two long weekends of sitting on campus waiting for me, and having his skin aggravated by nursing in stressed conditions. Hubby is taking the class so he could give me the live video feed, but that means that the kids don't get to go since no one would be looking after them out in the hall.

Since H was asking so much about Sheikh Yaser, I told hubby, and now, both father and son are out at the restaurant with the Sheikh and the brothers. I hope H gets his much 'needed' listening of the sheikh.

We had talked about sending him to Saudi Arabia to school, and he had nodded yes. I had not thought more about it, (well other than making a note to myself that I would have either have hubby check it out or I check it out myself) when H asked me, out of the blue,

"I'm not going to get to see Z when he's seven."

I probably sat open-mouthed for a few minutes, before I asked him why, and he replied, in a manner stating the obvious,

"Because I'll be in Madinah!"

Well, I didn't know what to answer to that, and I just nervously chuckled.

The first feeling that struck me when he said that, was sadness. Then amusement, and then awe.

And I'm still in awe. I guess now I'll really have to check out that Madinah business.

Dua for Ummi

"Ummi, I made dua that you'll be better," said N.

'Oh, you did? Mashaallah!" I exclaimed.

This is N, she blows you away at times. She may be very soft spoken such taht it's hard to hear her even when she's sitting next to you, and she may dawdle every now and then, and resist instructions in the most annoying way, but she is definitely big hearted.

"I made that dua yesterday too, but today you're still hurt," she continued.

I had hurt my back on Sunday, due to my crazy position of nursing Baby Z in bed. Since he's pretty long, he kicks me, forcing me to arch my back so I could still accomodate him while he's nursing. I woke up Sunday morning with the most terrible pain in my left side. It got worse Monday, and today.

It was so bad that I would wince at any small movements, so the kids have had to pull me up off the couch, pick up Baby Z for me, put him in my lap for nursing, put him on the bed post nursing, take off my prayer skirt, get a chair for me to sit on when we pray. I feel like I'm pregnant again!

In the van today, after seeing the doctor, I told them,

"I had blood in my urine, and the doctor said it might be kidney stones, and it might be because I don't drink enough water. See, that's what can happen if you don't drink enough water."

Let's just say I have a big problem getting them to drink enough water, that I had to use that opportunity to give them some real life examples. However, instead of the silent-realization-I-learned-a-lesson response I anticipated, they all exclaimed from the back of the van.

"Here's some water, Ummi!"

"Do you already have water?"

"Here's a bottle!"

A perfect example of 'backfire'.

The Mystery Box

The mystery box arrived about a week before Eid. It was addressed to S, N and H!

"It's from the Islamicbookstore!" they exclaimed, after scrutinizing the box top, sides, and bottom, even rattling it to figure out what was inside.

"Hmm who sent you that package?" hubby and I asked.

I spied S whispering something to N's ears as N continued to verbalize her guesses out loud. Suddenly they both giggled. Knowing smiles lit up their faces.

"I'll open it tonight, " I said.

"Will you tell us what's inside?" they asked.

I nodded absent-mindedly. I'm no good at keeping surprises.

That night, I opened the box with the excitement of a child who had just received the most sought after gift. Let's admit it, I'm sucker for giving people gifts. The process of preparing them for giving is what gives me the thrill; the wrapping, the arrangements, and of course, the joy you see on the recipient's face. With the kids, I have started to write short notes to them in their books that we gave as Eid gifts. The notes are individualized thus making them special. They love them!

We had ordered a bunch of books from Islamicbookstore for them, but as I looked through the items in the opened box, I realized that some of the books I thought would be good for N were too 'grown-up'. So we ordered a new batch of books just for N.

We gave S a set of three series of the Story of Yusuf alahissalam, since she finished memorizing surah Yusuf by the end of Ramadan. H, we gave a book about Muslim heroes in the Crusades, and Umar Ibn Al Khattab from the Golden Series. For N we ordered Salman Al Farsi, Saad Ibn Abi Waqqas, and Saad Ibn Muadh. For all of them we bought the Quran Challenge game by S. Khan.

Hubby, in his cruelty, put in his Economics and Public Policy textbooks in the empty box and taped it up, to give the kids the impression that we never opened it. You will see why I say 'cruel' later on.

I made notes to them in their books, and we waited for the new package to arrive. This time hubby made Baby Z as the recipient.

"Ooh! It's for Z!" they exclaimed.

Again, they rattled the box to figure out what was inside.

"I think it's a toy for Z," H said, convinced with his hunch.


On Thursday, as we got news that Eid was on Friday AND Saturday, I prepared the gifts, including the newer ones for the kids. The 'mystery box' we had left sitting in its original place in the living room.

S, seasoned to hubby's tricks, said,

"Well you could have taped it up again," when I told her how could we have opened it if it's still taped shut.

"Why would we do that?" I asked her, and she gave me a grunt.

I set the gift bags on the little table in the living room downstairs, ready to surprise the kids when they come down in the morning.


Hubby went to the masjid for Fajr, and before he did, he brought the 'mystery box' upstairs and told the kids they could open it. I was still sleeping but I managed to catch him in the act out of the corner of my eyes. I remember thinking to myself,

"How cruel!" but I slept on, too exhausted from the night before to wake up immediately.

I heard the girls talking between themselves in their room as they cut the box open with scissors. Despite my exhaustion, I opened my eyes, and strained to hear their conversation.

"It's just Abi's books," I heard S say to N.

I felt like my heart was wrenched and squeezed away from me. It was a bad joke. I called N to my room and asked her,

"So what did you find in the box?"

"Oh, just Abi's boring books with highlights in them," she replied. I fought down a bubbling chuckle. She left and headed downstairs.

H was still asleep. By then, I was sorely curious, so I got up and squatted at the top of the stairs, trying to make out the girls' conversation. Unfortunately, I couldn't hear much because Baby Z was too busy making lip vibrations in the room, drowning out the sounds of his sisters' soft voices. Just great! I have girls who have soft voices and boys who are loud. I guess if H were awake I would have at least been able to hear what was being said. That boy is loud.

I decided to jump on them, so I came down the stairs quickly, giving them no time to run and hide. S and N were sitting on the couch, already reading their books. When they realized I was coming down, they tried to run and hide but it was too late.

"What are you guys doing?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

They grinned and giggled.

When hubby came back, I told him what happened.

Oh, that was a very cruel joke. I would never have done it, though it did provide some early morning entertainment on Eid day. As for Baby Z, I could have done without his loud sputtering and continuous saliva bubbles, hindering my eavesdropping mission.

And, S, N, H! I know you're reading this!!!

Stand in Coach

We arrived at the field in good time. Since H's lady coach wasn't there, hubby asked the assistant coach if he could join him on the coach side of the field. They had changed this from last year, where the coaches would be on the same side as the parents.

S, N, Baby Z and I strolled on over to the parents' side of the field. The girls spread out our pink picnic blanket and took out their books.

"I hate soccer games, they're boring," N complained.

They didn't actually want to tag along, but we couldn't very well leave them home alone, since I want to watch H's soccer game.

While N lay on her tummy, and began to write her story (she has composed so many stories, fit for publication, and yes, I am her mother, but I really think she is talented in that area), I scanned the the coach's side for hubby. He was sitting with H's team.

The game started, and as I watched, I saw hubby doing his thing at each and everyone of H's soccer games ; shouting as loud as he could to 'coach' H's moves. I whispered to S,

"S, did you know Abi's on that side?"

"Yes, good. At least he's not shouting," she replied, not even looking up from her book.

I chuckled. Yeah right. He was still shouting, just not right behind us as usual.

I could still hear him shouting,

"H, go! No whistle!"

"H, stay!"

"H, look up, look up!"

"Ok H, line! line!"

It tickled me to see him so animated. I guess it's not easy being a soccer player himself, and seeing his own son play on the field. He just had to do his thing, I suppose.

H played in the first quarter, and sat out in the second quarter. Even when H was not playing, hubby would still shout out to some of H's team members.

Just before the third quarter began, I saw hubby asking the assistant coach the name of a boy that was in H's team. The boy was one of the defenders. Then, to my utmost horror, I saw the coach gesturing for hubby to go in the field. I could barely believe my eyes! For all the shouting he has done, he's finally being rewarded ?

He went in, and mashaallah, he did his thing, only this time, with more animation, since he was able to move around and direct the team to make their moves. Even to an unseasoned soccer spectator like me, I could see that his being in there was good for the team. The defense moved forward each time the offense fell back (which seldom happened before), and after watching some of hubby's games, I think this is how he plays it. And befittingly also, his position is the defense, so it's not surprising that he's well versed in the tricks of the defense.

I watched with a wide grin on my face. After a while I whispered to S again, (the girls were unperturbed by the fact that their father was acting as coach, for they continued to do their thing; reading and writing)

"S, do you know that Abi is in the field?"

"Yeah, I think the kids are confused. Because one time Abi said, 'Get the gray and the girl just stood there,'" she replied.

I laughed. I did wonder if the kids understood hubby's jargon, but I think they did. H's team was really flourishing too. Their really good and did really great as a team. H, compared to last year, has improved a LOT. Even hubby was surprised (and even though he's H's father, he's pretty hard on H when it comes to soccer, and Quran for that matter).

Hubby reminded me of H's first ever soccer game; he had stood like a statue in the middle of the field, wringing his hands. You'd never know this was the same kid moving about so skillfully on the field!

Well, the score was 4-0, H's team being the 4. By the way, the assistant coach graciously offered hubby to coach for the final quarter too. On the way home, I remarked,

"I think Abi's happy today because he didn't have to shout so much from the sidelines."

To him, I said,

"Maybe the coach let you in because he figured, 'better let him do all that shouting in the field!'"

I wonder if hubby's going to be in the field again for the next two games. We'll see.