Parenthood: 7 Myths I've Let Go of on My Seventh Anniversary

Carriage Ride through Downtown Memphis: Happy Seventh Birthday to My PrincessYesterday was my seventh anniversary as a parent.

I was thirty when I became a mother. Thirty years old is that age where you know a lot of stuff. You're your own person. You know how the world works. You know the rules.

When I first met Tariq at nineteen, I told him I wanted to send my children to boarding school. I know. I KNOW.

My reason was that boarding school was prestigious. Also, it would make my children stronger and "networked". Shut up. I think I was coming out of of a period of time where I read a lot of early twentieth century English literature.

When I became a parent, I became the poster parent for attachment parenting, though. We co-slept, I nursed, no television before two, no stroller, baby sling only, no fast food before three, constant attention... preschool didn't start until four and that, too, because there was a new baby and I was really, really tired.

Prior to preschool, I couldn't leave my daughter with anyone besides my mother for more than a day, so, needless to say, boarding school was out.

Look, becoming a first time mother was absolutely incredible.

I was proud of myself. Within a few weeks of parenthood, I had been flexible enough to understand that there is a distinctness between the idea of how I envisioned parenthood and how I actually practiced parenthood. Some things, you have to do to know what you really think they're all about. This is absolutely applicable to someone not having children and being 36. I have no idea what that's like. I have very clear ideas of what I think that should be like. It involves Paris, Italy and Spain, waiting tables for food money but spending it on incredibly beautiful shoes instead.

Being a parent constantly pushes at my notions of the ideal parent-child relationship. I've come to realize that the most tension between children and their parents (even into adulthood) occurs as a result of someone clinging too tightly to the ideal and not making peace with the real. 

When my daughter was born, I thought it was my job to teach her about reality. The same was true for my son. I have come to realize, of course, that we teach each other. We have been placed in one another's lives for a reason and that, as it is in all things, there is a balance of what we can offer to one another. Some days, I nurture my children and teach them value of love and respect. More often than not, though, they teach me those things and so much more. Like, nothing... and I mean, nothing, gets purple permanent markers out of a cream colored sofa. 

1. When I became a mother, I thought it was my job to make sure my children were good, decent, people who were kind and compassionate. I now know that children are born kind, compassionate, good, wise and decent. They stay that way when I treat them that way. The trick is to be what you expect from others. Want nice? Be nice.

2. As a new mother, I thought that I had to do everything in my power to protect my children from any and all harm. I have learned that it is inevitable that my children will come to harm. Something bad will happen to them one day. I can be wary, I can be wise, but I cannot protect them forever. I can only remind them that they are powerful enough to survive harm and that when they feel they aren't -- I will hold them up. I will be there. I can spend my time constantly watching our backs or I can spend my time feeling the joy of being together. I can't do both.

3. I once thought that children are a reflection of their parent's behavior, values and actions. I think parents can exert great influence over their children's actions and choices to an extent. I beleive that my children's actions are a reflection of how they perceive my integrity, though. If I want them to emulate my behavior, I must make sure that my behavior is grounded in good intention, well thought out values and integrity. I also must ensure that I never expect from my children more than I expect of myself.

4. Children are the charges of their parents. I have learned that you are in charge of you. I am in charge of me. Our connection is not based on power or hierarchy, but upon mutual respect and trust. Children aren't different. In an ideal scenario, I trust that that my child will do the right thing when presented with the facts, and my child will trust that I am telling them the truth when I present them with what I believe is the truth. I may not be correct, but I am doing my best to be so. That matters more. The greatest punishment either one of us can undergo is to feel that we have lost the trust of the person we love.. even if for a moment. 

5. I used to believe that children crave discipline and consequences the way I crave a McFlurry on a 100F Memphis afternoon. Actually, children crave respect. It's not consequences that they need to thrive and grow, it's accountability. It's the knowledge that they matter, that what they do matters and when they don't do what they're supposed to do -- like any valuable member of a community -- everyone feels the consequences of that. Showing someone that what they do matters is respect. People who feel respected require little discipline from others.

6. The Chimpmunks are horrible and will completely destroy any hope that my child has good taste in music. I still think this might be true. Children will like what children like. We can fight it or we can try to see the value in what they like. Maybe if we do that, they'll make an effort to like what we like. I plan on trying to pitch Bob Dylan as an antidote to the Chipette's version of Bad Romance. Pray for me.

7. Parenthood is full of crazy opportunities to be sarcastic and funny about our kids. But I will not do this to their faces or in their hearing ranges one day longer. This is difficult. So.difficult. Because I'm horribly sarcastic. The thing is, I don't ever want my children to be someone's punchline. I don't want the responsibility of teaching them that it's okay for someone to make them a punchline. They're not punchlines to anyone's jokes. They are my most incredible treasures. Addendum: if you and me are on the phone and they can't hear us? I'm totally making fun of them.

What about you? Are there any myths you've had to let go of when it comes to children?

Down With the Punchy Political Graphics!!

We try to teach the next generation the value of kindness and compassion.

We talk to them of difference, acceptance and tolerance.

We discuss sportsmanship and compromise in elevated tones and disparage bullying and name calling.

Then, those little tornadoes go to bed and we jump on our blogs or the Facebook and post things like "Mitt Romney is big, fat stupid with his stupid magical underwear and I hope his stupid money catches on fire and that his stupid (handsome!) sons get hundreds of teenage girls pregnant so he knows why Planned Parenthood is useful and not stupid like him and his stupid magical {{repeat loop}}."

I won't lie, I thought these political updates of the graphic variety on Facebook and Twitter were super fun at first, but they're totally devoid of substantial intellectual discourse. Essentially, they convey that political belief can be boiled down to pithy sayings and badly put together graphics.

Politics should be complex, well thought out and discussed in a measured manner. If your stance on anything political can be summarized in a punchy graphic or even a series of them? My friend, I hate to break this to you, but you're doing it completely wrong. 

Consider double checking the "Share" potential and its relevance to meaningful discourse of a graphic before doing so.

"Is this completely missing the point of the kind of consensus that led to the building of our great nation?"

Now, I know some smarty pants is going to point out that in the 19th century, Aaron Burr, then Vice President of the United States, shot and murdered Alexander Hamilton, then Secertary of the Treasury and that this does not at all point to consensus and yet our great nation was still built.

I'm talking about macro-consensus... big picture stuff, Smarty Pants. Also, my response to that, which you should feel free to use any time someone points out a historical situation that may undermine a point you're trying to make, is this: "That was before the Internet."

So, okay. Let's try this instead.

"If I were in charge of modeling appropriate behavior to a small child who knows nothing of the world, would my behavior be a reflection of who I believe I am?"

Your values are only real if you practice them with integrity. Integrity loosely means "wholeness." Which I will loosely interpret as "as much of the time as is humanly possible" because I know even the best of us have our bad days.

If you're going to share something like this, for example:

Please stop telling your kids not to bully people. Don't tell them it's not nice to call people "dumb" or "stupid." Because that would make you a hypocrite -- one who is lacking in integrity.

I think Mitt Romney is a poor choice for a president.

I think Barack Obama is a better choice.

My reasons are complex, well thought out and are not based on assuming there are "thousands of dumb things he hasn't said." Don't get me wrong, he's said some dumb things. But who hasn't? I bet President Obama has said dumb things.

Once or twice.

Kidding, because as someone who believes heavily in compassion as a value, I will not champion dialogue that is not only dispassionate, but blatantly and gleefully cruel.I know this is a time honored tradition in the realm of politics -- mud slinging, berating, insulting. But... that was... before the Internet?

Tariq reminded me the other night that one of the easiest ways to change a dynamic is to assume the best of intentions on the part of the other. I assume that people who support Mr. Romney have good intentions and I'm very interested in those intentions. I'm not going to make assumptions about them because I know what it feels like to have people make assumptions about me. I will most likely not agree with them on many things, but I will be a more thoughtful person because I know how they feel and why they feel it. In that way, I win. We all win.

I will also not turn politics into moral judgment. I find it interesting how many of my fellow liberals will eschew our conservative countrypersons as injecting their personal morality into politics, yet have no problem making sweeping statements about how people who don't support universal health care think it's okay for people to die. News flash? That's a moral argument. I also seriously doubt anyone wants anyone to die. Point is, if you're posting stuff like that on your Facebook wall, you will never know the truth of the matter because you've initiated a conversation by automatically putting someone on the defensive.

And... telling them that they want people to die. I mean.

Seriously?

That's not going anywhere productive.

Like, ever.

Covered Heads

You might have noticed photos online or seen me in person and noticed that I started covering my head about a year ago. I never announced it on the blog or went into detail about it. It's so trite. There's a gajillion posts on the Internet about Muslim women covering their heads. Posts that tell you that it's required. Posts that tell you that it's not. Posts that tell you it's incredibly liberating. Posts that tell you that it is most certainly not.

The reaction of my family to my various head covering exploits is a great case study. Back in 2001, I visited Saudi Arabia and completed my first Umrah in Mecca. Umrah is like a mini-hajj. Unlike Hajj, Umrah can be done any time. My visit to Saudi was beautiful and spiritually complex. 

In Saudi, women are required to wear abayas in public, which is long, black cloak accompanied by a black head scarf. Yes, all women. Even non-Muslims. I often find that people who are unfamiliar with Saudi or have never been there have a similar reaction, "God, don't you get hot?"

My response is that you do get hot, but I bet a bare chested Himba tribeswoman in Namibia is thinking the same thing about you in your summer tank top and denim shorts. Weather is only one part of the equation when it comes to fashion.

And, yes, abayas can be fashionable. 

From Dubai Fashion Week Fall 2010, Designer Amal Murad, Images from Style By Amara

Back in August of 2001, there was something about the abaya that was incredibly appealing to me. When I was growing up, my parents were very strict about my wardrobe. No sleeveless tops, bathing suits, shorts, skirts, tight jeans, shirts above the waist, and, God have mercy, no middriffs. I didn't have to cover my head, but I did have to follow what these stipulations or suffer dire consequences. Even though I adhered to it, my father would at least once a week comment on how he didn't think my shirt was appropriately modest or something to that effect. That was less about the clothes and more about my dad. More on that another time.

For some people, getting married and moving away from their parents is a clean break. I'm not a clean break kind of person. Breaking with anyone is more like a badly done Civil War amputation for me. It would involve a lot of whiskey, a dull saw and several tendrils of tendon and flesh that just… won't… rip…dammit.

The abaya in Saudi Arabia, then, offered me potential respite from feeling like my clothes were too wrong, too tight, too colorful… too American, I guess. The last day we were in Riyadh, I made Tariq and his brother take me to a higher end abaya shop and we bought a lovely abaya that costs the equivalent of about a hundred dollars. My intention was to wear this on the flight home.

And for the rest of my life... in public. 

I did that, and, truth be told, it was awesome because, hi, I wore pajamas on the plane and nobody knew. I also noticed that people both noticed me more in some ways and noticed me less in others. I started wearing a hijab, too, which is the traditional head covering of the more colorful variety that most Americans are familiar with. Once again, I basked in the liberation of not having to blow dry my hair everyday. 

I have to interject to any Muslims that might be reading this that I understand that it may feel like I'm making light of the the traditional coverings of Muslim women, and, well, I am. I respect the right of women to cover for religious reasons and that most do it because they feel it's requisite, but I don't feel any more pious when I have a hijab on my head. To me, it really is a cultural statement. It's an outward symbol to identify myself to others and to my own. 

I flew into Orlando International Airport wearing a black abaya on September 2, 2001 and nobody blinked. I went grocery shopping, to the mall and to parties wearing it. People did do double takes, but everyone was still very nice. I like to think this is because I'm nice and people have a very hard time being mean to someone who says hello and smiles at them.

Nine days later, on September 11, 2001, though, things got super awkward.

"You have to take it off, bete," my mom said in the tone she reserves for commands that leave no room for negotiation.

"Come on, mom, it's fine… I'm not a terrorist or anything."

"I'm your mother. You don't need this to be a good Muslim. I'm your mother, and you have to listen to me because good Muslims listen to their mothers."

Yeah. She totally said that. Verbatim. Because it's true, they do. As a matter of fact, one of the stipulations of Muslim going to fight a battle is that it has to be alright with their mother. I always giggle at this a little. "Where's the note from your mom, soldier?!"

After many conversations with this, one of which was conducted intervention style by my mother and her friends, I stopped wearing the hijab and the abaya. I have a terrible habit of assuming that certain things are obvious, so forgive me if you've already picked up on what I'm about to say… I just want to be clear.

My entire childhood, my parents had dictated the parameters of my wardrobe. Nothing too short, nothing too long, even my hair ("bangs out of the face -- you look like druggie hippie!") and definitely no eyeliner, shadow or bright lipstick. I rebelled against that as much as I could, but, mostly, I complied. Fast forward to twenty three, when I am literally shrouded in a black cloth, and my parents still have a problem with what I'm wearing. 

It occurred to me a few years after the Great Abaya Removal of 2001 that clothing is so much more than color and fabric. It is identity. It's a statement of who you are, who you want to be, how you want the world to see you and, as illustrated above, it is also a statement of who others expect you to be and how much importance you give that. For my parents, they wanted a daughter who was modest, but assimilated enough to be accepted by her society. And, let's face it, after 9/11, they wanted a daughter who people didn't harass.

Clothing was control and I gave it to them completely and unabashedly. Better or worse, it was who I was at the time. Let's be honest, it's still a part of who I am in the smallest of ways.

Nine years later, I have my head covered again, but, this time, I'm in control. I know why I cover my head… exactly why. My appearance is mine to control. Even in covering my head, I assert my rebellion to notions of what is the proper way to cover one's head. Ear lobes! Bare neck! Uncovered in front of select people who are not my husband, brother or father! What can I say, I'm a rebel with a cause.

The reason I cover my head is probably different than why the majority of women cover their head. In Islam, we often say that when you do something, you should do it for the sake of Allah. This prevents arrogance and self righteousness from seeping into what would otherwise be considered pious behavior. 

I do cover my head for the sake of God, but not because I believe that God has commanded that I should hide my hair from people or suffer hellfire or, worse, an eternal loop playing in my head of that Call Me Maybe song. I do it because I'm proud to know God the way that I do and I want people to know that about me. Adopting this cultural symbol is the most efficient way of doing this.

My hair is not shameful and nor is my body. Every article of clothing I wear, from head covering to shoes is a choice that I'm comfortable with. Yes, these choices have been made as a result of strong influence, but not due to the power of others over me. I mean, not any more power than Vogue or InStyle exert over hundreds and thousands of people.

Thirty six has not vaccinated me from attempts by well meaning people who care for me to exert their power over my appearance. My dad said something again when I was in Daytona about people in Tennessee potentially lynching us. Some of my non-Muslim friends have said they're not totally sure why I insist on doing it. Other people close to me are awkwardly silent about it.

But this? Is not about them, about you, about the world or what it thinks of how liberated, oppressed, modest or pious I am. This is about me and God and what He/She/It has compelled me to do. 

My wardrobe today is a consideration of things that I find beautiful. It is long sleeves that convey the thin veneer of the formality of my personality coupled with ethnically inspired prints and flowing fabrics that suggest that I am so much more underneath than what you see on the surface. The scarves are block colored or perhaps a Sudanese inspired print, and are carefully chosen and wrapped with delicate intention. I wrap in a way that pays tribute to my African and Caribbean sisters.Finally, I almost always wear a pin or brooch in the hijab that I make sure is in a distinctly American style -- because it's not me if there isn't any American in it. 

My clothes are a tribute to the seamless beauty of our earth's varied, elegant and powerful aesthetic. And here's something that I will divulge that will be surprising but I'm entirely comfortable with. Sometimes, I don't feel like covering my head in public, so I don't. This is a rare thing, but it happens. 

I wear these clothes not because I must be modest and what to hide from the world, but because modesty is my aesthetic. I find it beautiful and special. Like most Muslim women, I do dress for the sake of God…in that I think God really wants me to be my true, authentic self.

Happy Birthday to You... And Just You.

"I can't believe I'm never going to be two again!" he says. 

It's said with an angst reserved only for middle aged existentialists who've come upon the realization that life is fleeting and we're all going to, gulp, die. But this boy is only three today, and this is why friends of mine refer to him as "the evil genius."With the girl, it's all sensitive, morose observations sprinkled with feathery head bands and ruffled skirts.

The boy, though, he's all passion, intensity and drama. This is great, except the combination of intellect and uncontrolled passion often results in island lairs guarded by sharks with laser beams attached to their heads. I know intimately the drawbacks of this situation. For example, the real estate market for unloading an evil lair is incredibly bad this year. I blame the peace loving nonsense propaganda disseminated by seemingly benign entities like the Olympics or the people who post cute kitten videos on YouTube.

Evil just isn't as sexy as it used to be.

I have this habit of calling my kids "baby." It was a cute habit, but now it's a bad one, I think. Because they're not babies. You shouldn't call people who are not babies that unless they're Jennifer Grey or you're advertising Virginia Slims.

It's Tariq's birthday, too. Unlike the passionate reaction of his son, Tariq stands quietly in the background also absorbing the fact that his son is no longer two years old and never will be again.

His face reveals more than that, though. Maybe he's realizing that he, too, will never again be the age he was yesterday. Does this happen to everyone? I find that I tend to focus on the complex so much that the simple things like "you'll never cross the same river twice" escape me. Or rather I just forget about them until I'm suddenly jolted back into the reality of the simple.

There's a  symbolism of this shared birthday between my son and my husband.

All of his life, August 12th was Tariq's birthday. Today, he is a neatly wrapped, understated, high quality laptop backpack sitting quietly in the corner observing wildly arranged boxes containing Lincoln Logs, Hot Wheels, Tinker Toys and Lightning McQueen inspired merchandise. He, being the lovely man he is, has graciously deferred to this changing of the tide.

Like we all tend to do when it comes to the children. 

Whether in blogging or literature, there's much emphasis on the relegation of a mother's needs and the shifting of emphasis on the children't wants, needs and desires. I seldom consider the adjustments that the fathers in our lives have to make. Great dads give up just as much as great moms. We shouldn't forget that. I shouldn't forget that.

I want to grab my husband and tell him that he is still so important. That without him, there would be none of this. I want to remind him that I promise that in honoring the boy, I am also honoring him. My dear friend and husband doesn't require this, of course, but that doesn't mean it doesn't need to be said.

I love these kids, Tariq, but nothing will ever change the fact that you were loved first. 

Today, on your birthday, I want you to remember that while you sit gracefully in the background and let your boy have the fun, that I see you. 

I appreciate you. 

I am so very glad that you were born. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.

I have had the honor of watching you celebrate the past sixteen birthdays  of your life and, though I'm stunned that it's even possible -- you become a better man every single year.

August 12th is my son's birthday.

But it was my husband's birthday first.

I want him to remember that I know that and I still honor that.

The Chik-Fil-A Thing.

I'm not eating at Chik-Fil-A anymore.

It's totally a big deal because that was my go to for fast food. It was the hypnotic persuasion techniques of the billboard cows. "EAT MOR CHIKN" they write. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the subconscious message insisting on, "ADUM AND EEV NOT ADUM AND STEV!"

I get the feeling that my pronouncement about not eating at Chik Fil A elicits eye rolls from many of you, but I just don't get the other side of this argument. I've tried to wrap my mind around the objection to objecting to Chik-Fil-A and all I can come up with is… "I love nuggets more than I love protecting the freedom of my fellow citizens."

Which is cool because I get that everyone has different priorities and a good nugget is hard to find.

But that can't be it. There has to more reasons to object to my objecting, right?

My Position

Am I offended by Chick Fil A's position as an organization against gay marriage? 

Absolutely, unequivocally, yes. 

Do I think Chik-Fil-A has a legal right to donate money to these causes? 

I guess. Except, and I might lose you on this one, I think legislation preventing consenting adults from getting married legally should be against the law.

Do I think people should stop eating there because of their corporate stance? 

Yes. 

Do I know that lots of business owners give money to groups like the ones Chik-Fil-A donates to?

Yes.

Am I unfairly targeting a business owner? 

No.

Is writing this way with all the questions more efficient than writing actual sentences? 

Definitely. You should try it, sometimes.

There's a difference between a business owner and an entire corporation. If Mr. Cathy, the founder of Chick-Fil-A, gave money on his own to anti-gay marriage groups, then my boycotting would be limited to lending him a fiver and I might suck down a few of those awesome Diet Lemonades they sell at the restaurant. I'd be conflicted about it, but I just might be all, "Wow, this guy sells good lemonade given that he's being such a meanie about the whole marriage thing."  

On the other hand, the reality is that his company takes millions of fivers from lots of people and, as an entity, donates them to organizations intent on limiting the rights of my fellow American citizens. He chose to make his company stand for a certain set of values. I was with him when he closed on Sunday, but this? Too much, man. Furthermore, I believe their stance is based on a bigoted interpretation of a religion founded by a dude who would probably not have eaten at Chik-Fil-A in the first place. 

Speaking of Jesus and Talking to Yourself

No, seriously, ask yourself… would Jesus have eaten at Chik-Fil-A?

Other than the fact he was Jewish and I'm pretty sure that chicken isn't kosher certified, Chik-Fil-A uses their money to be exclusionary and not very groovy. I know Christians and Muslims disagree on the exact nature of Jesus in the corporeal sense, but I assure you that we can all agree in the "not exclusionary and extremely groovy" sense.

I don't know if it will make an overall societal difference if I stop eating at Chik Fil A. In fact, I'm pretty sure it won't.

I believe that apathy is a parent of oppression, though, so, in the end, it matters to me to stop eating there. Every morning, I have to look myself in the mirror and say, "What's up, Awesome? It's good to be you".

Why, yes, I do point at myself and wink when I say that.

I'm not saying that you have to boycott businesses who insist on coming out as politcally oppositional to your political views, but it is something that I have to do to be able to talk to myself with integrity. Because, let me tell you something, you do not want to be ethically shady when you're talking to yourself in the mirror.  That's just being crazy.

By the way, I know it's killing you, so I'll just tell you: the other parent of oppression is Kris Kardashian.

So. 

Let's talk about the Chik-Fil-A thing.. 

Do you think I'm off base with my boycott?

What do you think of these right leaning folks who are taking their photos with bags of Chik Fil A? 

I really want to hear your answers, so please comment freely.

Please remember that because "the win" is never making the other person look stupid but learning something new, I'm requesting that your discourse be civil and compassionate while you're in this space. Thanks, Awesome.

Photo Credit