The wise and ageless you

Dear Deaglan,

Tomorrow you turn seven and I can’t help but think back to when I turned seven. I had short hair like yours and was also missing a few front teeth. But I didn’t own any toys and had never watched TV.  I shared a room with 40 kids and no one ever read us a bedtime story or hugged us goodnight. There were no birthday parties or cakes; no presents. To be honest, I didn’t even know my own birth date. It didn’t matter though; no party or present could give me what I wanted that year.

I turned seven in the orphanage and the only thing I wanted was my mother.

We’ve talked about this a few times.  And on each occasion, your deep self, the wise and ageless you, snapped to attention, listened quietly and searched my face to find the sadness. Tears threatened your big brown eyes and you hugged me tight to let me know I was loved.

A few nights ago you came home from school, excited about your unity cup, a craft you’d done at school. You told me that the class had learned about Kwanzaa and explained how a black lady (whose name you’d forgotten – Rosa Parks I told you) refused to give up her seat to a white person when the “white” seats were full. You had lots of questions when I filled in pieces of the story. Why couldn’t she sit where she wanted? Why did the bus driver tell her to give up her seat? Why couldn’t the other lady stand? Carefully I told you more about slavery and racism. We talked about skin colour. We talked about the hardship that black people have had to endure. You got quiet and sad.

Your bursting heart and endless compassion fill me with hope every day.

We live in a world where just last week, Dad’s colleague told him our house was on the wrong side of town – that maybe someday we’d be able to move to his neighborhood.  People more than ever seem to feel justified in judging each other based on area codes, the tangible shows of overspending and the titles mounted on their office doors. 

I want so much more for you and your brother.

I want to see that generous heart of yours soar;

Give you every chance to feed the compassion that threatens to split you wide open.

I hope someday you do bring "truckloads of food to the starving kids in the world," as you so often tell me you will. I hope this world doesn't change you. 

During the next year while I watch you embrace seven, I’ll be thinking about when I was the same age. Each time I hold you tight, my yearning to hug my own mother will fade a little. When I see you and Naveen love each other, I’ll thank God my sister was with me through those lonely times in the orphanage. When I catch you jumping from couch to couch because you think I’m not looking, I’ll delight that in the best possible way I get to be seven again.

And each time your eyes sparkle with tears at the mention of where I’ve been, I’ll know the journey was all worth it because it brought me to you.

Happy birthday my seven year old love,

Mom.

It digs beneath my surface

It must have been crippling for my mother when she had to leave my sister and me behind.

Now and then I think about how it was for her and I can’t escape this truth: Mutilation. That’s how it would surely feel if someone told me I could no longer see Deaglan and Naveen every day, no longer inhale the nape of their necks whenever I needed to.

Mutilation with no hope of medical treatment.

Last night I stayed up late reading this and by the middle of page 45 I had to put it down. I cried noiselessly into my hands trying not to wake my family. It’s not surprising that his writing has this effect. I wept deeply in places when I read this and this. Khaled Hosseini’s storytelling digs beneath my surface everytime. I believe his words to ring true because essentially he tells the stories of my history too.

He tells stories that push me to the brink of gratitude and guilt.

Last night I surveyed my life; my fortunate, easy life. I wondered for the thousandth time since coming to this country how much different it could have been if I was still in Bangladesh. I cried more. I saw no logic. I looked over at Naveen who was asleep beside me, his long dark lashes settled fanlike on his sun-kissed brown cheeks. Earlier in the day, at Costco, we’d indulged him and walked up and down the vacuum aisle three times so he could savor each model, each make, the different colors and sizes. I thought too of Deaglan, who stopped playing long enough that morning to lightly touch my big toe and tell me that he loved my toenail polish. His sometimes version of “I love you.”

Last night I had to put the book down.

Those kinds of stories, the ones about real suffering and real sorrow weigh on me heavily. I find myself unable to process them for long stretches. It’s a weakness. Just like the way I am acutely aware that I have not yet ever written a letter to either of the girls we sponsor. I’ve never sent them the small gifts they are allowed to receive. Never sent them pictures of my boys or our life.

I justify it.

I justify it by remembering how it felt for me in the orphanage when other children would receive photo albums from their new parents in Canada or America. Photos of large lavish homes. Cars. Televisions. I remember how it felt to suddenly want things you didn’t even know existed. Want things you didn’t even know you needed.

Last night. I read the book and thought of these things. I thought about how it must have been for my mother.

Waterproof

I wore mascara yesterday even though I knew it would be a mistake. I am all tears.

Sweet tears of joy for Naveen, whose name in Hindu translates as new.

Hot salty jealous tears as I sit breastfeeding every hour or so and watch my other boy entangled in play with his dad. My arms are long enough to hold both of you, I want to plead. Please come sit with me like before. I miss us.

Tears of bone-aching tiredness that this baby doesn't know it is night time. And tears of frustration that arise from not sleeping.

Tears of deep sadness at the loss of one I loved so dearly. Everyday I miss him more and seem to lose him all over again. Yesterday I asked Shaune to stop reading the sympathy cards aloud, the heartfelt words of friends and family that leave me broken.

But also tears of gratefulness that I could be so lucky in this lifetime to have these two children and this husband and so many family and friends willing to love me.

And just when I think the tears will finally stop, I catch a glimpse of joy or sorrow and begin again.

So it is best I leave the mascara in the vanity until another day. A day where I can see these things and contain them in my heart. For I know that this joy, this sadness, this jealousy, this tiredness, they are all meant to be, meant to make me grow, meant to heal me.

January 26 1979 - May 21 2010

We lost our sweet funny and wonderful baby brother a few days ago. It is senseless and baffling and I cannot put into words yet my grief. I love you Matt and hope you are in peace.

Consciousness

Complaining about how tired I am these days doesn't have the same impact,even on me. It's nearly impossible to feel sorry for myself at the end of a workday because I have to make Deaglan dinner and then still do the bedtime routine. I 'm not even all that tempted to whine to somebody about how many times an hour I have to drag myself into the bathroom because the uterus has already started to put pressure on my bladder.

I've tried to stay conscious and remember what's going on in the world. I've been reminding myself regularly throughout the day that people are suffering, really, really suffering.

Why is it so easy for us to forget? Sometimes I wonder what it would really take for a person to change. You would think that having lived in one of the poorest countries in the world for the first seven years of a life, really knowing hunger, and having felt the shame of begging on the streets, that I wouldn't get too comfortable in this life - so easy and so abundant. But I do get comfortable and forget often.

I donated I reason with myself. What else can I do? That's the question that stumps me.

Since I gave birth to Deaglan I've wondered what I could offer his soul. I know that we take very good care of him. And culturally I can't give him much as far as my birth place. I was raised in a caucasian Canadian family. Lately the answer has been floating through me. I need to give him awareness. Consciousness. This place we live - this isn't the whole world. There is a great lack in a large part of the world. Maybe if I teach him to be aware, maybe something will change.

My thoughts and prayers are with you Haiti. I'm sorry this is happening to you. I'm sorry you are suffering so much.

New Sun

Did you ever stop and look at your life and wonder how you got so damned lucky? Today I thought a lot about the overwhelming sadness going on in Haiti. I also went to the hospital and saw this perfect tiny foot of the little boy growing in my tummy.

the foot in the sand is Deaglan's this summer at the beach.

Simple

The things that make me happy are quite simple. An unsolicited hug or kiss from Deaglan. Hearing him speak in almost-sentences. A belly laugh from Shaune. The smell of Deaglan’s hair. A warm meal prepared with attention and love. Time spent together with the television off. Getting the housework done. The way Deaglan says Mommie pease moe book. Fitting the whole family on our bed.

The things that make me sad are simple as well. Feeling unwelcome. Not holding Deaglan when he’s within arm’s reach. Weekends that fly by. Racism. Children starving or being hurt. Meanness.

The things that irritate the crap out of me can be simple too. People’s antiquated notions of parenthood and having to hear their opinions on how we are raising our boy. You aren’t being very subtle by the way. One uppers. A lack of self-awareness. Passive aggressive behaviour. Egomaniacs. Unannounced visits.