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.)

Growing up, being perfect was a huge theme around my house.

If one of us brought home an A, that wasn’t good enough.  It had to be the highest A.  The best.  Some of us coped with this by graduating Summa Cum Laude from grad school, becoming a cardiologist or by dropping out of Theater school and never holding a “real” job (ahem).

Anyway, I want my kids to know that I don’t expect perfect.  I just expect their personal best.  And, yeah, sure, I understand that it’ll take us all time to gauge what their best really is.

This is firmly resolved, however: I will not be like my parents.

No way.  I love my parents, but I’m going to give my kids room to breathe, to grow… and in the end, they will love me for it.  Or else.

So, I have this song that I sing with my daughter, N., every night while she’s brushing her teeth.  It goes like this (and FYI, I didn’t make it up):

I’m not perfect

No, I’m not.

I’m not perfect

But I’ve got what I’ve got

And I do my very best

I do my very best

I do my very best each daaay

But I’m not perfect

And I hope you like me that way

I know, I know.  I am the most wonderful parent ever.  I mean, already teaching my four year old that she doesn’t have to be perfect and that her best is good enough?

That is evolved, people.

Last night, however, a hiccup occurred in my great plan to lead my child down the glowing path of enlightenment.

“Mommy, I’m not perfect?”

“No, honey, nobody is perfect.”

“But you told me I’m the perfect daughter.”

Damn.  I did say that a few days ago.  Think… think…

“You are the perfect daughter.  For me.  Plus, the perfect daughter can make mistakes, you know.”

Ha! I.  Am.  A.  Genius.

But, wait, I still blow it by saying…

“After all, do you think I’m perfect?”

OK.  Call me an idiot, but I really thought she was going to say “Yes, Mommy, I do.” And then I was going to get all evolved and say, “But, no, I’m not.” And then I’d proceed to point out all the MINOR mistakes I’d recently made thereby showing her how self aware her mother is.  Double letter score!

But no.  No, sadly she did not say what I thought she was going to say.

“No, Mommy, I don’t think you’re the perfect mom.”

And that’s just how she said it.  With emphasis on “you’re”.  She said it like… well, like, somewhere in her little four year old brain she knows of a perfect mom and that I am not it.

My mind races.  Who could this person be?!  What kind of permissive, irresponsible person could she possibly be talking about?!

Be real, if a four year old thinks you’re the perfect mom, you’ve got problems, right?  RIGHT? I’m over here making the tough decisions and someone else is messing it up for me by letting their kid stay up all night and call in sick to school so they can watch TV all day and THEY get to be the perfect mom?!  FOUL!! MAJOR FOUL!

I had to know.  I needed to know.  So, I sucked in a deep calming breath and asked, “OK.  Well, who do you think the perfect mom is?”

So I can put a hit out on them.

She looked right into my eyes and stated matter of factly, “Naani.”

Naani, ladies and gentlemen, is my mother.

And don’t you dare tell her about this.

In a house not so far from this one, right over that hill, a peculiar little daisy lived in a small, but tidy garden.

This peculiar little daisy, whose name was Upsy, lived in a bed of roses.

The flowers to her right and to the left and even behind her had dark, tough stalks and velvety petals.  Petals of red, pink, yellow and even some pretty oranges enveloped Upsy’s life.

These were the kind of colors that made you think of love, passion, and heartache.

Upsy, on the other hand, had a soft stem and bright white cottony petals that would bend and shiver when the wind blew too hard.  If you were to look at Upsy, you would only feel what most people feel when they look at a daisy: very happy.

And because she was a daisy, Upsy was very happy.  Mostly.

You see, since most daisies live in fields or gardens surrounded by other daisies, they are always thinking happy daisy thoughts and living happy daisy lives.  And because of this, most daisies never think the thoughts that Upsy thought.  But Upsy was special because she was a lone daisy in a bed of roses.

Sometimes, when the day waned, and the pinks, reds and oranges of the roses blended with the colors of the evening sun, Upsy would notice the white of her petals, the brightness of her face and the green of her stem.

She would wonder why she was different than all the flowers she had ever known.

She would wonder why the sky was blue and why the grass was green.

She would look at the House where The People lived and wonder what was inside.

She wondered quite a bit while the roses slept and since the roses never seemed to care about any of these things, Upsy would feel a little lonely when she wondered.  Yet wonder she did.

Still, Upsy was loved.

The roses around Upsy would whisper softly to her, We love you Upsy, you are our special daisy, we are so happy to have you here. This made Upsy feel happy and special.  In fact, she felt happier than most daisies ever feel because feeling special can make you very happy.

But many of you know that even feeling special will not make a daisy stop wondering when roses are asleep.

One day, Upsy heard a voice, “Since it’s my tea party,” a tinkling voice said, “I want to make the flower arrangement.”

Upsy was excited.  She knew this pretty dark eyed girl, she was one of The People.  If this girl took her into the House, Upsy might find out about what was inside, what made the grass green, or even why the sky was blue.

With all the might that any daisy has ever mustered, Upsy leaned forward eagerly, towards what she hoped would be answers and to what she knew was sure to be an adventure.

What are you doing, some of the roses whispered excitedly.  Don’t lean forward so much, she’ll pick you.

I want her to pick me.  I want to go, Upsy chirped.

Some of the roses were angry and thought Upsy was being silly.  Others thought that this must be some strange thing that daisies do and just watched.

Ignoring them all, Upsy leaned as much as she could.  And it worked.  The little girl’s dark eyes fell right on her.

“This one.  Only this one”  She said gently.

“Are you sure you want just the daisy,” the older woman asked, “it doesn’t really match the table setting, and I’m not sure it will fill the vase…”

“Yes, I’m sure,” her voice stated resolutely as she clasped Upsy’s stem and tugged gently.

Then, Upsy felt the most curious thing happen.

Some of the roses who were angry with Upsy for wanting to leave clawed with their thorns in an attempt to keep her with them, Why aren’t you staying, they said, why don’t you like us?

But the ones who really loved her, the ones who wanted her to be happy more than anything, pushed her some more and they whispered, We never wondered about those things because maybe they are simply the things that daisies wonder about, but go and find your answers … we trust you… we love you…

Those words made Upsy feel brave, so she pushed away from the ground as hard as she could.

Upsy quickly told the angry roses that she did like them, more than that she loved them, but she wanted to know, she needed to know why the sky was blue, why the grass was green and what exactly was inside that house.

Some of the angry roses stopped pulling and said they understood, others just gave up and a stubborn few continued to  pull.

But by that time, any pulling was simply too late, for even if Upsy had wanted to stay, she had already leaned forward towards the girl and the girl had already chosen her.

So, Upsy, clasped tightly in the hands of a pretty little dark eyed girl bounced away from her bed of roses towards new adventures and maybe even some answers.  And while she felt a little sad for the home she left behind, she knew that this felt right, too.

She felt happy and proud.

Proud because when her chance came, she had leaned forward.

Eagerly.

Friday.

I kept my head high, as I always do when I’m trying to stave off the itching feeling that I’m headed towards personal failure.  This is me.  The more ominous the feeling of failure, the higher my head.  As if looking more confident will prepare me, no, protect me from the heart crushing realization that I’ve messed up royally.

I glanced to the left of me and passed what seemed like countless classrooms.  Each one filled with happy children.  Happy to be there, well adjusted, not crying, not missing their mommies so bad that they couldn’t calm down long enough to even eat their snacks or lunch.

They had said that the crying usually stopped after the second week.  But, still, that morning when I dropped her off, she had cried.  A lot.  She had pleaded for me not to leave.  But I did.  Because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

You’re supposed to let them go, and let them cry until they figure out how to stop on their own.  They’re supposed to stop.  Even if they are the only one crying.  Even if you hear an aching loneliness in their wailing that is unlike any wail of loneliness you might have ever imagined.

On that first day of week three, I arrived home and logged into the school’s webcam with a hopeful spirit to see if she had stopped crying after I left.  Perhaps, I would see her happily coloring a picture of Strawberry Shortcake.  Perhaps she had come to accept that I would, in fact, be back, and that the place where I had left her wasn’t so bad after all.

The camera loaded and I gazed at the fuzzy pictures trying to make out where my daughter was.  I saw her, she looked happy.  She was listening intently to the guest teacher instructing the children how to count in Japanese.  My little girl seemed surprisingly content, and I let out a big sigh of relief as a smile involuntarily erupted on my face.

Triumph.

And then I noticed her feet, the shoes were red. 

My daughter wasn’t wearing red shoes when I dropped her off.

That happy, content little girl was not mine.  I looked harder and saw the teacher pass in front of the camera being closely tailed by a petite dark haired three year old who was clearly screaming her head off.

My heart sank.  That one is mine.

Her teacher had told me that almost every day for the past two weeks my baby had been following her around the classroom repeatedly saying “I want my mama” over and over again until I came to pick her up.

The teacher had also assured me that she’d had kids do this before, and I wasn’t to worry.  I noticed, though, that the teacher wasn’t looking at her right now.  She was ignoring my daughter.  Probably some well tested approach that was obviously not working on my child.  She was just walking around doing other stuff while my daughter painfully, tearfully begged for me.

My baby girl was alone.  Completely alone.  And in that moment, every moment of loneliness I had ever felt in my own life surged from my body and formed a big lump in my throat.  I put my head down on my desk and I wept.  Loudly.

After the ocean of tears became a light drizzle, I called my husband.  “I can’t take this anymore.  I’m going to get her.”

“Faiqa,” he said in a calm, reassuring tone, “turn off the webcam.  Go do something else until it’s time to pick her up.”

I wanted to scream at him, “This is all your fault, I told you she wasn’t ready, you made me put her in school, I know her best, you were all wrong…”

But, I knew that was the pain speaking and that it just wasn’t true.  The truth was that I had been hypnotized by the promise of bi-weekly Mandarin and Japanese lessons, the possibility of elementary mathematics and the potential of her reading in full sentences by the time she was four.

I hadn’t even considered that maybe all she needed was a place where she could color, be messy, and laugh.

I choked out a barely comprehensible, “OK.”  And, then, in a voice so small and so vulnerable it could have been my own daughter’s, I said, “How long are we going to do this?”

“We’re giving it until the end of the week.  If she’s still crying the whole time by Friday, we’ll pull her out. OK?”  I could hear the sympathy mixed with awe in his voice.

He’s not used to me being like that.  I don’t ask people what I should do or ask for permission to do it.

I sighed and barely croaked out an inaudible, “OK” once more.

Friday came and I happily withdrew her from school.

I hadn’t looked at that stupid webcam all that week. Still, every time I went to pick her up, her teacher smiled and said, “She did alright.”  Then, she would pretend like she was looking at some papers, picking something up or tending to another child and say, “She still cried a lot, though.”

She still cried a lot, though.

Every time I think of those words, my eyes sting with tears caused by a pain that remains fresh and very real.  My heart drops.  Even now, one year later, after seeing my daughter blossom into a more adventurous, yet still markedly reserved four year old, I weep over what in my mind lives as a colossal parenting fail.

Because God knows, that experience wasn’t her failure.  It was mine.  I should have known that she wasn’t ready.  I should have known that this wasn’t the right school for her.  I realize now that her first school was a place where what was being learned was a little more important that who was learning.  I know that now.  I also know that most kids fit into that particular school just fine, but mine didn’t.  I can’t believe to this day that I didn’t realize that right away.

I was never disappointed in my daughter.  I think I will always be disappointed in and ashamed of myself over this.

My little girl starts a new preschool today.  The orientation was this past Thursday, and afterward I slowly approached her new teacher.  I wanted to tell her about last year, and how hard of a time N. had those three weeks.

“I wanted to let you know,” I said, “that we put her in preschool last year, and it was a bad experience, the school… she didn’t fit in…”  Tears started to form in my eyes.  I began to stutter.

If you know me well, you know that I never stutter.  I am never at a loss for words.  I seldom lose it in front of people I know very well, let alone those that I barely know.  I fought those tears back as hard as I could because I could see the discomfort in the other woman’s eyes.

She looked at me and said sympathetically, “Don’t worry, we are very loving and caring here.  We’ll make sure that she’s OK.”

I whispered, “I know, I can see that… I’m just am so worried…”  I tried to regain composure, “Uh, I have these forms…”

“Oh, yes, let me see…”  I could see the new task brought relief to her face and she scurried off as quickly as is humanly possible with those forms.

Tariq walked in and his face flew into a concerned look, “What happened?  Are you crying?” he whispered in surprise.

I looked at him, pleadingly.  Don’t make me talk about this right now. Don’t make me talk about this ever again.

He understood at once and put his arm around my shoulder.  “It’s going to be fine, I think she’ll do well this time.  Insh’Allah.”

Insh’Allah. As God wills.

God, please let it be your will to make this time easier for my daughter.  And for me.

God, please let it be your will that this new teacher understands my daughter in a way that the last one did not.

God, please let it be your will that this school helps her blossom into the person I know she can be.

God, please let it be your will that everyone else sees how magnificent, funny, voracious, smart and passionate she really is when she’s just being herself and not worrying about what people think.

God, please let it be your will that the pain of my disappointment in myself over this situation fades into a hazy memory instead of remaining fresh in my mind.

And God, please let it be your will that if things go the way they did last year that I will be more forgiving of myself than the last time.

Because, God, I don’t think my heart can bear this pain in any more quantity than it’s feeling at this moment.*

*I realize, yes, that she’s only four, and that there will be many, many heartbreaks and many mistakes on my part (or hers) that will be more painful and more difficult than this time.  I also know that compared to the losses and pain that many of you may be dealing with or have dealt with, this post may seem trivial.  But, I’m living here in this moment… and this is the moment I feel and the reality that I’m living with.

So, as some of you may have heard, we had a baby boy this past Wednesday, August 12th!  And by “we” I mean “I”.  I had a baby boy while my husband did the best he could to participate.

Really, though, I feel he was the model husband and father throughout the entire process, being both present and encouraging while looking tremendously guilty all the while.  If it wasn’t confirmed before, it is now… my husband is perfect.

Thank you so much for your comments on the blog and Facebook, I am really overwhelmed by all the love.

In unrelated news, never give your password to Adam Avitable. He may look like a grown up on the outside, but he is, in fact, a twelve ten eight seven year old on the inside.  A very disturbed seven year old that should be going to the school for “bad” kids, but can’t because even they don’t want him.

And, hello, I am not a Democrat.  I’m a fiscally conservative socially conscious liberal with strong suspicions of government involvement in our personal lives and those of other nations.  So, given Tariq’s unabashed love for free market capitalism, I think we may have a libertarian on our hands.

Either way, I am officially a mother of two.  I have kids.  I can say things like, “I have to go pick up the kids.”  Or, “Be quiet, the kids are sleeping.”

Or, “Aren’t my kids beautiful?”

*If you’re viewing this post through Facebook and can’t see the image, click through to the original post.