Arabian Ranches Market Day and Being MOM.

I think one of the best things about being Mom is the love that I am constantly surrounded with. Theres a never ending supply of hugs and affection from every quarter in my home. I feel so blessed that I have sons who are always so happy to please me. If a woman wants to feel like a queen, she just has to have sons like I do. I know I havent been the best of Moms. I, like most mums, have a truck load of shortcomings, and probably becoz my boys have not seen any better, they feel, I am the Best !

I know I am hard on them.

I know I push them with their studies.

I know I dont put as much time with them as I would want to, in playing games or in any creative activity.

 I know the supper is not always on time, and sometimes, Manu, is only too happy to have his banana and chocolate milk to sleep off ..

I know I have little control on the scale of my vocal cords.

I know I am mean sometimes, I know I am weak sometimes, I know I havent tried enough sometimes, and I know I have tried too hard sometimes but being Mom, so many things get accepted by these young boys who know no better that I am merely a mother trying to fix too many problems, multitasking all the time and frustrated most of the time..

Last friday, we participated in the first fair since samie’s surgery, 6 months back. The amount of hardwork and teamwork I got from my below 10 year olds would put any management team to shame.  Piling up the materials, walking past the field with heavy boxes in arm, helping mom lay out the display stalls, hear her mouthfull of panicky screams and shouts, and then actually manage a table all by themselves…. where do you get such children mashallah !!

They are truly amazing. Allah swt must really love me for such a super fantastic gift.

I have posted this slide just to give you a glimpse of what effort went into making that fair such a roaring sucess for me. You’ll find Sawaab and Manu actually selling things and I was most surprised when one customer queried why the hand made card was alittle higher and Bilal, said quite naturally, ” coz my mother puts in alot of her time and creativity to make sure no two cards are the same.”  Shucks ~!~ I WAS BLOWN !!!  The boys were oozing of enthusiasm and confidence. They have coz they have been participating with me for the past 3-4 years and have been watching me since …

Please enjoy watching my family making the most of the Arabian Ranches Market day !

http://naush.slide.com/

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The Special Mother

by Erma Bombeck

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice,

a few by social pressure and a couple by habit.


This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how these mothers are chosen? Somehow I visualize God hovering over Earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation.


As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger.


“Forrest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia.”


“Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint…give her Gerard. He’s used to profanity.”


Finally he passes a name to an angel and smiles.


“Give her a handicapped child.”


The angel is curious. “Why this one, God? She’s so happy.”


“Exactly,” smiles God.


“But does she have the patience?” asks the angel.


“I don’t want her to have too much patience, or she’ll drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off she’ll handle it.”


“I watched her today. She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I’m going to give her has a world of it’s own. She has to make it live in her world, and that’s not going to be easy.”


“But Lord, I don’t think she even believes in you.”


The angel gasps, “Selfishness? Is that a virtue?”

She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life
because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side.”

“Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint, Matthew.”

“Could I give a handicapped child a mother who knows no laughter? That would be cruel.”

God smiles.

“No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness.”

God nods.

“If she can’t separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a spoken word.
She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says momma for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see–ignorance, cruelty, prejudice–and allow her to rise above them.

“And what about her Patron Saint?” asks the angel, his pen poised in the air.

God smiles.

“A mirror will suffice.”

An incredible pregnancy & birth story-part-1

march 2002

I think the  toughtest trial that I had in our marriage was when I was carrying Eman five months.  I was diagnosed with a complication termed Placenta Previa.  Its the worst situation a pregnant mother can be in.  I had Bilal who was just 3yrs old,  Sawaab was barely 5-6 months old and already I had been admitted twice to the hospital due to excessive bleeding.

Bilal attended Nursery school in Mankool and we managed to keep Sawaab at Matilda’s house at Gold souk for the day. She obligded because she knew we had a difficult condition at our hands but … I was restless,  in agony. My precious little baby of 5 months was left at the mercy of someone we barely knew but surely trusted,  strange how that sounds !!

I remember while I was in the hospital, I worried and worried about Sawaab and Bilal endlessly. I was prescribed complete bed rest and occasionally when I’d stroll past the ward and briefly meet the other patients.  It would be a ritual to ask the new comer why they were there and what was wrong.  I met a pakistani female who had very high blood sugar and had lost a previous baby who was a still birth. These are times that we realize that the world is also full of couples who cant conceive inspite of their best efforts and treatment. This girl religiously followed her diet and probably had a sugar count more accurately monitored by herself than the nurses.

 Compared to her, I was a wreck. I’ve always been a junk food freak and never really concerned too much with my appearance or what that food did when processed inside me. Her heart fell off when I told her my medical condition and she quized why I was so bothered about the children at home and not at all worried about the life inside me. I remember telling her very promptly that the children outside were my responsibiity becos Allah swt had already got them in this world thru me, but the one inside was Allah swt’s problem.  If “HE’ willed, my feotus would survive and if it was in my best interest, he would’nt. My faith amazed her. At that point, it wasn’t really my faith, thinking back, I feel it was simply a maternal instinct  to be with her young ones.

 That time, was a time, I also understood, where my relatives and friends stood and what their limitations were. It took me many years to forgive them and perhaps one day, I might even forget it. But for now, it is still fresh.

Sam used to visit me briefly becoz he used to keep both my little precious darlings waiting ‘alone’ at the entrance of the hospital with only the security guard who would casually look after them.  He had made it very clear that babysitting was not his responsiblitiy which I completely agree with.

I urged the doctors to release me but they were very adamant that it would be a suicidal mission to let me go. I persisted but in vain.  The doctors know best and they knew that in my condition, resting was the best precaution. the damage was already done and all they could do was to keep me going till the baby was ready to come…. but I did’nt realize that … or perhaps I was in denial.  The idea was to keep me in the hospital till the baby arrived …. for 3 onths in the hospital !!!!! I missed the boys so much. I felt quilty. I felt anguish. I felt some how I was being punished. And most of all I felt helpless. I was caged and all those whom I cared for the most were suffering becoz of me. 

Finally the last straw, on the 5th day, early morning, sam arrived in the morning and as much as he did’nt want to tell me, he said that Sawaab was very sick .. I must have been sitting on hot lava. I protested with the doctors that I needed release.  The senior consultant came for round in the afternoon and when I told him my end of the story, although he was compassionate, and tried his best to convince me, then persuade me to stay back, finally he gave in but not before knocking some fear and sense in my head. He told me with a stern face in a voice I’ll never forget

” If we let you go now, the next time ONLY your body will be coming back to us”

I remember feeling some amount of realization for the first time. He was serious ~ My condition was serious although I walked and talked and felt absolutely no pain.  My uterus was a time bomb. I had a previous scar  in my uterus and my placenta was edging it.  Only when we have fever, we seek medication. If we have a headache or some body part ache, a paracetemol, tylenol or panadol is all we look out for.  When we hear ‘Cancer’ we are terrified and seek urgent attention. My doctor had tried to convince me that I was making a mistake but I was a determined mother who had immense faith in Allah. No physician came before that faith, but the physician came after the faith.

I was asked to sign a form which stated clearly that my situation was explained and clarified and in the event that if anything should happen to me, the health officials would not be held responsible. Little did I know …. I was signing my suicide note……

If I had my child to raise over again

If I had my child to raise over again
I’d build self-esteem first, and the house later.


I’d finger paint more and point fingers less.
I would do less correcting and more connecting.

I’d take my eyes off my watch,
and watch with my eyes.

I would care to know less and know to care more
I’d take more hikes and fly more kites.

I’d stop playing serious, and seriously play.
I would run through more fields
and gaze at more stars.

I’d do more hugging and less tugging.
I’d see the oak tree in the acorn more often.

I would be firm less often
and affirm much more.

I’d model less about the love of power,
And more about the power of love.

For Every Mother

F O R     E V E R Y     M O T H E R 

This is for all the mothers who didn’t win Mother of the Year last year.

All the runners-up and all the wannabes. The mothers too tired to enter or too busy to care.

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, “Did you see my goal?” they could say, “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, saying, “It’s OK honey, Mommy’s here.”

This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the night and can’t find their children.  (And the mothers in Iraq whose children died in bombings).

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And the for mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

For all the mothers of the victims of the Colorado shooting, and the mothers of the murderers. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just arrived safely home from school.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who don’t.

What makes a good mother? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?  Or is it heart?  Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying? 

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t.

This is for reading “Goodnight, Moon” twice a night for a year. And then reading it again, “just one more time.”

This is for all the mothers who aren’t perfect. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2-year-old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

For all the mothers who bite their lips- sometimes until they bleed- when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green.

This is for all the mothers who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won’t stop.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears- and tears- on their children’s graves.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they’d be just FINE once they got there,  only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up.  Right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation.  And mature mothers learning to let go.  For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all. So hang in there. The world would be a terrible place without the love of mothers everywhere.  You make it a more civil, caring and safe place for the precious children in our world.