One night before bedtime, Omar said mysteriously, "That tree is shaking but it doesn't fall."
It did not seem particularly windy, but it had been stormy as of late, he had been looking out the window of our bedroom. I guessed he had seen a tree swaying in the wind.
"That's right," I replied. "Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know." he says, in that tone suggesting he's too tired to entertain me.
"Well, the tree has roots Omar. It goes deep in the ground and holds on tight. So even if there's very strong winds, the tree might shake but it usually doesn't fall."
"Oh." He replies.
"But if the wind is too strong, it could fall..." I continued, but he had nodded off to sleep.
Whenever I reflect on the boy that is and the baby that was Omar I always feel a surge of conflicting emotions. There's some pride, that somehow by the grace of God, I had scraped through and kept a baby alive and healthy enough to turn into a relatively sweet tempered, fun and thoughtful little boy. There's some humility as well, thinking of the days when he is sick and I am gripped by thoughts of real threats to his wellbeing. There's some consolation/determination, in thinking that I am doing my best to fight against increasingly ridiculous societal demands on children and that I am prioritizing first and foremost his happiness and growth rather than his performance. There's also fear, wondering if I am not preparing him enough to face this increasingly tough reality.
Well, he is only five. But he will grow older.
Hamzah, being the second and the baby, is still the baby. He knows it and I know it and I think we are both at peace with it. Hamzah has the advantage (or disadvantage) of my experience and somewhat more laid back approach in his upbringing.
But Omar is the first child, and each next phase that he goes through is new territory for me. I have some inkling of how to approach things, but I am not confident at all.
I know I can be hard on him, maybe on both of them, when I want to drive home a point. If they are rude, if they hurt me, or they hurt each other, sometimes I can be downright mean and even vindictive. Omar would whimper, "I'm sorry I hurt you Umi, I promise I will never do it again." and I would reply coldly, "You keep saying that, and you keep doing it, it loses its meaning." He would bawl.
Such contrast to my attitude when he was a baby, where I couldn't even bear the thought of a mosquito biting and hurting him. Yet here I am now, hurting him intentionally just to drive a point. God forgive me if this is wrong.
I suppose my rationale is that I can now bear him getting hurt, but I can't bear the thought of him becoming the type of person who could hurt someone intentionally and not feel remorse. I try to explain to him later on why I was mean, and I can never tell if he fully understands. But time will.
I have given up prior (pre-children) fantasies of raising prodigies. I now just aim for my boys to be educated enough to be productive, healthy, emotionally mature, and overall good strong men-- the kind of men who do not fall when shaken.
Even that feels like a mountainous task.
But when I catch the boys helping each other out without them noticing me, or ask me if I am hurt and try to make me feel better, or tell me they love me, or share a musing that is both innocent and poignant..... I feel it is God telling me I'm on the right track.
Their roots are firmly settling in place.
It did not seem particularly windy, but it had been stormy as of late, he had been looking out the window of our bedroom. I guessed he had seen a tree swaying in the wind.
"That's right," I replied. "Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know." he says, in that tone suggesting he's too tired to entertain me.
"Well, the tree has roots Omar. It goes deep in the ground and holds on tight. So even if there's very strong winds, the tree might shake but it usually doesn't fall."
"Oh." He replies.
"But if the wind is too strong, it could fall..." I continued, but he had nodded off to sleep.
Whenever I reflect on the boy that is and the baby that was Omar I always feel a surge of conflicting emotions. There's some pride, that somehow by the grace of God, I had scraped through and kept a baby alive and healthy enough to turn into a relatively sweet tempered, fun and thoughtful little boy. There's some humility as well, thinking of the days when he is sick and I am gripped by thoughts of real threats to his wellbeing. There's some consolation/determination, in thinking that I am doing my best to fight against increasingly ridiculous societal demands on children and that I am prioritizing first and foremost his happiness and growth rather than his performance. There's also fear, wondering if I am not preparing him enough to face this increasingly tough reality.
Well, he is only five. But he will grow older.
Hamzah, being the second and the baby, is still the baby. He knows it and I know it and I think we are both at peace with it. Hamzah has the advantage (or disadvantage) of my experience and somewhat more laid back approach in his upbringing.
But Omar is the first child, and each next phase that he goes through is new territory for me. I have some inkling of how to approach things, but I am not confident at all.
I know I can be hard on him, maybe on both of them, when I want to drive home a point. If they are rude, if they hurt me, or they hurt each other, sometimes I can be downright mean and even vindictive. Omar would whimper, "I'm sorry I hurt you Umi, I promise I will never do it again." and I would reply coldly, "You keep saying that, and you keep doing it, it loses its meaning." He would bawl.
Such contrast to my attitude when he was a baby, where I couldn't even bear the thought of a mosquito biting and hurting him. Yet here I am now, hurting him intentionally just to drive a point. God forgive me if this is wrong.
I suppose my rationale is that I can now bear him getting hurt, but I can't bear the thought of him becoming the type of person who could hurt someone intentionally and not feel remorse. I try to explain to him later on why I was mean, and I can never tell if he fully understands. But time will.
I have given up prior (pre-children) fantasies of raising prodigies. I now just aim for my boys to be educated enough to be productive, healthy, emotionally mature, and overall good strong men-- the kind of men who do not fall when shaken.
Even that feels like a mountainous task.
But when I catch the boys helping each other out without them noticing me, or ask me if I am hurt and try to make me feel better, or tell me they love me, or share a musing that is both innocent and poignant..... I feel it is God telling me I'm on the right track.
Their roots are firmly settling in place.
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