I'm still here

I know I've been very quiet. But I'm still here. Somewhere.
I didn't lose my inner voice. It's been there yapping about everything for the past six months.
I just never got the words to go through my fingers into the keyboard and onto this blog.

I have so much to declare and say and comment on. But the rush of thoughts and ideas in my
head make for a very noisy home for any kind of sane thought.

It's been the unspoken silence, filled with things you're not allowed to say out loud.
I was told that I've been missed, and I certainly missed me to.

Will try to find her now. I just need to rifle through life's mess, and find a clean square of carpet where I can sit and say something that will help another person, rifle through their own clutter, if only for a few minutes.

Much love and hope to everyone out there. I know I need it.

Silly Rabbit, Mini Burgers are for kids

Dear Fuddruckers Management,

I tried to order the mini burgers today which are quite delicious and just the right size portion so I don’t get a tummy ache. However there is a “rule” that states that I cannot order it, because its only for kids.

Now I’m not sure what to say to this because I always felt that I was a kid at heart. I’m also told by many people that I look younger than my years.

So the waiter (who was very polite—and a little bit apprehensive) had to call the MANAGER. It was as if I had ordered a bottle of Whiskey..and didn’t have ID…in Saudi Arabia.

The manager politely told me that “ as per the procedures..” the mini burger was only for kids and that I can have a value meal instead, which was the same size as two mini burgers combined but in one bun. But that –other than being a ridiculous suggestion- is like offering someone a whole potato and telling them it’s the same as sticking all the French fries together.

Uh, I don’t think so.

It would be very progressive and modern of you to bin this archaic rule which infringes on personal freedoms. Also most of the population is really fat and you should encourage smaller portions and healthy choices.

I thank you for your time and hopefully next time I come here I can order my mini burgers without calling in high officials, managers, and presenting a photo ID.

Kind regards,

Farah Mohd Mattar

(20 minutes after I finished eating my mini burger, which I was told I would get for the LAST time, a group of girls walked in and sat on the other side of the restaurant. When I over heard their conversation with the waiter and he began to explain that the value meal was the same size as two mini burgers and that it was against the system, I almost died laughing. They too signed the petition to FREE THE MINI BURGERS.)

Stupidity and Indifference

I am utterly disgusted by the headline on page 3 of the GDN March 4th 2009 “rape harmless fun” says lawyer. First of all, I have to know, is this what she meant, or has this been taken out of context?

Because it is extremely upsetting to show this kind of attitude and lack of respect for women and basic human rights. It is disgusting that she got a headline, saying that the horror that one woman went through was the “harmless fun” of 3 adult men! It is shocking that this is coming from a woman.

I don’t think that the GDN should be writing things like a mindless tattle tale and simply repeating stupidity. I think that as a newspaper you are responsible for the influence and current trends in attitude towards certain issues. The article should be about the HUGE problem we have of not putting the right crime with the right punishment. We should be questioning the level of education this lawyer has. We should be questioning how recent bans on website, infringe on personal freedoms and do nothing for an expat woman with no one to stand with her in a case like this.

Rape is not an issue to be taken lightly, it is a serious violation of another human being’s rights. It is an act of inflicting power on another and not sexual as is commonly misinterpreted by people in general. Rapists are people who get a thrill out of over powering and being in control. These individuals even at the young age of 19,20 and 21 years of age are dangers to society, their neighborhoods and the very families that they will go on to create. When they commit a crime against one person, it should feel to society that the crime is against everyone.

When we read things like these in the paper, there should be some kind of call for the country's population to support tougher laws and not put up with bull shit excuses by uneducated pathetic members of society who give Bahrain a poor reputation. How do you think it looks when an international press agency picks up a headline like this on the internet?

What does that do for Bahrain? Or for it’s people? Nothing. Lately the GDN is more like the Khaleeji TV series they put in Ramadhan. They claim to show us the truths of society, but in fact all they do is perpetuate the practice of disgusting behavior by magnifying a small percentage and blowing it up for everyone to learn from.

That is not responsible journalism..

Berries on the Brain

With work threatening to take over my life and my entire being, I decided to seize the bull by the horns, and help myself. After several years of looking at the blackberry with disdain and contempt, and swearing I would never want one, I suddenly had a thought, one day while lugging my lap top for the 5^th time that week, that perhaps the “toot” was going to be my savior.

I wasn’t offered one by the office, in fact, they weren’t too happy with the request that we need it. And perhaps that reverse psychology was part of the reason that my stubborn head finally began to look at the curious fruit named gadget as the answer.

Impatient as I am, the day I decided to welcome the Blackberry into my embrace, was the day I wanted it active. I trotted feverishly over to Batelco, only to be told that their very last Bold (which rumour has it is prone to jamming) was reserved for someone very important, and that they were in a hunt all over Bahrain to find a second one, for someone else equally important.

I should know better than to listen to Batelco. In about 2 minutes flat, I spoke to Sharaf DG the new Mecca for electronics, to find that not only did they have ample stock of the Blackberry Curve that I wanted, but it was also at the best price in town. And they were friendly, polite and promised to hide one for me. Which is more than I can say for Geant, who will transfer you to the fish counter, to answer your question about a printer.

I got there in about 30 minutes-I don’t know where Batelco was looking, but it was a blackberry fest up in there - picked up my new technology, paid for it without wincing, and frolicked back home, like I had just won a prize at the fair.

Of course I didn’t get my wish of having it hooked up and ready to go, as there was additional procedures to go through with Batelco and the IT at the office, so for the last time I went home looking like a bag lady carrying my lap top.

The reason I wanted a blackberry is because I wanted to spend more time with Ali. I can’t, in the middle of hugging him, feeding him, or playing monster with him, drop it all, go to my lap top, open it and try to log onto my email clicking pathetically for 20 minutes until it hooks up to WIFI. Because then once that’s open, I’ve forgotten that I have a son, or he has fallen asleep again, and I’m left WORKING. Again. From home. Because now I’m in there, and I might as well just check all the emails and reply to them all before I forget, and the next thing you know, I’m an android.

So for the past 2 weeks, the BB, has become a part of my anatomy. I became an expert in about a day and a half and I have become lighter and more mobile, without all the extra baggage. What I hadn’t realized as of this morning, is that I have been working non-stop for the past few weeks and the baggage was now mental and not physical. The Blackberry has become almost like an evil Nazi trainer, whipping me ruthlessly into 20 reps of emails in every free moment that I might have. My brain has literally only stopped to rest at night, when I sleep. The speed at which I began to connect things, and then action them and coordinate a gazillion things through SMS and phone calls at once was beginning to impress my superiors. It was the delicate balance of exhaustion and momentum that kept me going. I had broken new frontiers, raised the bar, and shot out of my comfort zone.

Basically, I had screwed myself.

I realized that this morning, when I woke to find that BB had run out of battery during the night and died. And I was forced to put it in the charger which is all the way in another room, as I had run out of outlets in my bedroom.

I had forgotten the peace and bliss of ignorance while sipping my morning coffee; the quiet before the daily storm and the chance to think about things OTHER than work.

Yesterday, I tried to balance being a blackberry superstar and a home-alone mom. I was with Ali and no one else was home. Everyone had somewhere fancier to be. I was exhausted…but he WASN’T. At some point he tried to eat my Blackberry, so I distracted him with my phone. Oh yes, my stupid strategy at simplifying life, means now I’m responsible for charging, and maintaining TWO gadgets. Anyway, by 8pm, I was so tired, that I didn’t even argue with him as he practically sat on my head, drooling onto my nose and waving one or both of my technology about. “Oh..do whatever you want…” I thought.

I fell asleep twice while trying to put him to sleep, as he lay peacefully in my arms chewing my hair and staring at my chin. I wasn’t learning the graceful art of motherhood with a career very well yet. I kept getting distracted by the ominous vibrations coming from the black leather case. Each one was a warning of endless tasks to pour my way tomorrow morning.

Ali slept in the end, but only after I had burned 1074 calories. I picked up my stuff and tiptoed out of his room. Mission accomplished. I unlocked my BB to see what else was new, and saw one line of battery left.

HAHAA! You can’t out do me bitch! I have TWO lines left in me! I plugged it into the charger, and left it there in the naughty corner. I decided to enjoy the rest of my evening and night at the other end of the house, far away from the frequent buzzing, or the annoying reminder that work was now ALWAYS at my finger tips.

Buh Bye BERRY BOY. See you during working hours…

Future Headlines that we could do without!

NOTE: THIS IS FICTION. THIS DID NOT HAPPEN AND NEVER WILL HOPEFULLY TO THE LOVELY BAHRAIN. xxx

Ban on day of love

A session in parliament, meaning to discuss important and pivotal issues like approving the national budget, was disrupted when one of the MP's received a fresh bouquet of roses with big balloons asking the bearded heart throb to be someone's valentine, right in the middle of the session.

Although the bouquet was extravagant and quite difficult to ignore, the MP was also showered with pink glitter by the messenger and thus proceeded to blush profusely, causing heads to turn and suppressed giggles to erupt among the onlookers.

The chairman of parliament settled the room and asked everyone to get back to the matter at hand, however it was too late, as members began to request time to speak, clearly to discuss this new development.

The head of the crap-and-other-useless-rules committee stood up and addressed the session.

"I think that we have to ban this unislamic practice of valentine's day. It is a day when misguided teenagers are sending flowers to each other and expressing their love to one another which is not only against our culture and traditions, but also morally corrupt." He said.

"We have received many complaints from individuals that their neighborhoods were turning into rose infested slums. The sound of love songs and secret amorous messages was causing them to have uncomfortable feelings."

It was proposed that all valentine's day memorabilia be banned and that any florist caught selling red roses, eating red roses, or simply possessing them would face a minimum of 3 months jail time.

Members unanimously voted in favor of this new ban, except for the culprit, who hid under his table in shame at having received such a scandalous display of what is clearly misguided affection.

xoxo

Whisker is missing

Hi everyone, I just want to put this on here in the hopes that someone will find Whisker. She went missing from our house or Garden in Jasra yesterday Dec 21 and without a trace. We think she might have been picked up by someone who found her wandering in the compound.

If anyone sees her, please keep her with you and contact us immediately.

I"m hoping she'll come back to us. We are so so sad.

Thanks Everyone.

ANGRY POST OF THE DAY!

Today in the GDN.

Well yesterday actually, but I was so shocked that by the time I was conscious again to write about it the news became yesterday's. I've bolded the words that amused me. Let's see what the experts are proposing now:

Male doctors face clamp (oh please..they face nothing! That implies that this kind of garbage can actually hold ground and become legislation. Bullshit.)
MALE doctors could soon be banned from working in all maternity wards in Bahrain, if parliament has its way. MPs said at their weekly session yesterday many women were complaining that they were forced to reveal their "sensitive parts" to male doctors, which they say was making them feel uncomfortable. MY WHOLE PREGNANCY WAS UNCOMFORTABLE, A MALE DOCTOR WOULDN'T HAVE ADDED MUCH TO THAT DISCOMFORT!!!!

Parliament unanimously (that means all the dumb asses) voted in favour of the proposal, despite assurances by Health Ministry officials that they were already taking the issue into consideration.

Health Ministry assistant under-secretary for hospital affairs Dr Abdulhai Al Awadhi (someone who is probably qualified) said that the ministry was already giving patients the choice between male and female consultants and doctors.
"The patient has the right to choose and we don't force any doctor or consultant on any patient," he said.
"The number of male doctors and consultants is decreasing and out of 11 consultants, only four are males, while more than 90pc of our (maternity) doctors are females. (Are they being bullied out of the profession?)

"We have recently asked six male doctors to carry out maternity services, because many female staff members are taking the two-hour breastfeeding time-off from 9am to 11am, which is our peak time." (okay this guys' just looking for a platform to complain about the women, boo hoo he doesn't get to breast feed. WELL THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS. IT SURE AINT FUN!!!)

Dr Al Awadhi said that most consultants and doctors in Saudi Arabia and Iran were males. "There is no such obligation in those countries," he said. (I can't believe these are now our benchmarks for progress and freedom)

MP Sayed Maki Al Wedaie (someone who is obviously NOT qualified) said that Islam bans males and females touching "sensitive body parts" of members of the same sex or other sex, unless it is an emergency. (or for fun!)

Mr Al Wedaie, who is parliament's foreign affairs, defence and national security committee vice-chairman, said that maternity was not an emergency OH REALLY? BIAAATCH!!! and considered as a normal case. (YOU TELL ME HOW YOU WOULD FEEL IF A HUMAN BEING TRIED TO CRAWL OUT OF YOU WITHOUT an EXPERIENCED man, woman or alien THERE TO PULL IT OUT! A NORMAL CASE IS WHAT I SHOULD USE TO SMACK YOUR HEAD ABOUT WITH)

I guess in his expertise, unless it was a troop of soldiers marching out of the woman, he really couldn't feel the urgency of the situation. By the way, when you're in labour you will let anyone and their mother look at whatever they want to look at, as long as they promise to get that baby out and stop the hellish contractions from trying to kill you. That, my friend, would be considered an emergency in any woman's book! So go play RISK and leave the real thinking to people with brains..and, uteruses...uterii... uterees-(oh forget it) ...ovaries.

"Instead of taking time off from 9am to 11am, those female doctors and consultants should take other timings, when operations are not at their peak." (Oh..There you go. Expert defense and national security man has solved it. And I thought it was going to be more complicated.)

Is it even constitutional to stop the livelihood of qualified licensed doctors in high demand, because of their gender, just because someone's wife didn't want the naughty doctor man to see her hoo-haa????

Go to a woman doctor. It really isn't that difficult. and GDN, please stop putting headlines of garbage, as if they bear any danger on our personal freedoms... THANK YOU.

Yearning to blog

I miss my blog. I miss my blog so much that even though I don't have a second to scratch my head from all the work that is being thrown at me, I snuck here for a quickie post.

I am currently imprisoned in my cubicle, typing random different things feverishly as I try to

go down my endless (and very fertile) To-Do list. Meanwhile, my mother is sending me MMS's of "the delicious one" doing a variety of CUTE things. My heart...oh my heart...it beateth for him. I post his charm, so you know how I suffer.

It is such a long bloody daaaaay!

The End.

ps. I wrote the first paragraph at 11:12 am. The second one at 3:07pm. And the last one at 4:50pm.

Cruel and Unusual punishment

…As he slowly strolled on the left side of the clear blue stream which cascaded down the side of the undulating hills of greenery, twisting and turning with the schools of fish on this hot summer day, the insects and birds covered the green shady trees of the orchard and their twittering filled the warm air and breeze. And the road swerved up ahead into the distance flowing with cars, and the madry shino pooed and the monstrous baboon fleed...bleeuh ble-bleeuh ble-bleeeeeeeeeeuh…

Oh. My. God.

If you started to doze off reading the above, I don’t blame you. I almost passed out writing it.

When I start reading a novel, I want to know the story. Its like spoiling a good piece of saucy gossip about the weird neighbors. You could squash the thrill in an instant by dwelling on the time of day, the fabric's textures on their furniture and what their barnyard animals were doing at the time. I don’t want a bloody listing of every boring detail in the background or the scenery. I don’t want a complicated and irrelevant history lesson on the house of the town’s mayor’s ex-boyfriend…(actually that might be fascinating) just because he happened to pass by it. Really, if someone is smart enough to write a book and get it published, they should have the insight to realize that WE (the readers) just want the damn story. If you want to describe the setting to death, put it in the script, when you make it into a low budget TV movie and save us all the misery.

I just want to know where the dude is going and I wish he would hurry the hell up getting there, because the strolling and the stupid insects are getting on my nerves. I am tempted to shout at the book and put it in the naughty corner until it gives me something scandalous to hang on to and motivate me to keep reading further.

I’ve started reading this story, which when summarized sounds very interesting, but having page after page of descriptions is making my hair frizz. I mean his wife had several clandestine affairs, and it surprises me that no one –COUGHauthorCOUGH- thought to follow her around and give us a detailed account of her illicit relationships. And honestly I don’t judge her for her infidelity. I mean the guy keeps strolling next to streams and trees, all silent and uninteresting. I’ve been reading about him for only a day and now I want to have an affair!

Why would I care that the fluffy bird in the tall Oak tree is pecking at the aged and crooked branch. WHY? Unless of course, the bird played a pivotal role in the plot.

For example, let’s say that the bird has OCD and had been compulsively pecking for hours, hard enough that the branch happened to break and fall with great timing onto the unfortunate head of the main character causing him instant amnesia and making him forget who he was. He would later meet a kind and beautiful nurse at the hospital and eventually make her his wife until one day when she tells him that she once survived a brutal attack and kidnapping gone wrong by what the police told her was a very dangerous serial killer who never lost a victim, and that they had been trying to track for years…which rings a bell..and the guy starts to remember…it was HIM. He was the serial killer…

If this was the bird’s role in the story, then by all means keep going with the inane descriptions of tweety’s soft feathers, curved orange beak and his elegant yet birdish posture. After all, he is my hero, for he has made this story a zillion times more exciting than the stupid stream has ever contributed. I mean, it just sits there and looks all watery. Puh.

Even I can do that.

So now I’m reading this novel out of spite. I will finish you damn it, just so I can casually say “Oh, I read that…”. Even if every painful page of overly descriptive prose tries to kill me, I will persevere and wake up from each mini coma, to find out where the guy is going, and if he’s actually got a personality hidden in there somewhere.

I miss Harry Potter.

Damn Schmeft Crappo

I hate Grand Theft Auto IV with all my heart and all the boobs who gave it a five star rating on Amazon’s Customer Rating. Somewhere below that there should be another Review section for the neglected spouses, girlfriends, and life partners of the cheese brained addicts of this dumb game. In this section we would vent our frustrations and feelings and surely this would save many men from a lot of angry shouting.

I need my husband’s attention. I admit. I need reassurance now more than ever that I’m still the cool “girlfriend” he wants to hang out with, not the “mommy” who cooks and cleans and raises the babies.

Okay. I know I don’t cook. Nor do I clean. But that’s beside the point because in a way I’m the Executive Director of the cooking and cleaning.

The week after we became a family with a baby and all, my husband bought this innocent looking PlayStation game and came home. Had I known that there was going to be a serious decline in social interaction in our house, I would’ve grabbed that evil disc from his hand and repeatedly jumped on it stamping it into a million pieces like they do in the cartoons. But I was a little busy, peeking into a diaper, wondering what else is new.

I walked into “his” room the other day only to find someone in a semi-conscious wakeful coma, with a joystick above his head and eyes glued to a screen upon which there was shooting and chasing of some very innocent looking bystanders.

“What are you doing?”
“Huh?” He mumbled back.
“Shitsawy?”

Sometimes I repeat the same thing in Arabic, as if it was a language barrier that disabled him from answering…not the fact that his brain had melted and all he could see was pixels.

I left him alone to go watch my new favorite thing on TV “Noor”. (Don’t dis it, just watch it and you’ll be a fan.) And when I came back, do you know what was on the screen? Can you guess? Well, I’ll tell you! On that screen, taking his time, which I am more worthy of, were some very morally questionable looking women and a game of snooker in a very grimy looking bar. He was playing with his PlayStation friends, while a perfectly healthy-yet furious human being was living and breathing in the same house, yearning for adult human contact.

“NAYEF! Min thailain???” I think I stamped my foot as I said this.

“Huh? Shfeech 7abeebty?”

“Shfeeeeeeny? Shfeeeeeeeeeeeeny??? It’s been a month and this game still hasn’t finished? And why are you in a strip club??”

“I have to go meet someone and pick up a car..” He said this with his concentration still fully on the damn screen.

Accompanying him on his mission, was some bitch girl who is supposedly his girlfriend and they actually go out on dates and then he ditches her to meet Brucie or Shmucie or whatever his stupid name is. Then Brucie sends him to steal a car from a garage down the street.

Now you have to see this from the point of view of a woman still in the post-partum period. For those who don’t know what that means, it’s the 6 weeks after birth, where we’re still psycho from the hormones but have no legitimate excuse because we can’t say “ But I’m pregnant” anymore. We are now simply reduced to fat women with temper problems, so in a way I can’t really compete with his e-hooker, who is wearing a few sizes smaller than I can fit into right now, and also doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

When I realized that I was wearing a tent-size jalabiya with birds printed on it and was covered with a few ounces of baby vomit, I knew that I couldn’t have this conversation with him and get any proper attention, so I smiled on the outside and told him I’d see him later. At least my hair was brushed. And that’s an accomplishment these days. I deserve a medal for walking away and not actually thumping the PlayStation violently.

I took a break from writing this entry, and walked towards the sound of sirens and speeding cars down the hallway to the “sickroom” which I now call it. I peeked in just as he was switching it off and pretending to watch TV. He realized that his imbalanced wife, wasn’t very fond of his new game. We’ve had a history of dissent, when it comes to one-player video games. The last happy memories I’ve had was with Mario Kart on the GameCube, when everyone could play and group interaction was key to the fun of racing curious little creatures against one another.

Now the only curious little creature in the house is Ali. At least he gives me his full undivided attention, especially when I’m holding a freshly warmed bottle of milk. And then to reward me for his nutrition he'll usually share some of it with me by throwing it back up on my bird print jalabiya.

I will be patient and wait for the game to self-destruct from overuse.

Maybe if I use a hairdryer.…

Oh Shit! I’ve just been caught. He knows I’m writing about him and he’s threatening to start his own blog. Now he’s eating an apple and shouting at me! Now he’s yelling at me as I type what he’s doing..hahahahahah

Oh dear, he’s stormed off. Bye, I have to go make nice.

Arrested for bad behaviour

Last week, when I innocently walked into the hospital at 11am for my weekly doctor’s appointment, I didn’t know that I would still be there two days later. I was withheld for further questioning when my doctor found that my naughty blood pressure was not favorable. Hmm… apparently 150/97 is ample cause for alarm. So placed under hospital arrest, I was. Banned from work, banned from TV and banned from being awake, I was to be put to sleep immediately and I didn’t need to go home to pack a few things. The idea was unsettling, as I made my calls to my husband and quick sms’s to friends, family and co workers, warning them of my temporary disappearance from mid-morning.

The injection they gave me to help me relax was painful, but the cloud-floating slumber that ensued was amazing. I forgave the injection for it’s savage ways and drifted into a state of bliss and unconsciousness, where life was beautiful and there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

Looking back now, I’m wondering whether my high blood pressure was caused by things in my life, or simply an odd anomaly of pregnancy. I mean I do often go on a fervent cursing rampage while driving through the jungle-y roads of Bahrain. And I have been known to shout at newspapers and then draw evil moustaches and horns on certain pictures of imbeciles who say stupid things like, “this flies in the face of our culture”. The only thing that’s going to fly in your face is my shoe. Go back to your box and don’t come out till next year, when I will beat you with my shoe, again.

I don’t know where I get this quick-to-anger trait. Maybe it’s my Iraqi blood, although my grandmother didn’t get angry at stupid things. Anyhow, if my BP is not whipped into shape through medication and bed rest, Ali is to be evicted from his current home, faster than he can say: “let’s kick that rib again to see what kind of noise it makes..”

Oh shit. Can we keep him in, just a couple weeks more? I need to kind of do some baby clothes laundry and get some furniture delivered and maybe read a couple hundred pages about this project of motherhood….I’M NOT FLIPPING READY YET!

By Day two in the maternity ward, I was the only bored person, as everyone else there was either giving birth or getting to know their new baby. I may have been the only one with their child actually on the inside. The constant lying down, was part of the reason that Ali decided to move into my lungs and was suffocating me, so I was advised to go for a walk so he could descend back down where he belongs at this point. I feel like a lava lamp sometimes. Hmm…what can one do at 10pm in a hospital? I wish there were shops or a salon, or a 24 hours store, so I could buy magazines or get a manicure. The only place I could actually walk to at this point was the nursery.

There were two babies there; a cute and cuddly pink one positioned by the window, sleeping happily and the other one, to my surprise placed like a rotisserie chicken under foil and blue lights.

“What’s wrong with him? He’s so small…” I gasped to my friend, horrified.

“I can’t see his face. Are they cooking him?” She replied just as clueless.

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to put my baby in foil, it looks mean.”

We later found out that he has jaundice, he’s a normal full-term baby, and no one was trying to cook him.

Oh God I think I’m going to vomit. Inside edition just aired a segment about a woman who got scalped, because her long hair got caught in a go-kart engine. Azoo3 or what???? I’m now doing Lamaze breathing, so I don’t go into labour from sheer grossed outness. Beeeeeeu3.

This entry was written in the hospital ward at 4am when I was supposed to be asleep..Naughty Nocturnal Farah…I hope I'm not arrested tomorrow.

Le Inspecteur and ze apples

While all scientific evidence may point to the contrary, I am quite convinced that at 34 weeks, monsieur bebe, has gotten bored and figured out a way to sneak out the back door of the amniotic sac and is scouting out my internal organs as we speak.

I often feel like my insides are being examined by some kind of antiques dealer who is picking up my organs, turning them over, sometimes flicking them or squeezing them to check for quality and resilience.

“Excuse me, would you put that down?!!!”

“What?!” Nayef says startled, dropping his hairbrush. “It’s mine.”

“Not you,” I say angrily staring at my belly. “It’s him. He’s massaging my liver again.”

“Leave him alone. Let him do what he wants. He’s just a baby.”

Yeah, that’s what you all think. This one’s going to come out with a tool belt around his waist and a miners helmet, with that light thingy, pointed at the doctor and then he’s going to give her a full detailed report about the state of my insides. He hasn’t sat still since week 22. Who does he take after? I know I appreciate quiet time and rarely move unnecessarily.

According to my weekly email updates, he’s a little over 4 pounds or the size and weight of a pineapple…. Mmmm pineapple, what I would do for a big juicy slice… It seems that every time someone mentions the name of a food, I embark on a music filled fantasy of how I am going to consume that food, and then I work myself up into such a frenzy that if I don’t have that particular edible delight immediately I feel the world will end and I will die a sad and painful death. I am not exaggerating.

Two nights ago, my husband mumbled that he felt like eating an apple while we were getting into bed, and that one sentence set me off into a mad search in the fridge looking for an apple. (not for him, but for me.) My mouth was watering, knowing that if I found one, it would probably be shriveled up and really, really old because I don’t remember buying any in the recent past. My quest left me empty handed and teary eyed. I wanted that apple so bad…I fantasized about biting into it, or blending it with ice and mint, or chopping it up with other fruit and pouring orange juice all over it. That apple was my ultimate fantasy that night, and it went unsatisfied. Do not ask me how I made it through the night. Before I left the kitchen defeated, I found applesauce in the freezer, from the early morning sickness days, but by the time that defrosted I had passed out and when I woke up the next morning it did not live up to its fresh predecessor; the crunchy intact apple.

Last night however, at 11:34pm, before the closing of Midway, we ordered 4 shiny red apples, a bunch of bananas, apple juice and orange juice. By 12 midnight, I had made two smoothies using chopped apple, a banana, ice cubes, mint, apple juice and a dash of orange juice. It was scrumptious. I had to wake my husband up to drink it. He fell asleep on the couch waiting for me to come back. With one eye open, he downed the glass, told me it was amazing and then collapsed into bed.

I was so refreshed by my invention, that I was more alert than I’d ever been at any AM timing in my life. So awake was I, that at 3am, I decided the poor excuse for a “nursery” had to be neatened up. There is a box in that room, which has been there ever since we moved into the house, after our wedding. I’m talking summer 2006. In that box are miscellaneous crappy items, that I’ve lived for two years without, and yet still feel the need to dust them and keep them. In the dead of night, you could see the profile of a very big bump moving around in that room, lifting a box and carrying it all the way back to the bedroom for a long night of sifting and reminiscing. I wish there was anything of value in there. I found 12 MAC lipsticks (I don’t know why I buy them, I wore lipstick like 3 times in my life and it never worked out), 7 different eye shadow boxes, 10 lip liners, 6 eyeliners, a beaded ring that I never wore, and dental floss. I lovingly dusted everything and arranged it on my dressing table, as if they were not expired, poisonous, or never to be used anyway. I’ll throw them away some other time.

At 4am, I felt inadequate as a mother, so I started to read voraciously, with an effort to actually finish the book, What to expect the first year. This was one of the many books I had ordered since entering the third trimester and was suddenly struck by the realization that pregnancy usually ends with the arrival of a BABY!!! Being too stricken with panic to actually finish any one given book, I have a series of well-meaning book marks stuck in each one, signaling my efforts to prove that Amazon, wasn’t getting my money for nothing. What I’ve learned so far, is how not to flash people in the mall while breast feeding, and how it may or may not be that colic is caused by eating too much cauliflower.

BUT NONE OF THESE BOOKS ARE REALLY TELLING ME WHAT TO DO! I want my mommy. I’m thinking about the baby’s belly button and how to clean it. How the hell do you change a diaper? What do you dress them in for what activity, there are so many names for their clothes!!! Onesies, wraps, vests, cardigans, t-shirts, pajamas! Aren’t they all the same???

I tried to fill the baby bath tub the other day to practice and after a lot of pulling and tugging the hose thingy just wouldn’t reach the tap. Then someone told me that you only use the hose for draining the tub. If you want to fill it, you get the water to the right temperature and then do it the old fashioned way with a bucket, from the sink.

Oh.

I must calm down. I give myself the dramatic soap opera slap across the face. I stop hyperventilating. I think I’ll go to sleep now. I had barely two hours of sleep. What with the insane nesting of the third trimester and the annoying morning sickness symptoms of the first, I could barely rest last night. And since the inspector seems to be at rest, no longer fiddling around in there, it’s a good opportunity to catch some zzzzz’s.

This is getting ridiculous…

The bastards who lied to me about the average time span of morning sickness, have yet to be punished. Because after that ended…LAST WEEK… I’ve been battling with acidity that has the strength to compete with heart attacks and acute angina.

In fact, I read somewhere that heartburn often has the same symptoms as a heart attack. Lovely. A constant feeling that you’re going to die, that can often be caused by the very same foods that cure it. Not only is that fun, but it’s coupled with the lovely blossoming of my body into what I can best describe as a watermelon with legs…or rather a cluster of watermelons. Me and my vegetable stand are often seen bumping into corners, closet doors and other human beings. I no longer fit in my usual spaces. After using my car the other day my husband kindly adjusted my car seat back for my Dwarfish height. And flattered though I was at his generosity in his adjustments, being no Kate Moss, I found myself wedged between my car seat and the steering wheel, honking the horn involuntarily for all the neighbors to see. Grace is not one of my strong suits these days.

I am starting to feel hippo-esque, although friends tell me…this is nothing, wait till May. May? What’s May? I can only think of now and a minute from now. Besides the doctor rudely delayed my due date from June 4 to 5! Why? Did he get a memo from my baby that he will be in meetings all day on the fourth, and therefore the fifth is a better day for his schedule???

This blogging was interrupted by an unexpected bout of MORNING SICKNESS!!!! It’s not cute anymore.

Anyway, earlier today, while I was beached on the sofa, I had a conversation with my mother, about how I can lose weight, by tricking my body and contributing it towards the baby’s weight gain, and we had an ambitious plan on how I would eat only healthy things, and minimize carbs, and engage in a bit of brisk walking. 5 minutes after that we were both on the phone ordering a pizza, chicken wings and a Greek salad. And when it arrived, I barely waddled to go get it. Brisk walk my ass.

The baby only ever communicates with me when I sit really still, we have tapping morse code conversations, and he kicks back when I poke at him trying to get his attention. When I’m alone, he’ll kick and thump my internal organs like they were his personal punching bags. But once I invite onlookers and fans to come and feel all the action, he sits there quietly making me look like a liar, not moving a muscle. We tricked him once, and he kicked Nayef’s hand really hard. Nayef looked so surprised, as though he just got undeniable proof that there really is a baby in there, and I’m not making it up as an excuse to get fat and be mean.

So here I am, 6.754 months pregnant. If I count it in weeks, which no one understands, it’s a grand total of 27 weeks, which feels like such an achievement. I remember feeling that I was 8 weeks for like a year. Time just would not budge. Now the weeks fly by, but the individual days, I feel go on forever. By 6pm, I’m ready to end the day and start over tomorrow. Which means that at 1:30pm, I’d really like the work day to be OVER! I want to shrink everything down, except lying down time and the nights. Once I’m in my bed, which is a “mitfalsif” Japanese style bed about 2 inches off the ground, gravity and the world’s forces all conspire to keep me there forever. Even rolling around in the middle of the night, gives me flash backs of workers maneuvering extremely heavy and enormous steel structures in the Boston Big Dig.

I have 13 weeks to go to the big day or week, or however long labour is supposed to last. I’m busy hanging up curtains and choosing baby stuff, but what I really want to do is sleep until then. I don’t want to do anything demanding, mentally-challenging, or physically involving movement.

And sometimes very suddenly I stop whatever it is I’m doing and I go to sleep….

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Love is in the hair!

On a day when the profoundly intelligent mullas across the causeway are busy mangling red roses and hunting down hormonal, repressed girls in crimson, we have the liberties to enjoy the day known as Valentines Day. Now regardless of all the retarded emails of warning that I’m going to get today on “do you know what you are celebrating?” and the history of St. Valentine and what it really meant and how it is the end of Islamic civilization, if I give my husband a rose; in spite of all this stupidity, the overpriced balloons at Al Osra, and the Styrofoam hearts in restaurants, I think what today makes me think of, whether I like it or not, is love.

And I do love lots of people in my life, who I don’t really tell that I love, for fear of getting too soppy and emotional and sounding like the ending of a movie about some terminal illness.

But I have to say that today morning, on my way to work, I felt so much love that I thought I had to share it or I’d explode. I felt I should go in a chronological-ish order.

I love my mother and father. I realized this morning that they are my first loves. The first sounds I heard, and the first eyes that embraced me, loving me, even though I was a slimy little snot, that cried all the time and gave them lovely packages of poo, in return. Without them, I wouldn’t be loved by anyone else.

I love my brother and sisters. I love them so much, it’s embarrassing. So to hide it I was really mean to them, bossing them around, teasing them, making them think they were adopted, and frequently running sexist campaigns against my brother for being the only boy in the house. I felt that if they knew how much I loved them, they’d think I was weird. But I love them so much, I always have. And as their leader, mentor and pioneer, I would fight fiercely to the death to protect them from harm, pain or evil.

I love my Grandfathers and Grandmothers, for loving me and playing such great roles in my life. And as each one of them left the world, leaving me in tears at the prospect of being without them, I learned that they have taught me what they know, and I have to carry on and make them proud. I love them all. I loved when Mama Mariam made me khanfaroosh, and when Mama Rafeea told me stories about Iraq. I loved Baba Khalid’s expression when he gave us presents that made us happy, and the way Baba Ali used to pretend he was eating my ears, my nose and my tiny hands. I miss them all so much, especially these days.

I love my Aunts and Uncles, who took over when we were left without grandparents. I love them because they tie us together. I love my cousins, who make me feel like I will never be alone. I love their unborn children, whether I’m here to hold them or not. I love our gatherings on Saturdays and Eid and everything in between. They are the joys in my life, in between the difficult times and the frustrating tasks life throws at you. I hope to have lots of stupidly fun times with them, singing, boating, lounging, eating and being a family.

I love my friends. Those both near and far. Those that call a lot, and those that don’t. I love them all. I love our history together and all the memories growing up and living life’s funniest times (the teen years). I love knowing that they’re healthy, happy, and successful. I would never give them up. I have been blessed with my friends, all the boys and girls that have been a second family to me, have also made me who I am today. I am very thankful.

I love my Husband. I love that he just showed up out of nowhere one day, and proved to me that this kind of love really does exist. I love that he is with me everyday in the morning and at night, sharing movies, food and giving me his hands, when I want to hold them. For being kind, even when I’m sick, grumpy, bloated and looking like a banshee, by hugging me and telling me that I’m cute, (when I’m clearly NOT). I love that he loves the people I love. I love him for being tall, for being sweet, for being mine, for every characteristic both shallow and profound that makes him, him. I know that we will grow old together, because no one else will do.

I love my dog. Because, although she’s just a pet, I swear she loves me too. I love her when she’s sleeping like a doughnut and I love her when she’s whizzing around the house hyper from her bath. I love that she understands both Arabic and English, especially when we talk about her. I love whisker like she was my own little fluffy child….

I love the monkey in my tummy. I’m growing a new love, who kicks me swiftly from time to time to show me who’s boss. I even love the fact that he caused me horrendous morning sickness enough to make me actually lose weight in the first 3 months. My own little dietician…awww. I love that he is part Nayef and part me and part his own unique new surprise. I love that he made rude gestures with his hands during the last ultrasound and then went into fighting stance. It’s going to be fun taming him. I love him for choosing my belly as his starting point, and I hope he will grow up to love me, realizing that he had tugged on my heart strings even when he was just a dot. I love my baby boy. My own baby Ali.

Xxx love you all.

Happy Valentines Day.

Entering the Second Trimester…

Oh my God At last!!!! I waited for the day when I was exactly 12 weeks pregnant, as if like a big clock tower, ceremonious bells would ring and the disgusting feeling would officially disappear. Every other book, website, formerly pregnant woman, and self-proclaimed expert told me it shouldn’t be too bad after 12 weeks. So I rejoiced on November 21^st because I thought I would never see the day, when I could once again hold a conversation with someone, that included the words: onions, sausages, or cucumbers without grimacing, screaming out “gross” and then heading straight for the nearest throw up station that I had set up around my home.

I was done with Morning Sickness, which by the way is such an elegant name for what it really is. It should be called “your digestive abilities are on vacation, eat crackers and enjoy a constant state of acidity, heartburn and painful stomach discomfort.” I have never seen so much food in reverse. In my entire life, I have never ever been a vomiter. It probably happened to me around 4 or 5 times in my childhood, and I remember the results were always dramatic. I would immediately break out with blood freckles all over my face and my eyes would bulge out froggy-style leaving me to look stupid for a day or two. Crying was also part of the emotional drama of having your guts evict your meals. In the past 2 months, I’ve done this exercise around 30-40 times. This is why you should all go and kiss your mother’s feet. Being a mother, even before the kid is out, is very, very difficult.

I had also recently started sleeping in the TV room on the long sofa, because my bedroom stank. No one else smelled it. I pulled in a variety of people, family and friends to sniff my room usually sticking their noses into the AC vent and asking them if they wanted to die from the stench. Some felt sorry for me, some touched my head to check if I had a temperature, but most people told me that they had no idea what I was talking about. The problem was that the bad smell angered me. It was like a taunting skunk, that only I could see. Why was the bastard exclusive to my nose??? I started to feel like that cat that was constantly being molested by the uninvited advances of Pepe Le Pew. Don’t I have enough on my plate? I don’t need to be sleeping refugee-style in the living room, rudely awakened at 6:00am by an annoyingly cheerful sun, accompanied by a choir of stupid twittering birds.

But that’s all in the past. Today, I had graduated from this military camp of food intolerance and even my mood had lifted, after I had seen my 12-week scan showing the little monkey, with heart beat going strong and everything as it should be. It made me remember what I was doing, and that “tiny” over here, had no idea about all the uproar that was going on outside on a daily basis.

The next day was my brother’s wedding, and I had planned on staying up till 4am. Having gotten my hands on the menu, I was drooling in anticipation of all the yummy things I was going to taste. It had been in September probably, when I had last enjoyed eating anything and I really regretted ever having been mean to any foods, rejecting them for being too high in calories, unhealthy, or fattening. I now promised myself to never discriminate…and that all food was ultimately good and needed to be treated with respect and reverence.

The next day everything went well, I ate, I laughed, I saw people I hadn’t seen in months, and then I ate breakfast before I went home, all partied out and happily full. It was a nice ending to a very testing first trimester. But little did I know…the fat lady (not me) had not sung yet.