To Mothers

It's Mother's Day, and I woke up with a head full of a whole range of thoughts and so many mixed emotions. My four year old crawled into bed next to me and feeling her warmth and smelling her head once again gave me that sensation of peace and contentment I can always rely on. Brain chemistry at its best, it was my first of today's reminders what a fortune it is to have two thriving children.

Then, in a natural progression, I think of my mother, and I start to feel guilty. As much as I miss her, what ache must she feel to have one of her children so far from her arms. For a moment, I look at it from her point of view, and I wonder if it makes me a terrible daughter to have moved across that vast ocean. I know she does not blame me for this, but having grown up as a painfully responsible mature older child of a single mother, if there is anything to feel guilty about, I am pretty much guaranteed to.

I know not all mothers are incredible selfless people who make their overly conscientious children feel guilty for all the right reasons. I know there are people who have less than positive relationships with their mothers, who instead wish they had one they could gush about, like everyone today seems to be dutifully doing. I know people with mothers who have passed on, whose voices they wish they could hear, rightfully envious of my ability to get annoyed at my mother for being a bit too suspicious of my assurance that I am fine and don't need to go to the doctor for a little cold.

Having had the honor of providing remembrance photography for mothers who have lost their children, I can't help but think of what this day means for them. They are mothers just like the more fortunate ones, left to wonder why it was them left with a few little mementos and their endless grief. If you know one, don't avoid her, acknowledge her pain and ask what you can do. Supporting each other is important enough to endure unpleasant conversations.

Thinking of support, I inevitably think of my community of moms of children with special needs, where advice, guidance and encouragement are always sure to be provided to those who need it. It is a camaraderie, a sort of sisterhood formed by this invisible bond, by that instant mutual understanding contained in the look, smile and nod when we recognize each other, and by a special quality in the love for our atypical kids. The way a mother loves her children has variations that correspond to those in the children's personality. I am not trying to speak for everyone, but from what I know, the way you love a child with differences, a child who requires more love and more parenting is different. I have searched for words to accurately describe this, but I always come back to the phrase "furious love". There is a particularly raw intensity to it that comes from the understanding that you are preparing this child for a world that was not made for them, a world that may not always see their value, It comes from being the only one who truly understand the beauty of their exceptional mind. It is a powerful thing to have in common, and I believe it plays a significant role in creating these invaluable relationships.

And it turns out that this line of thoughts is actually a circle, bringing me back to where I started, to the children I get to mother. Watching them and thinking about them regularly takes my breath away, and very stereotypically, I feel like the luckiest person in the world. Knowing that the emotions related to motherhood are mostly caused by biology does nothing to diminish the power they have over me, and I am alright with that.

The Other Half of the Truth

Like most people these days, I have a Facebook account. As much as it can be a black hole for free time, it is useful to me in so many ways. See, where I live now is 5124.7 miles (8247.4 km) from where I grew up. Yeah, those are the exact numbers. They are big numbers but they just don't seem to convey how vast that distance feels. I do video calls with a few people, but it is hard to find time to talk to everyone I want to keep up with. Some would say this is very American of me, but I can't help but appreciate the efficiency of being able to share my kid pictures and see what my friends and family are up to within minutes. That is the most important but not the only reason I keep my profile up and spend some time interacting most days of the week.

Lately, I have seen quite a few blog posts and statuses discussing what seems to have become a culture of carefully built online personalities containing varying amounts of truth. I have no way of knowing how frequently social media users post information that is purposefully misleading, but I imagine most people are selective about what part of the truth they share. I am going to take that even farther and say that everyone does it. And this habit is much older than Facebook and Twitter. Even with in person interaction, people are always holding something back, choosing what to share.  Social media just works in a way that amplifies this, thanks to greater control and lack of context.

I am well aware that judging solely based on my Facebook profile, a person would only know a part of the truth about me. And because of the information that is not there, they might make some wrong conclusions. I will take a few of them and correct them in an attempt to make my social media personality a little closer to real.

- I am almost always happy. This should be obviously untrue. This illusion is created by my tendency to only be "social" when I am in a good mood, because I don't like to be a Debby Downer and because I share my misery with a different friends list, which is about 290 people shorter than the Facebook one.
- I am a perfect mother. (insert sarcastic chuckle) Of course not. I don't even know if this beast exists, but it is certainly not me. I post fun things I do with my family because those are the pictures my family and friends want to see. I post about how much my kids love reading and science because I am proud of their nerdiness which I so carefully foster. Every once in a while I post a parenting fail, but most of the time I don't feel confident enough to point out the ways in which I suck. If I were, I would tell you that my skill of patience which I so arduously work on actually fails me quite often, and that my kids consume more sugar than they should and that every once in a while I turn on cartoons so I can take a nap.
- I am wise and articulated. This may be true sometimes but it doesn't come as easily as my posts may lead one to believe. I do and say plenty of stupid things. Not that these things negate the smart things I do and say, but I am not going to show them off to everyone I know.
- I have no problems. Another obviously untrue one. I do have problems, and I so share them with select people, I just don't think my status is the right place to do that. If I am honest, it is mostly to avoid unsolicited advice, and to protect this thing called privacy.

These are some of the untruths, now replaced with revelations of only a few of the ways in which I am deeply flawed. I am not usually brave enough to be this frank but if anything is to be of my ambition to become a writer, this is barely a start.





I would like to read some opinions in the comment section.

My Toddler Morning Hair Solution

I knew this blog would be pretty random, but this post might be taking that to the next level. I am going to describe what I do when my daughter's cute curls turn into a mad scientist 'do overnight. I have observed many other toddlers' hair is the same, so I am sharing this in case it might help someone else. I know a lot of people go to short haircuts as a solution but I love my girl's hair and so does she, so I was determined to find an alternative. It turned out simple and quick.

All you need is a spray bottle, a tiny amount of conditioner and some warm water. I use a 3 oz travel spray bottle I picked up at Target. I think it works well because it produces a nice fine mist. Put less than a dime-size amount of conditioner in, fill it most of the way with water and shake. Then just spray a few times, and brush gently starting from ends and working up. It is really quick, the knots come right out. For us, spraying and brushing takes less than a minute. This might work with a detangler, but I like this much better because it leaves much less residue and feels much lighter. Not to mention the cost is only a fraction compared to that of detangler/leave-in conditioner. The 3 oz bottle lasts at least a couple of weeks. I plan on getting some pure aloe gel soon and trying this instead of conditioner. I will update with results.

Living With OCPSD

What is OCPSD? It stands for Obsessive Compulsive Problem Solving Disorder. How do you know if you have it? These are the most common signs:

- You have a powerful urge to come up with solutions to every problem you are presented with.
- You experience severe distress whenever you encounter a problem you cannot solve.
- The urge to problem-solve is just as strong when someone else's problem is in question.
- You frequently hear: "That is a great idea, why didn't I think of it?"
- You also frequently hear "Yeah, I've tried that already".
- When your friend tells you about a problem, you usually have an idea for them before they've finished telling you how frustrated they are, and can hardly wait until they are done to present your solution.
- You frequently get a feeling the people you are trying to help are annoyed at you because they were just venting, and not looking for advice.
- You wonder if you are overly sympathetic.
- You can't stop problem-solving.

If you identify with all or most of the symptoms above, you may have OCPSD.

Treatment: There is no known treatment for this disorder, possibly because I just made it up today.

Some things you can try:

- When a family member, friend or acquaintance is talking to you about their issues, take a deep breath and listen.
- Quickly analyze the conversation to determine if they are looking for solutions or not.
- If you determine they are looking for solutions, go ahead and fix everything for them.
- If you determine otherwise, say these words: "I am sorry, that sounds frustrating". Then shut up.
- It may be helpful to have something to drink to keep yourself from talking. If that fails, try stuffing your face with any food that may be available.
- If none of this works, spit it all out (the words, not the food) and blame it on OCPSD.

I have been affected with this disorder since I can remember, and I decided to write about it to let others know they are not alone. So fellow OCPSD-ers, feel free to comment to say "Hi" and offer a solution or two.

Review of "I am Malala" by Malala Yousafzai and Christina Lamb

I just finished this book and I wanted to write the review while still under the influence of emotion from the moment of closing the back cover. The first thing I did was log into Goodreads, mark it as "finished" and give it a rating. Something pretty strange happened. I gave it five out of five stars. If you looked at my ratings, you would find that most of the books I liked have four, and five star ratings are reserved for Borges, Fitzgerald and Huxley. So even on my virtual bookshelf, Malala seems to have a knack for finding herself in good company.

This autobiography, however, shares the high place for different reasons. My rating does not reflect the quality of writing or my enjoyment while reading it, but the importance that I feel it deserves. In addition to Malala's extraordinary story, the book contains a lot of background information about history, politics and culture of the Swat Valley, the Pashtun and Pakistan. There is also a lot of detail about her family, her every day life and how it changed with the events in her country. This causes the story to read slowly at times, especially throughout the middle third of the book. On the other hand, as much as perhaps all of it was not necessary to include, it was ultimately valuable information. The historical and political background really puts the story in context. The details of her life make Malala more real and relatable. So if you are reading this book and become annoyed with me because of descriptions of a sixth grade field trip or wondering why you need to know how Pakistan came to be as a country, be patient and keep reading, they are all important details of the big picture.

In the end, every aspect that I doubted while reading became understandable. It reads like amateur writing in much of the text, but this is also necessary in my opinion. This is a teenage girl telling her remarkable life story with the help of an author who is (as I imagine) trying to help her in writing as much as possible while still preserving the girl's young voice. Describing her homeland and its culture, Malala comes of as what I would call a realistic patriot. She is very cognizant of the things about her country that are unfair and self-destructive, as she shows unconditional love and devotion.

The aspect of this work that really takes its value to the next level is the knowledge it gives the reader about the history of Pakistan, the Swat Valley, Islam, the Pashtun culture. Perhaps most informatively, it offers insight about the Taliban and the methods they used to take and maintain control of their target areas as well as a local family's point of view of the events in the last several years, including the US military involvement.

I believe I have so far provided my opinion and information on this book without spoiling it for future readers, but it would be hard to keep writing about it without revealing too much. The bottom line is that I recommend this book (I know, shockingly unexpected!), and would love to hear other opinions and reviews from those who have read it.

The Good, the Bad, and the Irony

“This is a story about a family and, as there is a ghost involved, you might call it a ghost story. But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at out tables long after they have gone.”

― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

Faced with a choice of one topic that carries a lot of emotional weight for me, cancer is the perfect candidate. Why? I am a cancer orphan. It has profoundly affected my life since I was an infant. My dad died a week after his 26th birthday, creating a shadow to be present in every important time and place. This piece is about what that means for me. There will be thoughts known to my friends, and some I have longed to express but never found the right words.

To start chronologically, I remember no particular moment of realization that I was missing a parent and that this was something tragic. The normal was my mother, sister and I, and this did not seem unusual until I became old enough to really notice that most kids had two parents. This was when I started asking questions, and also when I stopped asking questions, discovering there were words that stirred emotions that were too overwhelming to process. My information came from photo albums and listening in on conversations between adults on a rare evening of melancholic reminiscence. For the sake of context, I should add that I grew up in a culture where funerals are attended in much higher numbers than weddings, and grieving is considered a form of respect for the dead. The death of a young person is mostly regarded as the ultimate tragedy, and often too unbearable to even talk about. There is usually a change of tone when someone says the word "cancer", as if speaking about a monster that might wake up if you cay its name.

Even though part of me always wondered why it is such a big deal to have a single parent, and things always seemed to work well for us, the shadow was always there. Not talking about it seemed only to intensify the feeling, as if our unified avoidance somehow made it more real. Make no mistake, this was not the spooky kind of shadow. It was the warm, comforting kind, reminding us that we are the most tangible part of this presence that most can only remember.

By the time I was ten I felt that I had a fairly good grip on things. I had reassured my best friends that it is perfectly fine to talk about their dads, and my whole life up until then was more than enough time to come to terms with this. And then there was a time when a teacher was filling out information about the parents' occupations and he had the students get up one at a time and say their parents' names and what they did for a living. I did have that slight feeling of dread, but I was still sure it would be OK. When it was my turn I got up and said my mother's name and job and said my father's name, but when asked the other question, I could not bring myself to utter a sound. This incident pretty much destroyed my hopes of not being treated differently, and eventually resulted in a conclusion that this is something I can't change and a decision to try not to waste energy being frustrated about it.

Growing up, I imagined all my future relationships would be fatally flawed, and vividly saw myself going to a fertility clinic and looking at donor profiles to start a family on my own. I was wrong, and found myself fiercely in love, married, and aching to have children as soon as possible before I was even out of college. Being a chronic over-thinker, this blissful happiness brought about thoughts like "This is what it was like for my parents before everything changed." There were still difficulties, we had to make hard decisions like many young newlyweds. Still there were many breathtakingly happy moments and I frequently thought how my parents were given less than two years of that. When my son was learning to walk, I thought about my mother watching me do the same and feeling the void next to her. There was also the irrational fear that one of us (my husband or I) might not live to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. Of course we did, and have witnessed many milestones together. Then there was the time when I got heartburn for the first time and obsessively googled symptoms of gastric cancer. My research told me the same thing my doctor confirmed at the annual check up the year I turned (you guessed it, 26!), that the genetic factor is far less significant in increasing risk than lifestyle factors, which put me in the lower than average risk bracket.

I am now a few years older than my father ever was. Mostly because I find it makes people uncomfortable, I rarely talk about him, but I still remember being told what high hopes he had for me. I imagine how he would proudly foster my son's obsession with cars, adore my daughter's smile and curls and find much to talk about with my husband. There have been other family and friends who were diagnosed with cancer, most of whom have reached remission. Melodramatic as it may sound, every one of them is my personal hero.

As an incurable optimist, I have to admit that this entire struggle is what has fostered my ability to value every scrumptious meal, every "I love you" and "I'm sorry", every hug and smile and even every argument. It is horrifying to admit that for this talent that makes me a better wife, mother and friend, I have to thank this one human affliction that I most passionately loathe.  It is horrifying, but my friends, you just have to appreciate the irony.

Thoughts about writing/The inaugural first post

The hardest thing about blogging is getting started. Not that I would know, since I have no blogging experience, but I really hope it's true. I feel a bit like I am standing on a stage, and if I don't do something interesting really soon, the tomatoes are going to start flying.
After playing shrink with myself and reassuring that there will be no vegetables thrown in my direction, I will continue with my intention to stop saying that I should really write more and just do it. No expectations. Also, no limitations. At least as far as topics go. This is to give myself no excuse not to post because something I want to write about is unrelated. If it relates to me in any way, it will be on the inter-webs for the world to nod to, judge, or just voluntarily waste time reading.
Writing has never been easy, but always gratifying and worthwhile. Kind of like reading, it's almost never a bad idea.