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.

The most important part of maintaining a stable and loving relationship with one’s spouse, and when I write spouse I actually mean “husband,” is open and clear communication.  Yes, a happy marriage is highly dependent upon the quality and directness of communication. Being passive aggressive only fuels, well… aggression.

And a really great marriage is the result of open and direct communication that occurs in plain view of the entire Internet.

How To Be The Perfect Spouse

or, “How To Avoid Near Death Experiences When Your Wife Is 35 Weeks Pregnant”

****************

Lesson 1: A Job Done Is Actually Done

Vocabulary Terms:

Putting our child to bed:

A series of activities constituted of the following actions,

Helping her change her clothes.

Reminding her not to throw the clothes she just changed out of onto the floor.

Making sure she puts those clothes in a receptacle of some sort, preferably a hamper.

Giving her a glass of water or milk.

Having her drink said water or milk.

Having her wash her hands and brush her teeth after drinking milk.

Flossing her teeth after she has brushed them.

Selecting two to three books which do not exceed 6 or 7 pages in length to read before bed.

Reading said books to her.

Rubbing her back for a few minutes.

Telling her, “No, you cannot sleep with Mommy and Daddy” in a firm, yet kind voice.  And sounding like you actually and truly mean it and not like you’re some poor guy who got stuck operating the gas chambers at a concentration camp.

Turning off the light.

Waiting ten minutes for her to emerge into the family room and patiently listening to her declarations of “I’m-not-tired-I-don’t-like-my-bed-it’s-too-hot-can-I-please-just-sleep-in-Mama’s-bed-I’m-hungry-why-don’t-we-discuss-the-impact-that-the-post-colonial-condition-and-contrived-nationalism-has-had-upon-the-current-state-of-Palestinian-Israeli-U.S.-relations-before-I-go-to-bed?”

Taking her hand and walking her back to her bed and telling her it’s time to sleep.

Telling her when she wanders into our room at 3 a.m. that she cannot climb into our bed, but must sleep on the makeshift bed we have made in anticipation of this event that is at the foot of our bed.

Not waking me up while all of this is happening.

***

Summary

Putting a load of laundry into the washing machine is not “doing the laundry.”

Loading the dishwasher is not “doing the dishes.”

Helping your child change into their pajamas is not “putting her to bed.”

These activities are simply known as “loading the washing machine,” “loading the dishwasher,” and “helping our child put on her pajamas.”

If one does not wish to “do the laundry,”do the dishes,” or “put her to bed,” then one should simply state that one does not wish to do so and that one is merely willing to participate in only one of the MANY tasks associated with this one particular job.

Then, one will not have to wonder why one’s head is being bitten off when one has simply stated, “I did the laundry.”

Bonus Math Lesson:  The appreciation associated with any task pertaining to household maintenance is diminished by approximately 20% every time someone must remind their husband spouse to do it.  After the fifth time, gratefulness actually turns into rage, which increases by, again, about 20%, concurrent with the number of times asked.  Until… well, infinity.  Because rage knows no limits.

Stay tuned for future installments of please keep me from being incarcerated for the rest of my life and the messy trial that will precede that, ahem, “How to Be the Perfect Spouse”.

Obviously, I’ve made it abundantly clear that this month was “Parent/In-Law Sycophant Month” here on my blog.  As evidenced by these posts.

Is it fair to assume that we can dispense with the pleasantries, then?

Letting the familial piety gene ravage through your life unabated and unchecked promises to wreak utter devastation in the best of circumstances.

For example, say you have a child.  She’s a sweet, darling, obedient little girl who only requires a time out every six to eight weeks.  This child under the regime of grandparents will become a monster.

The kind of monster that, if you were Catholic, would require you to cross yourself and say a couple of rosaries before you dared to tell her she couldn’t have that fifth brownie for breakfast.

And why has she had five brownies for breakfast?

Because between Super Duper Guilt Inducing Saudi Grandma and Her Royal Alpha Femaleness American Grandma, your self righteous declarations of how sugar is actually bad for a three year old when consumed as if it were oxygen are completely futile.

My mother, the doctor, actually told me that brownies are good for my child because they have milk and eggs in them.

Honestly?  I think she should get her license revoked for that.

You won’t believe what happened last week.  I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there myself.

I noticed that my daughter had gone into the pantry and shut the door.  I wasn’t completely surprised by this, as she’s done this on many occasions.  Usually, I’ll find her in there rearranging the labels on the shelves and sorting the items accordingly.  Because she is perfect and wonderful.   Just.  Like.  Me.

Anyway, I assumed it was business as usual, but that little helicopter mom voice in me asked, “What if she’s scaling the pantry shelves in an ill thought out King Kong re-enactment?”  Visions of my child eating her way out of a mountain of Teddy Grahams and Oreo cookies prompted me to check on her immediately.

I opened the pantry door and looked on in horror as the three year old child before me quickly shoved handfuls of plain sugar into her mouth.  Sugar, i.e., crack rock for a three year old.

Despite my take charge aggressive nature, I stood there.  Completely frozen.

Because, first of all, what the hell?

And, second, it was seriously the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

But, no.  It was wrong.  Oh, so very wrong.

What happened next?  Was even more incredibly wrong.

She looked at me and said, “Mama, I’m busy.  Get.  Out.”

You’re busy?!

Eating sugar?!!

With your bare hands?!!!

DID SHE JUST TELL ME TO GET OUT?!!!!

I steeled myself for the ice cold water that would have to pulse through my veins in order to administer what would most likely go down in history as the mother of all time outs.

And, then.  From around the corner, she appeared.

Saudi Grandma.

“OHMYGAAAAAWWWWD-SOOOOSWEET-SHE-IS-SO-CUTE-HOW-CLEVER-MY-DARLING-MY-SWEEETHEART…”

It all happened so fast.

One minute I’m preparing to become the swift hand of justice.  And the next?  I’m the fun blasting fuzz at a fraternity kegger.

Approximately forty five million thoughts regarding accountability and consequences and blah-di-parenting-books-blah went through my head in those twenty seconds, but all that seemed to make sense was one petty little conclusion.

There is no way I’m going down as the bad guy here.

So.

I smiled really big and scooped her up in my arms and said really loud, “AWWW-THAT-IS-SOO-SWEET-YOU-ARE-A-CLEVER-LITTLE-ONE!!” I hugged my cute, clever, sweetheart really tight and walked slowly past Saudi Grandma who beamed at my daughter as I walked past.

I looked into my daughter’s eyes, then put my cheek next to her sweet little face.  And then, I lowered my voice to the point where only my daughter and dogs could hear it and whispered through clenched teeth, “And if I ever catch you doing that again, you are going to be get a super bad time out.”

Apparently, passive aggressive parenting is totally the Super Duper Grandma kryptonite.

More importantly, does anyone know what the nuance that distinguishes a regular time out from a “super bad” one is going to be?

I sure don’t.

In the early months of N.’s life, Tariq was in charge of helping her go to sleep.

Most evenings he would carry her around in the baby sling that we had for her.

It was really sweet to watch him help her wind down.

“What’s this?” he would ask as her big eyes peered out of the sling. “It’s a floower,” he’d tell her very seriously.

“What’s this? Booook.”

“What’s this? A window.”

Nobody that had ever witnessed this part of the routine was surprised when, at nine months, N. uttered “What’s this?”

From the very start, Tariq knew that being a daddy was important.

From the very start, he was really, really good at it.

And, of course, I respected, loved and admired my husband from the first day I saw him. But, still I never would have guessed the how much of an amazing father he would become.

I hear that there are dads that come home and sit on the couch as soon as they get home from work.

As far as they’re concerned, being a dad means bringing home money, patting their children on the head every now and then and mumbling something about doing a good job. They yell directions from their armchairs and expect their kids to behave.

They blame everyone else when their children don’t really care to spend time with them when they get older.  They don’t understand that a respectful and loving relationship, even with children… especially with children is directly proportional to the amount of time you spend with someone and how important you make them feel.

To this kind of dad, Sunday’s game offers more to look forward to than their child climbing up on their lap for an evening story.

And that’s alright, I guess.  But, Tariq?  Is definitely not that kind of father.

Being a father is not a job to him. Also, though I’m sure he sees it as such, he never acts like it’s a responsibility, either.

His every action suggests that being a father is his privilege.

She’s a gift to him.  Anyone that sees the look in his eyes when he gazes at his daughter can attest to that.

N. is so incredibly blessed to be his daughter. To know that her father wants to spend time with her. That he loves her. That she is not a mouth to feed for him, but a reason to come home.  Too many children grow up thinking that their someone’s job.

I also love that right now she takes the fact that daddy loves spending time with her for granted.  Yet, I hope that one day she realizes that not everyone’s daddy makes the kind of effort that hers does.  I also hope that she will think of him and it will make her feel as though she is worthy of being treated with such love, such respect and such honor.

My prayer for my daughter is that she always acknowledges the blessing of her father’s love. And that she always remembers that he didn’t have to be as good at being her dad as he is.

I hope that in her adulthood she will never settle for anyone less honorable, full of life, loving and decent than her father.

He is a man of quality, a devoted husband and a father like few have had.

Happy Father’s Day.