Endnote

Thank you to everyone who kept me company for the past nine weeks as I tripped and stumbled along the blogosphere. It has truly been an eye-opening and at times therapeutic experience. When I wasn’t busy trying to document my own dribble it was fascinating to read the work of my peers. The question remains if I (or any of us) will continue to blog. And I sincerely hope we do but not at the cost of our vibrant lives.

"My life has been the poem I would have writ,

But I could not both live and utter it."

- Henry David Thoreau

56 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

Pack Like an Egyptian

 

 

Yesterday, we happily decided it is time to head back to Egypt for a few weeks. Next month.

 

That means we have just a little over 30 days to:

• Apply for and receive Siraj’s passport
• Obtain travel visas for myself, Ismaeel, and Siraj
• Double check everyone’s status re: travel shots
• Review travel advice for Ismaeel & Siraj
• Buy weather appropriate travel clothing and shoes for everyone
• Buy enough formula, organic baby food, diapers, Pull-Ups, and wipes to last the entire trip
• Buy a travel crib for Siraj and a portable DVD player for Ismaeel
• Transition projects at work
• Remove the old photos from my SD Card
• Wax nostalgic about the wide angle lens for my camera that I still didn't buy
• Upgrade our mobile data plans to allow for international roaming
• Get Ismaeel one last haircut before we go
• Pack, pack, and pack

 

As usual, it will be a hectic month ahead and I am considerably daunted to travel with a busy toddler and mobile infant but know that our family vacation is long overdue. We miss having breakfast together in our Cairo apartment and are already counting down the days until we can introduce little Siraj to all of his Egyptian family.

 

Wish us luck for a safe and sane flight!

 

There is Such a Thing as Free Ice Cream

(Photo courtesy of anna29maria)

One of the many perks of living in NYC includes today’s serendipitous sighting of the Coach-branded Van Leeuwen Artisan Ice Cream Truck at the corner of West Broadway and Prince Street. To promote the Coach Poppy Collection, the fashionably dressed trucks are offering gratis ice cream near flagship stores during 12pm-9pm thru July 25th. If I weren’t already fasting, I would have loved to grab an exclusive taste of Glam Cherry but it was still refreshing to watch my husband and Ismaeel enjoy their cones of chocolate on yet another long hot afternoon in Soho.

Coach,
Thank you. You have no idea how much my boys needed this today. If my husband's fondly remembered but still sadly stolen limited edition watch hasn’t already told you; we are sincerely big fans. Consider a new wallet and pair of sunglasses to be in my near future.

Van Leeuwen,
I think you already know what you mean to us. We'll never wish that we could quit you... xoxoxo

Bite This

("Happy teeth, when your smiling" by Anthony Falbo)

The incisors are here! After suffering with swollen gums for the past few months, Baby Siraj finally woke up with two little jagged edges of white enamel as his official debut into the biting and chewing world.

Congratulations Siraj!

I spend a lot of time thinking about teeth. I have my own tea-stained set to clean and every once in a while, worry about grinding them which, of course, only causes me to gnarl and gnash them even more. Each morning and night, I help Ismaeel to brush his and plead with him to please stop eating the paste. And for little Siraj, I have been keeping frozen teething rings and biscuits at the ready fervently wondering when his will come.

So far, perfectly normal, right? Not quite. Something about teeth really freaks me out so these daily little moments of dental hygiene are just gateways to a casually obsessive netherworld of teeth neurosis. I am grateful that I had a cavity-free childhood but after a cleft palate repair, two teenage stints with braces, and a root canal (related not to an infected tooth but an unexplained abscess in my cheek bone) – I prefer to minimize the frequency of professional hands in my mouth. While it is not full on odontophobia, a dream about teeth breaking or falling out will haunt me for weeks. I find the idea of porcelain veneers, teeth jewelry, and custom hand-painted teeth tattoos horrifying. And don’t even get me started on knuckle dusters with three human teeth. Seriously.

I don’t really think I am alone. And even if I am, at least I can embrace my shortcomings and know I can never become a dentist. In the meantime, it is a delight to see Siraj bobbing up and down with his little twofers covered in droll.

I just pray I don’t spend the next few weeks having nightmares about my own.

Sick Daze

I felt it brewing yesterday but tried to ignore it. Today, there is no denying it. A good ol’ fashioned summer fever and sinus infection have reacquainted me with despair and fatigue. Oh, if only I could embrace them.

For now, I’ll just let the room spin and my head throb to its own delirious beat. Until… Siraj cries himself awake, needing a clean diaper, and hungry for food. I ignore the pulsating sunlight and hold onto him while I stabilize myself against the side of his crib. Sometimes, if I am quiet and don’t turn on too many lights while I tend to him - he will promptly fall back to sleep. However, this soon became not one of those quiet dawns when Ismaeel cheerfully bellowed his own good mornings and urgent requests for apple juice and a cereal bar. Still in potty training reinforcement mode, I take Ismaeel to the bathroom while also holding Siraj. I am using all of my available energy to not fall down. Maybe I can use one of my lazy-no-good-mother cards and turn on the TV for them while I sneak back to bed. But this is Monday. There is no such thing as mercy.

I soon start packing and ironing all of our requisite items but the thought of coordinating pants and trouser socks for myself nearly put me over the edge. If nothing else, today is a flip-flop day. I email a note about my absence from work and finish packing the boys along their merry way. My husband touches my forehead confirming my (starting to slightly taper off) fever while Siraj and Ismaeel look bewildered that such a state prevents me from going with them. I wave my (still dizzy) goodbyes as they get into the elevator and bask in the quiet until I open my eyes and see the horror that used to be our home.

More cereal bar crumbs than usual have found their way into the fibers of our living room carpet. Apple juice and fingerprints have made an eerie and opaque fog on our glass coffee table. There are toys (that I didn’t even know the boys had) spilled throughout the floor. The kitchen counter is overflowing with pantry items that we bought over the weekend but didn’t yet put away. And most frightening of all, is the backlog of laundry (in desperate need of pre-treating) that might just swallow me alive.

I desperately wanted to sleep but knew the mess around me would only find a way to multiple during my slumber. And so, I started the laundry, scooped up the toys, sprinkled the carpets with deodorizer, wiped the table clean, and tackled the kitchen cupboards. In order to make space I needed to get rid of the older items in the back of the cabinets. I found myself throwing out more than a couple of boxes of expired brownie and cake mixes. Feeling like an inadequate and failed baker, I soon found myself trying to compensate by making a quick batch of orange halal jello for Ismaeel.

Somewhere throughout the day, the house got cleaned, I got showered, some schoolwork was finished, the boys were picked up from daycare, and I head out to my last class of the summer semester. My eyes are still bleary, it is nearly impossible to speak without coughing, and my whole body aches. What really bothers me most is wondering just when exactly is a good time to start taking care of myself.

For now, the answer seems to remain - not quite yet.

49 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

Two Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed

("Watermelon" by Claudia True)

Happy 8-Month Birthday Baby Siraj !!!

At 8 months, Baby Siraj smiles each time he wakes and proudly stands and squeals in his crib to be picked up. He is still committed to drinking 40 ounces a day in addition to downing a small bowl of cereal, a cup of yogurt, and a jar of pureed fruit. And of course, the occasional ice cube. The extra meals have finally enabled him to keep pants sized 6-12m on his still slender waist. And as for other milestones, we are all eagerly waiting for his bottom teeth to make an appearance. However, despite the noble efforts of his swollen gums and little flash of white peeking underneath - it looks like he won’t be able to claim the same 8 month birthday dental glory as his big brother.

My husband, exhausted from working late the night before, went to our bedroom to read the paper and fell asleep before even deciding which section to read. I turned off the bedroom light and went back to the living room to finish birthday celebrations with the boys. Something about July watermelon on a humid day seemed like a great idea. Something about the consequences of giving something so sweet to an infant and toddler before bedtime escaped my consciousness…

Let’s just say they loved it. Let’s just say even Siraj, the baby who craves consistency and complains if we deviate from his regular routine, was jumping and giggling with Ismaeel close to midnight. I was grateful my husband was so tired and couldn’t see or hear the mayhem of little Cheech and Chong. As I hurried to change the sheets on Ismaeel’s bed, being eager to sleep myself, I soon regretted passing out the watermelon to the sugar junkies. But only for a fleeting moment.

Who am I kidding? I am always tired. Why not just embrace this? And so, I let Ismaeel tumblesalt and belly flop on his mattress until his sides hurt from laughing. Siraj giggled to watch the toddler acrobatics and eventually toppled over in his own happy slumber. Ismaeel helped me clean up the kitchen and we grabbed his GloDoodle to practice his letters in the dark. I was about to draw Capital G and noticed that Ismaeel was already blissfully snoring away.

Bedtime was much later than usual but I think we all needed some respite from the usual nighttime parade of tears. I promise to hold on to this thought when tomorrow’s alarm sounds and we are all missing those extra moments of sleep.

Surely, laughter is more precious. Or so feebly say, the sleep-deprived…

Hunger Strikes

Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim

Ramadan begins next month so a good thirty dates are ahead to make up the days of sawm (fasting) that I missed during my pregnancy with Siraj. As I continue to struggle through my ritual prayers, sawm is something that I easily embrace. While my non-Muslim friends and relatives may find it surprising that I will forego food and drink (even water) during dawn to dusk, I assuredly look forward to feeling the intensity of re-awakening my consciousness, deepening my appreciation, and purifying my spirituality.

And so, with today being my first day of fasting in more than a year, my throat is indeed parched and my stomach is undeniably rumbling but my mind is at last wonderfully clear. I don’t know how long it has been since I have stopped listening to my own consciousness. There is a clarity and solace in not occupying yourself with weighing the options for the next meal. I don’t need to second guess my cravings for espresso when I know deep down that I am a loyal tea drinker. The freedom from walking to pick up lunch lets me actually respond to my emails at a respectable clip instead. But it is about more than these mere conveniences.

I realize how much useless avoidance and procrastination snacking has allowed me. I laugh to think that suddenly my candy dish is shouldering all of the blame for my unfinished work. But seriously, towards mid-day I wasn’t even terribly hungry and yet I realize I would have ingested more calories than I can dare admit to here. All of those dietary indiscretions aren’t just about the additional weight I carry but are indicative of how often I don’t listen to myself. If I wasn’t hungry, why was I even eating? Why am I so quick to turn on Pandora and drown out my thoughts? What have I been feebly trying to avoid?

It feels good to enjoy the silence again. But I feel guilty to describe my hunger pains when I know there will be plenty of satisfying options for me come dusk. However, how much more painful is hunger when dusk doesn’t bring any relief?

And this is the crux where I stop hurrying about my life and blindly fulfilling my physical needs to start remembering what it is like to nourish my humanity.

42 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

Toddler Mojo

Regardless of the weather, the weekends are always full of chores. Luckily, today was particularly muggy and on the verge of thunderstorms so we didn’t feel as melancholy to be stuck indoors tending to our domesticity. But bad weather doesn’t absolve us of trying to prevent a good-ol’-fashioned-boredom-triggered-toddler-meltdown. After twenty or so “time-outs” – you figure no matter what is going on with the weather outside – it is now the perfect time to venture to the store to get some “fresh” NYC air.

Toddlers are elusive beings. In one breath they will declare pants unnecessary but to consider leaving the house without their blue velcro Adidas is simply unthinkable. In the spirit of leaving quickly, I playfully wrestle Ismaeel to replace his argyle jammies with carpenter jeans and reassure him that his flip-flops are perfectly fine for a trip to the market. In case the clouds burst into rain, I make him wear his windbreaker. However, he is more than perturbed that this covers his stained but forever beloved race car shirt. He may have cabin fever but he still reluctantly shuffles to the elevator and can’t help but pretend to be glued to the floor when we get to the lobby. The doorman teased him that I would leave him behind but he still wouldn’t budge. I call back that he can pick out a treat from the café and he soon comes running.

We head to Inatteso Cafe Casano and he forgoes his regular choice of a mini cupcake with chocolate ganache to have a fresh-from-the-oven cookie instead. The chocolate chips are soon melting in his hands and even before we leave the store he has a perfect toddler sized cookie beard. Now as a proud underwear-wearing member of society, he gallantly points out every piece of dog excrement along our path. “Mommy, watch out – someone pooped on the floor. That’s dis-gus-thing!” Though I have no explanation as to why the owners don’t clean up after their pets, I still try to reason that a dog doesn’t know how to use a toilet. This hardly seems to satisfy him as he quickly retorts why can’t they just wear diapers and mutters again “dis-gus-thing!”

After chasing each other through the tiny aisles in Gristedes and completing our shopping list, we went back towards home. To avoid the earlier messes of non-diaper-wearing dogs, we decide to lollygag by walking along the water on the South Cove. It wasn’t raining but you could feel the storm brewing nearby. The Hudson River was higher than usual and each wave was spilling onto the boardwalk. The troublesome clouds were darkened but the sun was still trying its damndest to shine through. So, all in all, it really wasn’t your picture postcard day. Nevertheless, my brooding inner poet begged to linger. But this was quickly silenced by the ever-so-practical-reminder of ice-cream soon to melt in my grocery bags. And, oh yeah, my blatant irresponsibility for letting my child be nearly exposed to the elements. Just imagine if he got wet on a summer day. What would the neighbors think !?! Then came along Ismaeel’s mojo…

Even when there are no cars around and he doesn’t have to, Ismaeel still enjoys holding my hand. I like to think it is simply because I am the one he loves most but the reality is he knows that to ask for something while caressing my thumb pretty much always guarantees a yes. And so, when he points to the bench about to be splashed by another choppy wave and says, “Mommy, it’s so nice. Let’s sit...” – I can’t really argue. I know my brown bags will likely tear if they get splashed once more. And I know our wet clothes will have to go straight in the laundry. But as we sit upon that not-so-dry bench, he flashes his china closet grin and tells me he loves me. Is there any greater sound? And all the while squeezing my hand, he snuggles in a little bit tighter, and says, “now let’s look for sharks!”

Sigh, so much love and excitement.

I really can’t think of any better reason than to let milk spoil in the sun…

Guilty Thursday

From his lazy months in utero to his quiet newborn slumbers – Siraj has always been a sweet and gentle baby boy. Even as I texted (from my hospital bed) about his arrival - my first descriptions always included the words “kitten-like”. But this doesn’t mean that he isn’t a fierce and wily one too.

Each and every morning, Siraj fights me as I try to put a shirt over his head. Pants require me to practically kneel upon his chest to get him to stop rolling over. And please, don’t even ask me about socks or shoes. His little feet are actually two shades tanner than the rest of him because I don’t even bother anymore. He doesn’t cry and he doesn’t scream – he just wiggles and turns to the point you start considering just how necessary infant clothing even is. But I push onward and hold him down tight like I have captured some slippery little alligator. He giggles, Ismaeel guffaws, I sweat, and my husband watches the ticking clock. As Siraj gets a little more mobile - our morning routines take that much longer.

So, when I picked him up from daycare and saw a horrific bruise all over his tiny little wrist – I immediately blamed myself. What is wrong with me and how sleep deprived am I to hold him so tightly? How could I leave such a mark? Am I really this burned out? How did I not notice this in the morning? But wait…how could I hurt him like this and he didn’t even cry? Did he fall and is just bruising too easily? What could that mean? Why didn’t anybody else notice this? Of course, I asked if anything happened to him during the day but nobody saw or heard anything. There was no incident report to fill out so I can only assume this happened “on my watch”.

The whole thing just doesn’t make any sense. I keep re-playing the morning and can’t think of a single time that he could have been hurt. I know he didn’t have this bruise when I bathed him. I know no one would intentionally hurt him and with the exception of my rushed shower I was with Siraj the whole accident-free time. If you were to look at his purple and red wrist – you would think it was broken. And yet, he isn’t bothered when I touch it and is still happily crawling all over the place with full pressure on it.

I scoop him up (before he can hit his head on the glass coffee table) and apologize again for the thousandth time as I put him in his high chair. Even though I am sickened to my stomach I have become this oblivious bullying monster, I still need to make some dinner for Ismaeel.

Despite not having any teeth, Siraj is desperately hankering for food. As a compromise, I give him ice cubes in the mesh safety of a Sassy Teething Feeder. He loves this. He loves to hold it on his aching gums or to simply smash it against his food tray. And lately, he likes to throw it across the room with gusto. And just as my hands are covered in raw egg – he tosses it down to the floor and lets out a happy shriek for it to be returned. I call for Ismaeel to help and before Big Brother can decipher my directions – I catch Siraj taking matters into his own hands. Or should I say his bruised wrists...

Apparently his teething has gotten so bad he has taken to gnawing on his own wrist as if it was an ear of corn on the cob. Oh my poor suffering baby, you have no idea how relieved I am! What a wonderful day it is indeed when you find out that your infant son likes to give himself a hickie.

Phew! At least now my only crime is not having enough teething rings pre-chilled in the freezer. And now that I am not a delusional and abusive mother I can get back to focusing on my regular guilt list...

An Upright World

While everyone around us put on their bathing suits and headed towards the beach, my husband and I were more than happy to spend the day on our couch in the comforts of our AC. That’s not to say that a toddler and an infant let us spend any time relaxing. Still just the thought of lounging around in our pajamas seemed like a perfect way to savor the last bits of a long weekend. We aimed for some quiet cleaning of the house and our emails while we offered Ismaeel a Pixar movie marathon. Bored of his film collection, Ismaeel pleaded with me to Swiffer instead. While I can appreciate his offer, I can’t help but wish his aim under the couch were just a tad more efficient… And so the day was quickly filled with email filtering rules and household cleaning products. You would think it would be an uneventful day. You know, one not worth blogging about. But the boys always know how to keep things interesting.

Siraj refuses to believe he is 7 months old. While he can’t pronounce any recognizable words beyond “dada” and “hey”, he is more than capable of expressing himself in a hodge-podge of giggles, grunts, raspberries, shrieks, and squeals. He is starting to hold his own in territorial exchanges with Ismaeel and is putting away more food than his big brother could keep down at 1 year. So you would think we would see this coming. But we didn’t. And neither did our baby-proofing-to-do-list.

Today, Siraj decided crawling is for babies and started standing on his pipsqueak legs. I love my sweet baby boy dearly and in my big brown motherly eyes think he is absolutely gorgeous. But weighing in regularly at 10th percentile, Siraj is an itty-bitty one. With the exception of his long legs and mature face, Siraj is tiny enough to be easily mistaken for a 4 month-old. So even I find it disorienting and surreal to see his little thighs holding himself up. My husband even asks if Siraj could stunt his bone development by standing too early. But there he is - smiling and squealing away as he clutches and drools on the glass coffee table. The very same table that I just Windexed. And the very same table that Ismaeel held on to before he spun around and bit through his lip so badly that he needed half a dozen stitches at 13 months. Just as my husband and I start to panic about another accident waiting to happen – we laugh to remember that Siraj doesn’t have any teeth. But we still have plenty of wood floors and sharp corners to worry about. So we start panicking anyway…

We’re thrilled to see Siraj thriving but are completely overwhelmed that he has become so mobile so quickly. I have already spent a morning completely reassembling his high chair since his happy jumping for yogurt routine loosened all of the screws. And what good is a bouncer that holds nearly 30 pounds when at 15 he is able to turn around and use it as a springboard to propel himself towards the couch?

Not to mention, having a toddler in the house means toys with little pieces everywhere. So, should my husband become the LEGO-hunter while I frantically forage for leftover shipping materials to make styrofoam nests on the edges of our furniture? While we hurry to make things safer for Siraj should we ask Ismaeel to take over the cooking? He is after all doing a fairly decent job dusting. Sadly, Ismaeel can’t yet read recipes so we must embrace Siraj’s status as the second child and cling frantically to clichés that anything less than a baby proofed utopia will only make him stronger.

And so to continue our non-traditional celebration of the holiday weekend, we shunned thoughts of BBQ and ordered some Mexican takeout. There’s something about dipping a tortilla chip in guacamole to make you savor the last innocent moments of babyhood. Well maybe not. But we definitely savored the guacamole.

Welcome to the upright world, Siraj !!!

35 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

Home Disorganization

(West Elm)

Due to a generous maternity leave policy at work - I was very eager to fulfill many items off my nesting to-do list. One of which was to organize the boys’ closet before Siraj’s arrival. Hmmm. Let’s see… Siraj is about to turn 8 months and I am still working on this. Perhaps I should re-think my project management skills.

In my defense, I think I have made considerable progress. I spent my last trimester assembling shelves and drawer units courtesy of West Elm’s Bergen line. I bought collapsible canvas storage boxes, transparent shoe bins, Baby Buddy Blue Size-It Closet Organizers, and even little infant-toddler sized wooden hangers. And yet my husband is still quick to point out that I can’t seem to get it together. Inside the clothes are intended to be sorted and there is a designated section for blankets and a month’s supply of baby wipes, infant diapers, and toddler Pull-Ups.

But this just isn’t enough. It comes down to having too much stuff. You would think having two boys should make things hand-me-down-easy but it is a bit daunting to manage and rotate the various clothing sizes. Ismaeel is wearing size 4T-5T and Siraj is still waffling between 3-6m and 6-12m clothing. For those of you unfamiliar with baby clothing, here is a list of the sizes I am busy sorting and holding on to: newborn, 0-3m, 3-6m, 6-12m, 12-18m, 18-24m, 2T, 3T, 4T, and 5T. As if 10 different sizes aren’t hairy enough, Big Brother was born in June while Little Brother came along in November so nearly every piece of Ismaeel’s clothing is now out-of-season for Siraj. Let’s just say Siraj is always fashionably layered.

So my current aim is to purge and donate anything “non-core” that doesn’t fit into the canvas box for that particular size. So anything stained, with too much pile, or worn out knees is out. However, this still leaves me with more than I should be keeping. I blame OxiClean for not leaving me with more soiled clothing. But seriously, why is this so hard? Why is it heart-wrenching to consider giving away their itsy-bitsy footie jammies? And so my inner-hoarder keeps trying to hold on to what should just be charitable goods.

Granted things are no longer an indistinguishable heap on the closet floor but if you look closely there are still micro-collections of laundry spill-over throughout the house. And so today was the perfect opportunity to avoid the NYC heat wave by hiding inside the air conditioned comforts of home organization. Ismaeel was very eager to “help” which created all sorts of new nap-less tantrums. Still I let him assist by throwing away an unnecessary collection of extra plastic hangers. But after a bit, we got hungry and decided the afternoon would be better spent cuddling over lunch and watching “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs”.

In the meantime, the closet is still not quite Better Homes and Gardens perfect.

And to the boys’ closet, I say...

“I know. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m trying to make this right. I really am. Tomorrow, that is...”

Mourning Glory

For years, I worked in retail. Every two weeks, I would enjoy the thrills and late nights of setting up the visual displays and store windows with new merchandise. I knew the body details of each mannequin (whom ironically have plenty of their own “flaws”). And I couldn’t help but snicker at competitors’ windows filled with poorly styled, wrinkled, or minimally layered outfits. The following mornings would always be a flurry of markdowns and my employee discount was greatly appreciated. So, you can imagine when I left retail I had more clothes and shoes than I had occasions to wear them.

With my first “desk” job, I quickly lost some of the vanity that came along with trying to maintain my fashion sense and size zero figure. I was enthusiastically heading towards a new sense of practicality and professionalism. Some outfit choices started to fade entirely and I no longer feared the occasional chocolate malted milkshake (with a dill pickle on the side, of course). Still I tried to hold on to some of my hipster elements. I never left the house with less than three layers, my trousers were still crimson red, and my shoes were always at least four inches tall.

So, even though it would have been perfectly acceptable to wear sandals on a particularly sunny September morning – I was excited to wear a new pair of olive leather Kenneth Cole boots instead. I didn’t know planes would be crashing into towers or that I would need to walk nearly twelve miles back to Harlem. And I didn’t know my feet and ankles were covered in blood until my cousin told me.

Some days just rattle you to the core.

In the weeks that followed, I needed to work from home. I had just moved into my apartment so there were boxes everywhere. I found my desk and chair and left the television unplugged. I worked endlessly because there was no more commute. No mid-day urge to take a walk to the Square Dinner. And there was no rush to end the workday just to get back home. Horribly and lonely, I was already there.

The novelty of working in your pajamas fades quickly and I considered it an accomplishment to maintain a somewhat decent sense of basic personal hygiene. It was hard to look at some of the items in my closet. There were my stained boots and the many hangers of the frivolous. It is questionable whether it was a matter of respectful utility or simple laziness but I started to commit to a daily uniform of flip-flops, jeans, t-shirt, and cardigan sweater (note: only two layers).

And boy, did I commit. Shoes and socks became an artifice that I had absolutely no interest in. In fact, my current employer maintains a policy of “business appropriate attire” which means I can never ever wear my flip-flops to meetings (or even in my own office). In protest, I have been known to let my Halloween socks peak out from my shoes wildly and inappropriately during the off-season. The minute Friday becomes the weekend – I reach for my flip-flops and have them handy until Monday rears her ugly head.

Today, nearly ten years later, I finally said goodbye to those J-Crew skinny wedge flip-flops. Their plastic began to loosen to the point they would disassemble. Still, it felt odd to throw out a relic from my pre-marriage and pre-motherhood days. I begrudgingly started to cut the tag off my not-quite-identical replacement pair and realized I didn’t really want to wear them. While my habit may (or may not) have sprung from a place of depth - it would require only shallowness at this point to maintain it. Perhaps the time has finally come to reopen the closets and indulge in some frivolity…

The Meaning of Art

(An Original Ismaeel Creation.)

For years, I struggled whether to pursue an artist’s journey or a career in law. Somewhere along the way, I dabbled in mysticism and documentary film but settled upon specialty pharmaceutical promotions. Don’t ask...

However, that doesn’t mean that I cannot color my heart out with Ismaeel or fiercely debate (and win) why he needs to wear pants before leaving the house. So, you can imagine I take great pleasure in seeing his artwork and channel my inner hoarder by refusing to throw away any of his perfectly deliberate and meaningful “scribbles”.

As an infant, he would crane his neck to marvel at ornate ceilings and tall skyscrapers. We were so pleased to be living in NYC knowing that we were doing our very real-estate best to nurture his budding architect self. Then came the finger paints that just screamed super-genius. Even the paste on his craft was thicker and gloppier than his peers’. Before he was even crawling, I could always proudly pick out his passionate work.

That said, every once in a while a piece of his makes me wonder if this is a good thing.

One of my favorites is a two-color stamp collage. Most of his friends chose two bright colors and complementary shapes. There were pink hearts with purple butterflies. Next to that were blue stars with yellow moons. Down the line were white ducks with green umbrellas. And then there was Ismaeel’s. Sometimes I don’t know why they bother writing his name in the corner. Could any other parent mistake the orange houses being trampled by tar-like black dinosaurs as their child’s work !?! Surely, this is my solitary glory.

Sometimes, the children are allowed to “freestyle” their art and the teachers will write the intended subject in the corner of the piece. For example, a collection of red frantic lines labeled “fast car” shared a similar style to the wobbly green circles titled “big bugs”. Today’s artwork was even more wonderfully warm than usual and I immediately tried to picture where I should hang it in my office. That is, until I noticed the caption in the corner...

“Flames of Fire.”

Oh boy. Why didn’t they just write “Cry For Help” next to his name !?!

As I was about to talk to his teacher - I noticed many other activities regarding fire safety hanging on the walls. Phew. Hopefully, as long as I can keep the killer-home-crushing-dinosaurs at a distance then art can remain a healthy outlet for Ismaeel.

In the meantime, I think I’ll keep “Flames of Fire” at home on the refrigerator. Some conversation pieces are just a little too high-brow for Corporate America.

Quadrants of Insanity

(Photo courtesy of Lunch in a Box)

There are times when my husband hints that I have taken on too much. When he says this – I typically don’t reply other than to exchange a bewildered look. After 11+ years, he knows me right !?! What exactly on my Type-A plate is optional !?! But here is the brief summary of my plate: I am a wife of one, a mommy of two under three, a promotions manager of six brands, and a grad student of one mere class per each semester. I don’t even dare put amateur photographer or wistful poet on this list. So in my defense, culling myself down to four states of being is quite conservative. Right !?!

“Wife” and “Mommy” are clearly requisite roles. “Manager” and “Student” could be debatable until the moment we realize how questionable (psychologically rather than financially) my offering as “Wife” or “Mommy” would be without them. Beyond any grand ideas of self-fulfillment - it is very important my boys know what work ethic is and have examples of educated women in their lives. And so it seems, I remain fully committed to my quadrants of insanity.

So, at what point do I need to recognize that I am “falling short”? And what help is appropriate to ask for? It is a lot easier at work to identify the things that fall outside the scope and value of my role and simply outsource those tasks. Is it because I have a clearly defined job description? Or does it matter that I have an objective criteria that my job performance rating and compensation is based upon? Or is it simply having access to resources that I can delegate certain items to?

At home it is safe to say that I am not as aware of the nuances of my job description. That’s if there even is one. And as for job performance – whose evaluation matters most? My own? My husband’s? My kids? Anyone else’s? And I think this is the very crux where I begin to fall short.

You would think my own evaluation would be the most compassionate but I have always been my own worst critic. So yes, while each morning I prep fresh bottles and lunches for the boys – I sometimes feel badly that I am not packing them into fun little bento boxes with radishes shaped like mice. I think about how the house should be cleaner or better decorated. Rather than takeout, I think about the elaborate dinners and homemade desserts that I should be planning for the week ahead instead. I think about how if I were only exercising more, I would be slimmer, better dressed, and healthy enough to keep up with my life. I think about how much better my school assignments could have been if I only started earlier. And despite being in an Ivy League graduate program, every once in a while I pause to consider if I am failure for not pursuing my MBA. But I quickly comfort myself that there is still time to look into that Yale program after graduation. And as for work, am I even where I am supposed to be? Is this a career I simply fell into or one that I truly choose? Is this the best work that only I can do? And most often than not these answers fall on the shoulders of no.

While my husband can respect at least what I try to do everyday – I think he is still baffled that I do things a certain way. He says I need to stop aiming for perfection and I ask where the corners I can cut are. We talk about how to make my load easier but we never find anything too ripe for dropping. Is the only solution to adopt lower standards? Yes, Ismaeel and Siraj seem to have their basic needs fulfilled but do they feel their allotment of playtime is adequate? Or are my days too long or filled with more emails than time for “angry dinosaurs”. Would they even notice shorter and less fragrant bubble baths?

As for anyone else’s assessment – the relevance of judgment becomes pretty murky pretty fast. On one hand, it is nice to sound off and get advice on structuring your days or how cooking every night is even manageable. But what does it even matter when the things someone else does well are simply because those are the areas that are most important to them? It is very easy to not understand why something is on your plate. Or to assume that the buckets of your life are nothing more than selfish pursuits. Perhaps I don’t need to give myself a glowing evaluation each day but at least I can commit to knowing what is on my plate and the reason it is there. And hell, maybe a cleaning service isn't such a bad idea to look into after all...

28 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

Loveless Motherhood

Before motherhood, I had no clue what to do with a baby. As the youngest of my immediate and extended family, I was never really around anyone littler than myself. I have never babysat nor held one without wincing or from the safe (but socially awkward) distance of a long-arm extension. I didn’t even know where to begin making those ridiculous googling noises in return. And their wobbly bobbly heads… I wondered why parents didn’t simply keep them home until their little necks were strong enough.

Thankfully, there was a wealth of resources to get up to speed during my pregnancy. My parents showed me how to place a diaper on Mitchell, my Fabulous Frog, with the warning that my own baby would not be as compliant nor still when changed. And essentially everything else came online. BabyCenter provided me with pregnancy tips long before I had to search for bathing instructions, growth charts, or vaccination debates. How to nurse and store my milk came from Medela. And scattered far and wide across the web, were endless product reviews to inform me about the various gear my baby simply couldn’t live without.

I was appreciative that so much information was available. I couldn’t imagine if I had to shamefully ask each and every one of my queries out loud. I took immense comfort in anonymously trolling through the messages of advice, exhaustion, pride, and even rage. I figured if I only read enough - I could muster the confidence to at least not drop my baby. The only lingering question was: would I be able to love him? Despite already relishing every little kick along my pregnant way, I feared that if I were to need a c-section I wouldn’t release enough oxytocin to properly bond. I feverishly worried I would be a cold and mechanical mother.

These ideas made my husband think I was insane. He thought it wasn’t possible to not love your own child. And he seriously couldn’t understand why I would waste energy fretting about this. I didn’t think it was so far-fetched. You feel a connection or you don’t. And even more frightening, if you don’t, there is no online tutorial to help. I imagine plenty of women suffering from post-partum depression (PPD) struggle to feel closer to their babies. How many of them would admit this to themselves let alone their families? Would I? Would I simply pretend to be a great and loving mother until the day I snap?

On June 14, 2007, Ismaeel was born on a sunny afternoon in NYC (without the help of an epidural or c-section). It was uncanny how much he resembled my own baby photos. We couldn’t stop staring into our matching brown eyes and as he clutched onto my pinkie with his entire little hand, I had no doubt that I deeply and truly loved him. I was relieved to see the same feisty moves from his ultrasound days and laughed that I didn’t realize I have known and adored him all along.

Still, I don’t regret my pre-natal paranoia. While I didn’t suffer from PPD or a lack of bonding with my son, I now realize motherhood will require me to put my ego aside, often and without hesitation. Even though there is plenty of online support, it doesn’t absolve me from asking for help or speaking to my partner about the things I fear and struggle with. I can only hope that embracing this newfound accountability will strengthen my marriage as much as the bonds between me and my sons.

And yes, even on the days I snap, I love them all without question.

Burger Time

I make a seriously mean burger. Are any other words even needed ?

Please see photographic evidence above and try to ignore the fact that yes, we are still enjoying the disposable luxuries of left over birthday party plates. I’m sorry Captain Planet…

With a home filled of ever hungry boys, it didn’t take long to realize making a bowl of cereal or a grand salad (with light dressing) for dinner just wasn’t going to cut it. The boys simply crave their meat. Even Siraj, who is only slurping down one pureed ingredient at a time, squeals and hollers to try a piece of steak. If only his toothless gums weren’t always in his way… But yes, I am handling more raw meat than I ever imagined - which is just another reminder that motherhood is not for the squeamish.

As for my burgers… While my spontaneous recipe is not in the archives of The Best Hamburger Recipes or Best Burger Recipes - I humbly offer it to those who are suffering from a less than burger experience (of their own doing).

We regularly buy our meat from a Halal butcher in Astoria so I start off with some pretty fresh and high quality chopped meat (often a mix of ground beef and lamb). I lightly season the ground meat with black pepper, garlic flakes, breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, and an egg. I mix everything with my hands and roll into ball-like shapes. I am not overly-concerned with making them the same size nor perfectly round. The most important thing is that the meat is room temperature before I start grilling. On a non-oiled frying pan set to medium high, I place them down to sizzle, and touch them as little as possible. Before flipping them, I drizzle some balsamic vinegar to start creating a little gravy. My husband likes his meat well-done, but I still take his burgers out when they are warm and slightly red-pink. I do this because they will continue cooking from their own heat on the plate and if I left them on the stove they would get tough. As the meat “rests” – I make a gravy sauce by adding some mushroom broth and lemon juice onto the hot pan where the burgers just were. Once thickened, this is poured over the resting burgers. The burgers soak up the sauce while I lightly toast the hamburger buns with aged swiss cheese and roasted red peppers in my beloved DeLonghi Convection Oven. I place some feta cheese crumbles inside the toasted buns right before adding the oh-so-saucy burgers and they are ready to eat…

One important note is that Ismaeel sees absolutely no value in eating bread and will eat his burger bun-less and with a fork. So, don’t panic if you want to go anti-carb as well. It is all about the protein anyway…

Buon Appetito!

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For…

While it is hard to see Ismaeel’s babyhood fading fast – it is thrilling to see him mature into a wonderfully exciting little person with his own ideas. Granted, his best thoughts involve some sort of dessert or monsters with terrible great big claws but they are nonetheless his very own ideas.

Today, he asked my husband and me if we would like to share ice cream with him. The image of him “treating” us to ice cream is simply charming on its own. However, compared to the dinner of leftovers we were trying to garner enthusiasm for – it was more than easy to agree that Ismaeel’s stroke of super-genius was the best detour home.

Rather than waste our time with Mister Softee we went straight over to Soho for the Van Leeuwen Artisan Ice Cream Truck. Seriously supercalifragilistically good. My husband and Ismaeel choose to share a double-scoop of chocolate in a bowl, and I went for peppermint & chip in a sugar cone. All the while, poor little Siraj stared at us with a sense of wide-eyed injustice.

I am a fierce ice cream purist. I could argue for hours unapologetically about how ice cream should be forever soft and never chewed. Even at home, I mash our ice cream to a creamy bowl of fluff before serving. So the whole premise of adding chips to peppermint should have negated the possibility of my order. But this is Van Leeuwen where organic peppermint is complemented by ultra-thin Michel Cluizel 72% chocolate chips. The chocolate nearly melts within the ice cream and certainly doesn’t need to be left behind as sugary chocolate grit in your teeth. Imagine a York Peppermint Pattie grown up as a refined frozen cream with an even cleaner and more natural mint. The sugar cone was perfectly crispy sweet and so good it seemed downright cruel not to let both my husband and Ismaeel try it.

They are already talking about the flavors (pistachio? hazelnut? strawberry?) that we will try next time. Though, I suspect Ismaeel will remain loyal to his sweetheart chocolate. The whole excursion was a refreshing end note to a warm summer day. If only every day was filled with such toddler spontaneity!

And now on to those uber-thrilling leftovers. Sigh…

Daddy-Oh !!!

Here's a not-said-enough-gratitude-list for my husband...

Thank you for:

• Sharing in the trust that our family would grow with God’s will.  
• Being so pleased to hear about both our pregnancies that you were in a state of pure disbelief for days. 
• Patting my back and still carrying on a conversation despite me kneeling during one of my many bouts of morning, afternoon, and evening sickness.
• Supporting me during each and every wild pregnancy craving. I know it was tough keeping the refrigerator fully stocked with lemonade and having to share in all those “I-must-have-a-tres-leches-doughnut-right-now” moments.
• Waiting patiently as I stood in (yet another) too-long line for the bathroom.
• Not only not fainting but being such a trooper during labor. No one delivers the perfect cup of ice-chips quite like you.
• Falling in love with Ismaeel and Siraj utterly and completely.
• Cherishing being able to nourish the boys by simply holding their bottles and stroking their hair.
• Being such a warm and compassionate father.
• Sleeping on the lambie rug next to the crib while Ismaeel fought to go to bed without his pacifier for the first time.
• Waking up with me at 4am just to enjoy listening to Siraj’s cooing.
• Staying up late to decorate the boys’ room with glow-in-the dark stars.  
• Buying a set of home theatre speakers so we can watch Pixar movies with the boys in surround sound. 
• Trying to help with the morning routine even if it means Ismaeel winds up with his shoes on the wrong feet.
• Letting me take two and a half years to build up enough nerve to have Ismaeel’s hair cut for the first time.
• Helping Siraj get settled into slumber while Ismaeel and I read “just one more” story.
• Introducing a voice of calm while the whole house seemed overwhelmed by the trials of potty training.
• Getting just as excited as Ismaeel does when a helicopter is nearby. 
• Cheering for Siraj’s early crawling skills even if it means we have to race to baby proof the house again. 
• Making sure the boys never miss a good night’s kiss.

Happy Father’s Day !!!

21 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

Black, Never Let Me Down

Other than to share the occasional link or video clip, I rarely update my Facebook status. However, I realize this is one of the fastest and effective digital communication tools at my disposal. And so today, at the height of my motherly and fashionable shortcomings – I felt it appropriate to broadcast the following:

Lesson Learned:  A mother of toddler and infant boys should never wear white. Never.

And here goes the whole sordid story:

Getting dressed in the morning is probably one of my least favorite activities. Truth be told, I miss my smaller sized wardrobe and pre-motherhood privacy to try on enough outfits until I am satisfied with my appearance. Instead, I typically grab whatever is clean and vaguely matches. And I try to look back as little as possible in the mirror. As I am easily bored with this technique, I save aside a few pieces of new clothing for particularly low self-esteem days. And so, today seemed like a wonderful day to bolster my confidence by stepping out in a brand new white cardigan. I remember buying it and thinking I have to remember not to drink cranberry juice in this one. Little did I know that Ismaeel would find a way to get tire grease and toddler fingerprints on my backside or that my poor new summer sweater would fall victim to Siraj’s spontaneous bout of intestinal mayhem.

Before motherhood, I never knew such messes were even possible. We are talking a serious comedy of errors here. And I am sure there are some sort of decency standards that preclude me from going into any further details. Basically, my cardigan was pristine until the world started to move and rumble in slow motion and the words soiled or ruined wouldn’t even come close to describing the aftermath.

Funny enough, I wasn’t really upset about it. While I hope that he stops touching grease to point out how messy tires are, I am pleased Ismaeel still enjoys giving me such heartfelt hugs. And little Siraj looked enormously refreshed after his own incident. What mother wouldn’t be relieved to know their baby shouldn’t be suffering from a tummy ache anymore?

Luckily, I still dress in layers and being in NYC means there are plenty of clothing stores within t-shirt walking distance. I am also particularly grateful that they are open before 10:00AM. I was soon flipping through the sale rack at Gap and was delighted to find several replacement cardigans in my size. However, just as I rejected pastel pink and was about to walk to the cashier holding light baby blue – I realized I didn’t want to watch history repeat itself. At least not today. So, I promptly stepped out of line, past the sale rack, and grabbed a full price sweater in black.

Oh, my sweet slimming, matchable, and stain-camouflaging black, promise me you’ll never let me down. You do, after all, cost twice as much...

Happy 7-Month Birthday Baby Siraj !!!

Baby Siraj's toes.

• At 7 months, Baby Siraj is pleasantly settled into the chaotic existence of NYC babyhood.
• He is wonderfully sweet and curious about the world.
• Despite his slender weight and lack of teeth, he is a voracious little eater who constantly tries to steal our table food.
• He attempts to keep up with his big brother’s exuberance by mastering the fastest crawl I have ever witnessed just to chase him from room to room.
• He will happily and intuitively play with anything given to him but has a particular weakness for trying to tear important mail.
• He is contemplative yet loves to be near everybody.
• Essentially the only time he cries is if we break eye contact or happen to walk out of the room at the same time.
• He knows his name and enjoys hearing it exclaimed when we discover he has created some sort of mischief.
• He is able to remain calm throughout the loudest of his friends’ tantrums and will partake in a full slumber in his crib as long as everyone kisses him goodnight first.
• He makes us consider ourselves lucky every day.
• And he is absolutely worth every bit of the constant fatigue, heartburn, and nausea that his pregnancy brought me.

Here’s to celebrating the special day by introducing some blueberry YoBaby organic whole milk yogurt to Siraj’s diet. Now if you could only see his delighted legs kicking and spinning wildly as the spoon comes near…

Countdown: Days Until Ismaeel's 3rd Birthday...

14 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

Countdown: Days Until Ismaeel's 3rd Birthday...

The Calm Before the Storm

(Photo by Dawn Shurmaitis)

Bleary-eyed, I sit here (yet again) in the wee hours of the morning cradling my infant and his beloved bottle. Each day, Siraj wakes up playfully, kicking his legs, and babbling for sustenance. He is not a big crier but his alley-cat squeals tend to wake his big brother so I always race to pick him up. Something about my messy-hair-frantic-monster-arm-shut-eye-grunt-and-grab makes him giggle like a loon. And despite my need for just another hour (or so) of more sleep, today was no exception to our ridiculous routine.

I cherish these moments. I really do. Being the baby brother of a mischievous toddler doesn’t necessarily provide Siraj with many opportunities for solitude. It is a sacred time where I get to hold him and stroke his humble fluff of hair without screaming at someone to stop stabbing the furniture with a fork. Or without yelling how someone is running around with a pointy-edged eating utensil in the first place. Have I really become someone who openly frets about someone poking their eye out !?! But I digress...

This is the part of my day where I get to hear my own thoughts and give myself a temporary reprieve from household chores. Last night’s dishes wait to be placed in the dishwasher and the fresh pile of laundry lays unsorted and unfolded. It is the only brief time where I don’t feel guilty about ignoring them. I can watch the sunrise flooding the city with light. As the buildings begin to shimmer I see the Staten Island Ferry make commuting as seemingly glamorous as the cruise ships heading to Red Hook. The street carts begin to assemble along the sidewalks and a wave of yellow taxis splashes through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel (I-478). The longer I linger, the brighter it gets, and the less hope there is of getting back into bed. Still, even without a warm caffeinated beverage, the morning has already been savored. Each day, exhaustion aside, I am reminded of how motherhood in the city has its charms.

Countdown: Days Until Ismaeel's 3rd Birthday...

Countdown: Days Until Ismaeel's 3rd Birthday...

Countdown: Days Until Ismaeel's 3rd Birthday...

Countdown: Days Until Ismaeel's 3rd Birthday...

Epic Fail

After Picture Day with the boys, I went into the office with my outfit wrinkled and stomach rumbling without breakfast. Along the four block walk I tried to figure out which of my meetings in my triple-booked calendar I should attend in person. I chose the ever popular and anti-social answer of none and decided to dial in to my most problematic brand’s status call from the passive aggressive comforts of my office. While booting up my laptop, I discovered that my burning-hot-clickety-clicking-whirling-dervish-hard-disk decided to commit suicide. Seriously !?! Most unfortunately, yes.

Now I must brace myself for a maddening call to help-desk and think again about that breakfast I didn’t have. My company’s technical support representatives are based in Costa Rica. Their accents and friendly banter make them actually quite charming. And it is always hard not to imagine that the call-center is inside some sort of super-wired grass hut on the middle of the beach. When I am put on hold, I assume they are merely adjusting their towels and sipping their coconut drinks. I pause often to think that I am in the wrong line of work. Unfortunately, calls rarely take less than thirty minutes. And that is just to get the spelling of your user name correct to document your problem. An actual solution will take even far more time. Think days.

So, as something about inefficiencies makes me what to eat my feelings, I always enjoy having something to snack on while I re-spell my last name and first initial for the umpteenth time. And a call like this would be best served with doubleshot caramel macchiatos and a heaping stack of buttery blueberry pancakes. Nothing like a new way to make your emergency box of office Cheerios taste even blander…

And so I repeat, “M as in Mary, A as in Apple, N as in Nancy…” until they finally pull up my account. Most of my data was already backed up but the idea of losing weeks of productivity by leap-frogging between relic loaner laptops makes me want to cry. Since NetMeeting won’t work on a dead computer, Juan-Carlos opened a ticket to page someone local to come and verify that my laptop has indeed expired. Once I receive my digital death certificate – the procurement process can be initiated for my new machine.

Computer-less, I went from meeting to meeting trying desperately to follow email chains on my BlackBerry. But with six brands this is nearly impossible. I have class tonight with a midnight deadline. My husband will be out of town for the next three days and Ismaeel’s 3rd birthday party is less than a week away. Wow, who knew all of this could bubble up so quickly !?! The day hit an excruciating new low point as I needed to actually talk to people in person to keep my projects moving. I had no idea technology had become such a crutch for my hermitic tendencies.

In the afternoon, the local technician came around to certify that my laptop has passed on and drop off a loaner. It was old and full of crumbs but I still embraced the behemoth, knowing that the night ahead would be spent together chasing emails.

If not, I would have to talk to more people live tomorrow. The horror!

Countdown: Days Until Ismaeel's 3rd Birthday...

I Am Not a Pageant Mother

Today is Monday. This is the day where I not only race to early business meetings but prep the boys’ weekly supplies and lunches for daycare. Baby Siraj needs his lambie blankie, a clean crib sheet, a generous allotment of diapers, wipes, back-up clothes, and three bottles of his formula, oatmeal, and pureed fruits packed. Regardless of the menu, Ismaeel requires his own bag of “snacks” aka a full back-up lunch (vegetarian “chicken” tenders, cheese sticks, red grapes, strawberries, SIGG of organic chocolate milk, and a spare granola bar), his supply of just-in-case-clothes, and a handful of Pull-Ups. As if this isn’t enough – add the stress of prepping for Picture Day. Yes, Picture Day.

As I may have mentioned before, I like to dabble in digital photography. My beloved camera is a Nikon D90 but even this won’t guarantee a decent shot of the boys. There are indeed many aspects and challenges of parenting that people won’t admit to. Photographing a toddler and an infant together without someone breaking into fits ranks pretty high on that list. And this pertains just as much to the one behind the camera. Today, I figured I could let the professionals try their luck.

Ismaeel and I have been practicing his picture-day smile for the past week during each and every tooth brushing. So, all I needed to do was iron semi-coordinating outfits and get both boys to daycare stain and tear free. So far so good (as long as you conveniently ignore the part where I went to bed sometime after midnight and woke up four hours later to begin my Monday).

We let Ismaeel pose first and I was relieved he didn’t try to entertain the photographer with his “angry dinosaur” or “chubba wubba” routines. While his tendency to squint and over-smile made me want to shout something nearly-expletive-filled about our early morning and late night smile practice sessions – I quickly reminded myself: “I am not a pageant mother”, “I am not a pageant mother”, “I am not a pageant mother”, “I am not…”

The next few shots were of the boys together. We placed Siraj on the ground and asked Ismaeel to hug and hold him steady. While Siraj has already impressed us with his super-genius crawling skills at a mere six months – the task of sitting still reduces him to a mere weeble-wobble. He was absolutely perplexed that we were entrusting Ismaeel to hold him and kept staring at us with his little toothless mouth gaping wide open. I seriously broke a sweat trying to make him give us his usual happy-go-lucky grin - but no dice. If Siraj was smiling, Ismaeel would be busy sticking out his tongue or randomly poking at his own eye. At some point, you just have to cut your losses and promise to find these unscripted moments forever endearing.

We moved to Siraj’s solo pictures. Again, with no one to hold him – sitting alone was a major challenge. I think the best (upright) shot included a great big gummy smile but a chin full of his trademark drool. Go figure.

All in all, no one bled, cried, or fell so I consider the morning an overwhelming success. Now I just have to count down the days until the prints arrive.

7 Days and Counting

• Just an update, we still have the car rental.

All About Mii

("Trailer Trash Beauty Queen" by Ricky Gagnon)

I am a former homecoming queen. That’s right, a proud tiara wearing and red convertible riding homecoming queen.

So, it is with great humility and pain that I admit to the following…

• My Wii Fit board called me obese.

That’s right obese. I never thought I would know this word so intimately. For years, my doctors complained about me being unhealthy for being underweight. And now my Wii Mii has junk in the trunk! This cannot be happening…

I know, I know, I know... I just had a baby and it took 9 months to gain the weight so I should give myself some time to lose it but I have truly never been this heavy without being on the verge of labor.

During maternity leave, I took Ismaeel for walks every day in the park and lost nearly all of the weight relatively quickly. Since it was coming off on its own I didn’t worry about dieting or additional exercise. Sure, I was still heavier than my pre-maternity self but I could live with it.

This time around just isn’t the same. A month after Siraj’s birth, I was proudly fitting into my pre-maternity jeans but then the weight-loss party was over. Not only were the rest of the pounds not going anywhere – I think I actually gained some more. I kept waiting for it to come off but wound up scrambling to buy pants in a larger size the weekend before I had to go back to work. I felt absolutely horrible about it and to this day won’t admit what number I wear to my husband.

Life has me in a state of absolute exhaustion but I realize the more I exercise the better I should feel. So after losing a household bet about the lyrics to Route 66, my husband ponied up a Wii Fit Plus at my request. Admittedly, we have a gym in our building but I thought this would be more fun for me to do alongside Ismaeel. I’ve heard so many great stories how everyone loves it. I even know someone who lost over 20 pounds using it.

I just didn’t know it would humiliate me with such gusto in front of my entire family.

Every other day for two weeks, I tried exercising for at least 30-45 minutes. I was only that much more tired and my weight kept hovering at the same gateway pound to obesity. Figuring that I need to step it up, I started paying even more careful attention to what I was drinking and eating and tried to exercise longer for a non-negotiable 60 minutes. But that blasted gateway pound wasn’t going anywhere.

Incredibly frustrated, I am taking a break from my Wii. Between work, school, and family life - I have a lot going on. And budgeting aside 60 minutes to embarrass myself on a near daily basis really isn’t working out so well.

Mii,

I think it will be good for us to take some time apart. You know, to see if we miss each other or to realize for once and for all if it isn’t going to work between us. I really know you can be great and I don’t want to lose you but maybe I just bring out the worst in you. Let’s reconnect at the end of semester. I’ll be watching what I eat but promise not to work out with anyone else… xoxoxo Me