AssalamuAlaikum alls of y'all.

I am writing a real post, but it's not going here, it's going here. JazakAllahuKheiran to my lovely HF for buying (and maintaining) my own, brand-spanking-new domain. Say it with me now, hip hip-

Hooray!

www.abezsez.com

A beautiful thing happened two days ago. After the bounce and the jolt and the crash- after the smell of the hot asphalt and the exhaust cleared, I took Khalid from his car seat and got out of the car. To get out of the car - that was a beautiful thing.

We walked through stopped traffic to a shop on the other side of the road, where I took Khalid's clothes off and looked for injuries, and I could see, from where I sat, the back bumper of the car lying in the road and the front end of the car crumpled and pushed into the nose of an 18 wheel truck, but I could see both of my husband's parents had gotten out and were standing near it, and that was a beautiful thing too. To still be standing - that was a beautiful thing.

And the men from the street brought in Khalid's car seat, and brought his stroller, and brought water and tried to comfort and soothe Khalid. Khalid's little face was flushed pink from the heat and the fear and the pain, but the men held him and kissed him and told him he was ok, and that was a beautiful thing too.

And my right knee was bloody, and my right calf was cut, and my right ankle was swollen, and my left leg was rapidly turning purple, and my right eye was swollen, and I had hit my head, but the x-rays said that nothing was broken, and that was a beautiful thing.

And Khalid was scared and in pain, and he spent 45 minutes screaming and crying until he passed out from the effort. Even in his sleep, he shuddered and whimpered, but after two hours he woke up smiling and that, Alhamdulillah, SubhanAllah, AllahuAkbar, was the most beautiful thing of all.

Alhamdulillah, Alhamdulillah.

Always wear your seat belt.

Always keep your baby in a car seat.

Life is a beautiful thing.

I should have known what was coming when I saw how close the box of q-tips was to the edge. I should have moved them when I placed Khalid on the bed to change his diaper. I should have known that a kid who has mastered spitting up not on my shirt, but in my shirt, would be able to take advantage of the q-tips' precarious position.

Bebe's Plan for Revenge for Putting Bebe to sleep last night at the wee hour of 11. Step 1: Pre-place box of 200 q-tips on the edge of bed. Step 2: Soil diaper. Step 3: Allow self to be placed on bed and freed of diaper, thus exposing lethal weaponry. Step 4: Kick Q-tips off of bed, scattering them precisely within range of lethal weaponry. Step 5: Allow mother to stoop to pick up q-tips, foolishly leaving lethal weaponry exposed. Step 6: Ready. Step 7: Aim. Step 8: FIRE! Step 9: Beam joyously as you soak momma's back in a fresh, steady stream of revenge.

hehe.

Hats are for chewing on. That is why you open your mouth when one comes near your head. And sleeves are for sucking on, and that is why they are usually soggy. And Momma's shirt is for snacking on, and that is why it has small, wrinkled wet spots. All of these things are articles of clothing, and as such, are obviously meant to be worn on the body so that they are conveniently kept near your mouth. So why then, do they laugh at me when I suck my father's shirt collars? And why do they button mine in a place where I cannot reach, however far I poke my tongue out? What cruel twist of fate would decree that I may be clothed in bath bubbles, but be ridiculed when I should chew them? BbbBBbbBBbbb. I say again, bbBbbbBbbbbb. I froth my bubbles, yea, I froth them, at whosoever would mock the budding explorations of genius. There is no place on this earth for those who belittle the pursuit of knowledge, any more than there is place for a dirty diaper in the olfactory senses of life. To each his own. To me, my bubbles. BbbbbbBBbbBbbBb.

Somewhere when I wasn't looking, Bebeface turned 3 1/2 months. I hadn't noticed really. There were other things to look at- like spit bubbles. My son has become quite proficient at them, pursing his lips together to produce a nice, long cascade of wet, frothy silliness. Then he beams. He doesn't smile anymore, he beams, his whole bebe face lighting up in the biggest, gummiest expression of joy. A few weeks ago he noticed his own hands for the first time and then spent a few days staring at them intently. Soon afterwards, he began playing with his toys for the first time, MashaAllah. Lying underneath an assortment of hanging toys, Khalid now has mighty battles with the jingly yellow tiger. Khalid crams the tiger in his mouth, and the tiger retaliates by craming its stuffed legs into Khalid's eyebrows. Khalid growls. The tiger jingles. The battle continues. It's hard to believe that this is the same baby I brought home with me in March. That baby was a tiny, non-interactive bundle of newbornness. This baby is a wiggly, cooing, squealing, arm-waving, judo-chopping, bicycle-kicking handful of chub and happiness. The Bebeface I brought home only cried, but this one holds conversations with you. "coo! bbbbb! aaaa?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at the end of the sentence. He expects you to answer. So you coo and laugh and squeal back. And he beams. Bebeface noticed his reflection the other day, and spent a vain long time engaging it in conversation. "bbbBbbb?" (translation: "Who is that handsome devil?") I wasn't looking when it happened, but my son developed a personality. MashaAllah.

You know those plain, brown plastic Bata sandals? The ones outside of the men's section in any Pakistani masjid? The ones that everyone has a pair of to do wudu in, the ones that everone's father has owned at least once and everyone's mother has 'borrowed' around the kitchen a few times? I saw one yesterday. It was lying on its side in the fast lane on Emirate's Road, ten feet from a white sheet with a growing red stain on it. Inna Lillahi Wa Inna Ileihi Rajioon. Verily wa are God's and to Him we return.

Hoopdidoo! - My Daddy is in Dubai! w00t! I will be surprising him later today with the Bebeface that he hasn't seen since Bebeface was only a week old. Once upon a time my elder bro flew to Pak without informing us beforehand, which meant we were all super-surprised by his international appearance. My brother + wife + first child of family arrived before my dad got home, and hid in the kitchen when Daddy's motorcycle pulled in to the driveway. Daddy Dearest came in, sat on the sofa, relaxed a bit, and then was shocked with the surprise package we brought out of the kitchen- our adorable nephew & co. That's a hard act to follow, really. I want to shock my daddy's happy socks off, but I only live in the next emirate over. Still though, he doesn't know I'm coming. Maybe I can pack Bebeface into specially constructed and hollowed-out stack of pizza boxes for an extra element of amazingness. (I should poke some holes in the box first) Sob- HF, my lovely fantastic, charming, amazing, wit-T HF left today for a business trip. He'll be gone for five days. It's usually me who goes away for trips- I zoom off to the Chateau to visit mi familia for a few days and when I return, I inevitably find that HF has filled my empty spot in bed with a stand-in wife. It's usually his laptop keeping my pillow warm. Once it was his digital camera. Last time it was a large bowl that once held about half a watermelon. The situation is reversed now, and I wonder what I could possibly put on HF's pillow to keep me company- nothing could ever take his place. Except for maybe a box of Bateel. ( I love you Qamar Aunty!!!) I suppose that until HF comes home I'll just have to make do with a heating pad and a pile of BebeFace's stuffed toys. And a laptop. And a box of chocolates. And maybe a watermelon. And maybe everything. I miss you, HusbandFriend.