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Showing posts with label dutchman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dutchman. Show all posts

Friday, March 18, 2016

The sustainability of selfless parents

This article originally appeared in the August 2014 Family issue of Aquila Style magazine.

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Why taking care of yourself is the first step to providing good care for your children.

Image: Fotolia

As children, my friends and I would compare our parents to one another. At five years old, I pleaded with my mother to wear skirts like the other mothers of my kindergarten classmates. When I was 14, I car-pooled to school with a neighbour and remember being amazed to learn that her mother – who worked full-time – went for massages regularly.

In comparison, my own mother was a full-time stay-at-home-mum, and we always employed a domestic worker as well. I never remembered her going to a spa or anything similar, even though I’m sure she was pretty stressed out running the logistics of a household, raising three children (one with special needs), and managing a live-in employee virtually by herself (my dad is the hands-off kind of father typical of his generation). I thought she was selfless, always putting others before herself, as mothers should ideally be.

Looking back, I’m not sure why I thought that way about motherhood, other than it was probably because society had normalised it. As a new mother myself, I understand that this model of selfless motherhood was not only unsustainable and unhealthy for me; it was also apt to drive me nuts. So, with the birth of our son six months ago as a turning point for our own household, my husband and I reconfigured our duties and came up with strategies to keep ourselves physically and mentally recharged.

Delegate and take turns

My husband and I consider ourselves co-parents, with our duties pretty evenly divided. While we both work, I have the fortune of working from home. Being able to care for your child while also pursuing your own interests is priceless to me.

There are certain chores that are exclusively mine: breastfeeding is one of them. My husband takes out the garbage and recycling. For all other chores, we take turns.

On Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays I am the “primary parent”, taking responsibility for diaper changes and entertaining the baby when he needs attention. My husband takes this role on Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays. On Fridays – what I consider my “day off” – I get to work undisturbed when my mother-in-law comes to babysit.

Pay someone

Exclusive breastfeeding takes energy. I often joke to my husband that I’ve already prepared 6–8 meals every day. In return, he’s in charge of preparing breakfasts and dinners every day. Both of us work full-time, so we find it affordable to get a cleaner to come every two weeks to do the heavier household work like vacuuming, wiping down surfaces, folding clothes and mopping the floor. It depends on what you consider the more difficult chores – laundry and cooking are easy for us.

My son is also reaching an age when he’s starting to recognise who his primary carers are, so he won’t be okay with an unfamiliar face. I’m lucky that our babysitter is an elderly Indonesian woman – my son probably finds our faces rather similar!

Reconceptualise “we” time

While I love spending time with my son, I think it’s also important to spend time with only my husband. Admittedly, “date nights” don’t happen much because, so far, going everywhere as a family unit is just easier for all of us.

I lucked out with my son being such a good sleeper and having a calm disposition. My husband and I still manage to do many things we used to do as a couple, like watching movies and going to the park. But it’s important to have some time to myself, too.

Find “me” time

While I get several opportunities a week to be by myself for a few hours, I don’t always take all the time off because of the hassle of pumping and storing breast milk for when I’m away. At this point in time, I feel that two hours of exercise a week is the right amount of time for me to recharge physically. I go to Pilates twice a week and a chiropractic adjustment once every few weeks. On some Fridays, I indulge in my biggest treat: spending an hour or two at a neighbourhood cafe with a book and a cup of tea.

Surprisingly, what I relish most about being by myself is that I can cycle to my destination. Even while I was pregnant it was my main mode of transport. (My son can’t join me yet; I still have to wait a few months before he can sit up properly in a bicycle child seat.)

Since becoming a mother I’ve had to let go of my adolescent notions of what it means to be a good parent. Not eating properly, not exercising and feeling stressed can negatively affect my ability to feed, play with and pay attention to my son, all of which ultimately affect our relationship.

I’ve also learned that it’s important to listen to yourself and your child, in order to figure out what works for you both. The individual needs of families vary tremendously, and it won’t be long before it is my son who is comparing me with his friends’ mums.

Image: Fotolia

Sunday, October 12, 2014

On death and why I do what I do

Last night, I was having a heart-to-heart with the Dutchman about ideas of death, and God. While we both have wildly varying ideas, we take comfort in the fact that we are at least impossible to understand by much of the mainstream.

He told me that as a kid, he prayed extra hard during funerals that were held in churches because he felt like there was a stronger chance that God was there during that sombre moment. Helping to create the atmosphere was some serious organ music (playing Ave Maria), flowers, people wishing each other "Gecondoleerd", crying because he felt sad that other people were crying, and the ubiquitous and uniquely Dutch "coffee table" of sandwiches and cakes served after the memorial service.

I told him about the time I waited in the living room of a late grandaunt as a jenazah professional (JP) prepared her body for burial. She removed the wads of cotton wool that had been stuffed into the body's ears and nostrils (after being washed, to trap excess fluids), applied makeup (loose powder, eyeliner and lipstick) to the exposed face, and sprinkled drops of attar perfume. Her face was the only part of her left exposed, and JP asked the attendees if anyone wanted to give their last kisses to my late grandaunt.

A few persons away, my mother nudged me to come forward. I must have been about 7 years old and I tried to silently, telepathically communicate to my mother that I didn't want to kiss a cold face. (She looked so cold.) I had no idea if she was going anywhere else after she was placed in the ground.

I've been raised to fear a Hell (and dang those Sunday school teachers know how to describe it), but not to love a Heaven. As I grew older, I often found myself making decisions based on the fear of "going to Hell", even as the idea of a hot place grew less and less real to me.

A very good friend said to me once, "What if it was an all an illusion? What if, on Judgement Day, God said everyone gets to go to Paradise?" While my idea of justice makes me lean to the other side of this argument (how can evil people get away with it in this world and the next?), I do wonder if the version I was sold tells just a tiny part of the story?

Then I think, it could have been so easy for me. If I just prayed, fasted, wore a hijab, married an ustaz, got a stable job, had a few kids, saved up for hajj, spent my retirement reading the Qur'an and doing dhikr non stop, and spent the rest of the time advising others to do things just like I do, would it have been enough? If life is - as they say - about pleasing God, and the formula has already been decoded into a simple series of steps, would that guarantee me (or at least give me a pretty good chance of) Paradise? Is living life without rocking the boat the key?

The Dutchman can hear that I am asking rhetorical questions. "Obviously, you don't think this is the only way."

That's true, I don't. I'd like to think that rocking the boat, creating shit storms when trying to defend the oppressed and upsetting people into thinking differently matter too. This was not taught to me for many reasons: patriarchy and authoritarianism are the most important. I was taught that authority is only to be obeyed, not to be challenged or God forbid, usurped.

So where does that leave me? On days when it seems everyone hates what I write and what I do and can't stop calling me names, I try to remember the reason I believe I am living for: I am a creation of Allah, and this is my testimony of faith.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Why I don't sing in a choir.

One morning, the Dutchman and I tried to sing a song about love, taking turns with each word.

DM: Love, love, love...

Me: Love, love, love, love, love...

DM: Love, love, love...

Me: Love, love...

DM: There's nothing you can do that can't be done...

Me: ...Makes the world go round.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Chicken soup and colonisation.

I was making chicken soup last night, and marveled at how adding a cinnamon stick, star anise, some cardamom pods and some cloves made it taste just like my mother's chicken soup. It also made me wonder how these innocuous little dried things were practically the cause for the colonisation of what is now Indonesia.

When it's been going on the stove for an hour or two, the whole house smells like chicken soup. Just then, the Dutchman came home and commented:

"If you guys hadn't been making chicken soup, the Dutch ships would have never stopped at those islands!"

Monday, March 25, 2013

Chocolate balls.

I used to worry that I couldn't tell if there were any alcohol in chocolates. Once I ate chocolate easter eggs containing whiskey and didn't realise it until my friend said my face was really red.

The Dutchman was gifted a small box of chocolates from the office. Accidentally bit into one that tasted really weird, so I spat it out in the sink.

"I think I'm starting to recognise the taste of alcohol. Just so you know, don't eat the chocolate balls, okay?"

His reponse? "Yeah, you should avoid the balls in general."

Sunday, March 17, 2013

My inner Shafi'i.

Even though we should really be chilling out on the weekends, the Dutchman and I are always finding excuses to have some tea and cake at our favourite neighbourhood cafe -- just two roads away.

Just as we were leaving, a couple walks in with their pet dog.

Me: Huh, you can bring dogs into the cafe??

Dutchman: Relax, it's just your inner Shafi'i speaking.


Monday, October 29, 2012

A box of chocolates is like...

...life with the Dutchman.

A few days ago I received a box of very pretty, artisanal, handmade chocolates and a bouquet of flowers from my colleagues (for falling off my bicycle -- I ought to do that more often!).

I looked at the label and most of the chocolates had some sort of alcohol in them. Now I've never intentionally had  a drop of alcohol in my life, but I have had several unpleasant and unexpected experiences with liquor chocolates. Because when it comes to miniscule amounts of alcohol, the irony of never having tasted Irish Coffee or Bailey's Cream meant that I had no idea if there was some of it in a piece of chocolate (at least until I feel flushed and unbearably hot for no good reason).


In this box, some were liquor free and some were not. The problem was, there was also no way to identify which one was which. Hmm, there was one mocha-flavoured piece. I picked up the one that smelled most strongly of coffee and bingo!

But now there was a missing piece -- I couldn't possibly give it away to someone else. But maybe I could still offer a piece or two to my friends if they came to visit.

So when the Dutchman came home he decided that these chocolates were too fabulous to leave in peace, and he decided to take a tiny bite out of every piece to figure out and match it to the description on the box.

There was one piece with an orange dot on it. I was convinced that was the one containing "mandarin liqueur" because it was well, orange!

Me: Leave that one alone, I'm pretty sure it's the mandarin one.
Dutchman: (Picks it up)
Me: Nooo!
DM: (Nibbles) Yup you're right, there's alcohol in this. (Puts it back in the box)
Me: That's what I said! Now there's a bite taken out of it -- who's going to eat it now?
DM: (Shrugs)