As I mentioned yesterday, our four year old is pretty sick. She’s contracted some super virus that’s causing a very high temperature and, according to her pediatrician, this virus is running rampant through the child population in our area.
We will ignore the fact that among my numerous friends with children between the ages of 2-8, my child is the only one that’s sick.
We will do this in favor of the idea that my co-pay is being well spent on a subject matter expert who relies on science and not being spent on the idea that there is perceived solace in numbers.
Anyway. This morning, I attended N.’s preschool orientation alone, and left her and baby brother at home with my husband. Because I don’t want to be known as the mom who doesn’t care about her kid’s orientation, nor do I want to be known as the mother of the child who got the entire class sick before school even started.
As an important side bar, I don’t know how it is in your home, but in my home, mommy is the food maker, nose/butt wiper, and bedtime monitor.
Daddy, on the other hand, is Mr. Funtime (!!).
Obviously, we cross over to the other side quite often, but for the most part that’s how it is.
Given how sick our daughter is, it’s been difficult for Tariq, i.e. Mr. Funtime (!!), to convey to N. that right now what she needs is rest. Playing will come after rest which she needs to to do in order to get well. It seems so simple. And, yet, up until today, this concept has been beyond even her well honed four year old analytical skills.
Today, however, when I came home from the orientation, as Tariq was frantically getting ready for work (it was 11 a.m.), I noticed N. was lying peacefully on the couch.
Resting.
Impressive, dear husband, impressive, I thought. But, how in the world did you finally get through to her?
I, then, casually glanced at the counter and found this:
Apparently, this was my husband’s response to my daughter when she begged him to play hide and seek with her.
Frustrated with trying to explain to her for the thousandth time to no measurable amount of success that her fever and illness required rest, he explained the best way he knew how. With a graph.
I’ve been staring at this graph for twenty minutes and am still trying to figure out what it means.
But it worked because, as I’ve mentioned, she was on the couch.
Resting.
This? Is why she’s probably a genius and he gets paid the big bucks, I assume.
But, in defense of all right brained folks like myself out there, is that, like, theWORST drawing of a heart and stars you’ve ever seen, or what??
(And if you’re reading through my Facebook feed and can’t see an image here, you really need to click through to the original post this time).
It’s an odd thing for a woman to navigate and attempt to understand the concept of “manhood.”
For most, at least for me, the journey began when I knew I was having a boy. “How, as a woman, does one teach a boy to be a man?”
This was the first thought that entered my head when I saw that sonogram.
The second was, “I have no idea how to do that.”
Which is funny, because I have a father, I have a brother and I’d been married to a man for almost eight years before I asked myself that question.
Tasked with the job of teaching something I know little about, I looked around for examples. I did not have to search far. He happened to live in the same house. My husband has taught me so much in the past year about what a man is and is not.
A man is not someone who thinks washing dishes is women’s work.
A man is someone who comes home and asks what needs to be done in order to achieve the common goal of running a household.
A man is not someone who refers to watching his own children as “babysitting.”
A man is someone whose eyes reflect that playing, tending to and being affectionate with his own children is his absolute pleasure and honor.
A man is not someone who assumes his superiority resides upon the number of people he can control or manipulate.
A man is someone who offers himself up as a rock, a pillar upon which each person in his family can stand.
A man is not someone who keeps to himself and shuts himself off from the people who love him in a misconstrued plan to be “strong for them.”
A man is someone who expresses his appreciation and displeasure over situations in an open and positive way. Or even less than positive. He, at the very least, says something.
A man is not someone who compares you to others or believes that you are lucky to have him.
A man is not someone who thinks you need protecting because you are weak and less able.
A man is someone who defends you because he knows that his integrity demands that he stand up for what is right.
I no longer worry about teaching my son what it is to be “a man.” He can play with dolls or trucks, it doesn’t matter. He can play sports or read books. He can wear pink or black or whatever.
It doesn’t matter, I’ll love him no matter what.
All I really want for him to do, though? Is be a lot like his dad. Because his dad is a “man” in every single way that counts.
Happy birthday to the two the beautiful men in my life.
I may be a decent writer, but I don’t think I’m much of a storyteller.
My four year old daughter, N., though, can tell a good story.
As proof, I present to you her latest tale as dictated to me on Sunday night right before dinner.
Accompanied by compelling literary analysis and commentary in un-emphasized parenthetical italics by … me. Because those who can’t do, critique.
Once upon a time, there was a pretty angel named Meera. And she flew.
But before she tried and tried, but it didn’t work and she knew why it wasn’t working.
Because she didn’t have wings even though she was an angel.
(But, why? Why doesn’t she have wings? We will never know. Sadly.)
And when she looked up she saw something swish in the sky.
When she saw something swish, she jumped high and it grabbed her hand.
It was a fairy.
(Of course it was. The mixture of religion and fantasy here clearly indicates a level of genius that is unfathomable to the naked eye.)
The angel was riding on the fairy, like a witch riding a broom. Like Captain Hook. And then the angel went into her house to have breakfast.
(Like. Captain. Hook?)
And then when she finished, her mother found her wings for her. She put them on her, and then she put sparkles on her wings and ever her dress.
(I have to note here that the word “ever” in this last sentence was highly emphasized. As in, “write EVER her dress, Mama. EVER.” And also? Of course, the angel doesn’t dress herself. OF COURSE.)
Then, she saw her dress and it had heart sparkles, pumpkin sparkles and a beautiful ruffle on the bottom just like my nightgown.
(So, she was going to Vegas to open for Celine Dion? Let it also be known that no such nightgown has ever been worn or brought into this home).
And then she jumped and flew with the angel and the fairy and the hawks and birds. And the crows.
And then she grew up like the angel and then she went and swinged on a pole.
(She? Who’s she? I thought we were talking about the angel, so who are we talking about now? And swinging on a pole? IS YOUR NAANI LETTING YOU WATCH MTV WHEN YOU STAY AT HER PLACE?!!)
And then she saw a spike plant and she cut all the spiky thorns off and she went on the plant bridge and she walked on the plant bridge. And she jumped and got tired.
(I’m sorry, but if I were an editor, the above part would be cut because it totally ruins the flow. Do not doubt that it took every ounce of self control I had not to say this to my child.)
She built a house inside a ceiling fan and she went inside. And she picked a flower from her garden and she smelled it.
(So the house in the ceiling fan has a garden. Are you sure that’s not just mold, honey…)
Then, she got married and she went to the hospital and a baby came out and the angel named her Era.
It seems that no matter where we go as a family, a trip to some sort of museum always lands on the itinerary. I think I have more to do with that than I would like to admit, but I keep telling myself that my husband is secure enough in his masculinity to stare at abstract art for a few minutes and act like it means something to him.
Anyway.
Back in January, we went to Savannah, which many of you may know is a very “artsy” place. While we were there, we took the kids (yes, even the infant) to the Jepson Center. In our defense, they have a great little kid’s section that does a wonderful job of illustrating not only the mechanics of art, but its relevance in our every day lives.
N. and I have great conversations on these little museum trips. Like, the following:
“Hey, N., look at this one, this is by an artist from France.”
“What’s France?”
“A country.”
“What’s a country?”
“A place where people who speak the same language, eat the same kinds of food and wear the same kinds of clothes live together.”
“So. America is not a country.”
“No, America is a country. Actually, it’s the United States of…”
“But people dress different from each other here. And they eat different foods. And they look different,”
“Yeah, well, America is kind of special like that.”
“Oh, we’re better because we’re special.”
This is the point in the conversation where I flash forward twenty years and see my daughter holding up a poster with the words, “If you don’t love America, get the hell out” MINUS the sense of irony.
“Um, no…”
“Oh, we’re worse than France…”
“NO WAY… we’re just…”
“Where is France, Mama?”
“In Europe.”
“What’s Europe?”
“A continent.”
“What’s a continent?”
This is the point in the conversation where other patrons of the museum start staring at me.
“A continent is a big piece of land that different countries are a part of… like, we live in North America.”
“Oh, they named the continent after us.”
“Um. Yes. No. Wait… I don’t know…”
“DID THEY NAME THE CONTINENT AFTER US OR NOT?”
“I DON’T KNOW.”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons of the museum start laughing at me.
“Who made continents?”
“Well, Allah made continents.”
“Why?”
“Because, you know, he could… and, I guess, so people could live on them, so, um, we would have a place to live.”
This is a place in the conversation where I foolishly assume that I have (a) dodged a major bullet and (b) ended the conversation.
“Why did he want people to live on them?”
“So, we could follow his plan, you know, so we could do things like take care of each other and …”
“What did he make the continents out of?”
“Rocks…”
“How did he make the rocks stick together?”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons start pitying me.
“I…uh, that’s a great question… we should ask….”
“He used Play-Doh.”
“No, I don’t think…”
“Yes… YES! He used Play-Doh. Brown play-doh, so we couldn’t see it.”
“N., I don’t think God used Play-Doh to stick rocks together to make continents.”
“Yes, he did. I was there.”
“Oh, you were there? Really?” I say this with way more sarcasm than is appropriate when addressing a four year old.
“Yes, it was before you were born,”
“I was born before you.”
“It was when I was up in heaven, you weren’t there, I saw him use Play Doh to stick the rocks together…”
“Come on, honey, you didn’t…”
“I WAS THERE, IT WAS BEFORE YOU WERE BORN, I SAW HIM DO IT.”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons begin handing me cards with the names of psychiatrists on them. Or affirming their belief that those people from over there are just born extremists, aren’t they…
“Okay, fine. Look this painting is of a flower.”
“What’s a flower…”
This is the point in the conversation where I wish I had just taken her to the Magic Kingdom instead.
Hi, you have reached the blog of Faiqa. I’m sorry, I’m not here right now because my awesome husband surprised me and the kids with a trip to Savannah.
In the meantime, though, I found something for your viewing pleasure.
Some thoughts regarding what you’re about to see:
1. The kid is Japanese. He’s four or five. He can’t speak English. Don’t you dare make fun of him for that. Unless you spoke English AND Japanese fluently by the time you were five. Then, you know, have at it.
2. I need therapy. Because when I saw this, I thought to myself, “Whatever, what’s the big deal, anyway?” And, then, I sat around contemplating over whether I knew anyone who could teach my kid to play the ukelele.
3. If you’re reading this post through Facebook, you have to go to my original post to see the video. Sigh. I’m getting tired of saying that.
(P.S. Thanks to K.F. for bringing this to my attention on Facebook.)
