The Kindness of Strangers

A few days ago My husband had to work late and the baby guy and I didn't feel like cooking dinner. Nothing says "night on the town" like walking to KFC with your 6 month old for some piping hot chicken-like products. While we were ordering (yes, spicy) the manager pulled out a little plastic container of something white and handed it to me.

"For the baby" he smiled. It looked a bit like milky rice pudding. Then he rustled around until he found an orange Marinda soda under the counter. "For when he grows up" he said, thrusting it at me with a pumpkin grin.

Halfway through the meal, after a handful of people had stopped to kiss baby guy on the noggin, the manager came back over and brought us an extra piece of chicken. Instead of explaining that my baby has no teeth (and also that he doesn't generally eat food given to him by strangers with their bare hands directly after a smoke break) I discreetly added it to the things at the bottom of my bag I was grateful for but would not be eating.

This baby is a big deal around here.

There are at least six people, and often times more, that little "Master Felix" pays homage to every time we walk the neighborhood. I'm not sure if they are actually calling him "Master" or "Mister" but either way, he is King of the block. The boab with a shock of white hair gets the best grins out of Fix and he will often take him by the hand and kiss his chubby knuckles. The man who sits in front of the optometry clinic, who once offered the dog his fried chicken, is a bit more wary of the baby, but still gives a nod of respect. Walking one length of our block takes about ten minutes, as we ping back and forth across the street to greet the regulars.   

And these are just some of the many kindnesses I've noted in my journal over the last few months.

Last week I took baby guy to the fruit and vegetable souk and en route an Egyptian woman caught my eye and asked about the baby. We walked a few blocks in step while I tried to ask her basic, very basic, questions in Arabic. Sharboot said to me as we parted "Your Arabic will come, Shwayuh Shwayuh. Inshalla." Little by Little. If God wills it. And then she welcomed me to the souk.

A large woman with filthy fingernails at the market wrapped an extra bushel of mint in an already bulging bouquet as I fished in my pocket for money.

I found a lovely local bookshop this week with English titles and they basically let me treat it as a reading library. Without access to a local library this has rocked my world.

I sometimes stress that I've gotten every parenting thing wrong, every expat thing wrong, every modern feminist thing wrong. But these small kindnesses remind me to be as generous to myself and others as people have been to me.     


Takin' It to the Streets: Cairo From the Ground

I have a theory that the more you walk the streets (paths/beaches/bridges) of a place the more you can love it. Something about the sweat and mild leg cramps just ties you to a physical location in an emotional way. So I've been pounding the pavement around downtown Cairo in hopes to crack this city open a little wider.



And Also

Out and about with baby guy
A few weeks before I gave birth to our son Felix, Max discovered a well-worn vinyl of the soundtrack to the movie Shaft in my Mom’s basement.

I know, that’s a sentence with a lot to unpack.

If you know my mom, you probably can’t imagine her grooving to Shaft today or any day in the past. But people are complicated, aren’t they?  

And yes, we came home from a gloriously long home leave with a perfect baby boy. Honestly, I was worried a new baby would be boring. Just being real. They don’t talk politics or play guitar or make books with you. I thought he would grow on me as he got older and more fun. But I have been completely delighted with everything about this baby. I love all of his baby noises, every sweaty walk through the neighborhood and his adorable fat feet. This kid is great and being a mom is great.

But I’ve also had moments of identity crisis. Pretty mild, since I was expecting them, but still. Moments when I’m not sure quite how to integrate this new role into my old self.

These moments usually occur during one of the many harried sitcom mom scenes I have found myself enacting since returning to Egypt. Last week I answered the phone with dog poop in one hand from my apparently newly un-house-trained dog who was barking maniacally at the phone, a squirmy baby rocking a gnarly spit-up beard in the other hand, and most of my chest covered by the dripping spit up beard. I then tried to put on my shoes hands-free before walking down three hot flights of stairs with the baby for a delivery where they almost never have change and I either have to trudge back up the stairs and search for small coins or find an ATM outside with a baby on my hip.

So, as much as I hate TV Mom stereotypes, sometimes that’s me.

Is this who I am now? My former self, suffocated by drool? 

But before we left home, I had a moment of clarity at the local Target. (Not the first of these moments to occur at a Target, I’m sure. It’s a magical place.) I reached for my wallet to pay for a box of diapers and the contents of my purse spilled out onto the counter in front of the red-vested cashier. I picked up my keys and also a handful of Egyptian pounds, a package of wet wipes and also a water color pencil, a stick of  gum and also a guitar pick, a tube of chaptsick and also my three day pass to see the temples at Angkor Wat from last spring.

And Also.

I am a mom, and also a person. A mom, and also a traveler. A mom, and also an artist. A mom, and also a mediocre-but-getting-better bassist.

I’ve been a little gun shy about blogging because I didn’t want to drift into the land of boring, naval gazing baby poop stories. Sure, it’s a large portion of how I spend my day, but the circle of people interested in my baby’s poop is very small. And said poop doesn’t define me anyway.  

The mothers in my life knew this. I’m lucky.

So here’s to writing, to making art, to living, and also, to momming.    



Taking a breather at Horus' Temple in Edfu

On our first trip to Egypt, we visited an old house with a whale bone affixed to the floor.

"Walk around it 7 times and you will be sure to have a baby!"

Well, I didn't because...that's dumb. 

Now here we are in Egypt again, almost nine years later, finally getting ready to welcome a wee baby in March. A boy. It wasn't easy for us to start a family, and it certainly took a lot more than a whale bone.

I've heard a lot of advice over the years. 

"Put a thread of saffron in carbonated volcanic water. Drink it while you are at the Hammam and then make sure to stay wrapped in blankets after you...you know...chika..chika" came from Morocco. 

In an incredibly kind gesture, someone brought me water from the Zam Zam well of Mecca after attending Hajj for the first time.

"Each morning, for seven days you should eat two dates and drink the Zam Zam water and ask Allah for a baby"   

Taxi drivers from one end of the Middle East to the other have offered many unsolicited opinions that Max had the foresight not to translate for me. 

People often recommend that you quit your job, or get a job, or take up Yoga or quit running. Adopt, don't have kids, try every treatment available as soon as possible. 

Here's what I say. It's personal and everyone will figure out what works best for them.

When someone in the Middle East asks you why you don't have a baby, and they will, all of them will, the best Arabic response is to say "Illy begeebu arrabb kuweis".

What God gives is good enough.  

And it is.

We are thrilled for this baby guy to join our family and to show him the world that we live in.