I got around to reading a few more books recommended to me, The Screwtape Letters and The Help. I will review them in further detail later.
For now I have picked up what I beleive is the latest installment in the Shopaholic series, Mini Shopaholic. Thought it has not been over two or three years since I read the earlier books, I am already annoyed with the main character, Becky. I have become a mother, as had she, but she has not grown up one bit. Ugh.
Friday, October 21, 2011
So the other shoe drops. Sort of.
Vacations scare me. The thought of going away and having a great time is something I always look forward to. But something nags me in the back of my mind, "how could I be so lucky?" I usually expect to return home to some sort of sickness or catastrophe, and Alhamdulilah by the grace of Allah it has not happened yet I can never let go of this (irrational?) fear.
As I try my hardest to settle into sleep on Wednesday night (I say try because the wanna-be Beckham inside me has other plans), I cannot help but smile from excitement over the next day's plans. Storytime at the library, high tea with my best friend, followed by meeting up at Girl's Night Out, a shopping event in downtown Westfield, NJ. I know it is not a Disney cruise, or a weekend in Paris, but I know how lucky I will be to have the time to enjoy my famly, friends, and beautiful weather, living in a place with no fear of open air violence or political turbulence. Perhaps it is because I am a mommy now, but I have learned to appreciate and enjoy simple days.
We return home, and I have a fitful night, with very little sleep, not because of my daughter, but again, thanks to David Beckham. Around 6 am, I hear my mom's car alarm go off. It is still dark outside, so as I look out the window, nothing looks unusual in the driveway. An hour later, as my sister prepares to leave for work, she discovers the car window smashed and her optometry kit, full of expensive tools, stolen. It was the first and only time she had
left it in the car.
So that was the other shoe dropping. Reading this now makes me feel silly. We were so blessed that our home was safe, we were all asleep (well not I) in our warm, cozy bed, and any real danger did not befall us. So really, it was a blessing, not a misfortune right? Still I think I should plan a few dull days ahead of me, and try not too have too much fun.
As I try my hardest to settle into sleep on Wednesday night (I say try because the wanna-be Beckham inside me has other plans), I cannot help but smile from excitement over the next day's plans. Storytime at the library, high tea with my best friend, followed by meeting up at Girl's Night Out, a shopping event in downtown Westfield, NJ. I know it is not a Disney cruise, or a weekend in Paris, but I know how lucky I will be to have the time to enjoy my famly, friends, and beautiful weather, living in a place with no fear of open air violence or political turbulence. Perhaps it is because I am a mommy now, but I have learned to appreciate and enjoy simple days.
We return home, and I have a fitful night, with very little sleep, not because of my daughter, but again, thanks to David Beckham. Around 6 am, I hear my mom's car alarm go off. It is still dark outside, so as I look out the window, nothing looks unusual in the driveway. An hour later, as my sister prepares to leave for work, she discovers the car window smashed and her optometry kit, full of expensive tools, stolen. It was the first and only time she had
left it in the car.
So that was the other shoe dropping. Reading this now makes me feel silly. We were so blessed that our home was safe, we were all asleep (well not I) in our warm, cozy bed, and any real danger did not befall us. So really, it was a blessing, not a misfortune right? Still I think I should plan a few dull days ahead of me, and try not too have too much fun.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The one about the book
I vaguely remember when I had started this blog wanting to do book reviews. I am not sure when I forgot about doing that, but here goes another try at it. The other day I was hit with the realization that I have not read a book, a real book, meant for my age group and without pictures or pop-up characters, in nearly two years. At least this was an easy fix, or so I thought.
Often my eighteen month old and I fight over the use of the laptop, ipad or even my cell phone. Naturally I assumed it was because kids love screens. I hate that she wants these things so I try to limit my use around her. A book would be different, right? Wrong! Every time I sat down with my first book in two years, Noor would run over, say "I want book", taking my book to the nearest sofa and plop down to read with the book in her lap. As frustrating as it was, I must admit I was proud of her.
On Saturday we took a family trip to the local library. I recently received many book recommendations from a few friends, via facebook, so I had decided to work my way down the list. The first book was "Mornings in Jenin," by Susan Abulhawa. Fiction, which is usually what I prefer to read.
Despite the battle over the book with my toddler, I was able to read it here and there and within 24 hours I got through its' 325 pages. In truth I had trouble putting it down or thinking of anything else until I got through it. I had forgotten how time consuming reading can be when you are someone like me who has the need to know how it ends.
I started off reading the book like it was any other piece of fiction. I was immediately drawn to and immersed in the lives of the characters, spanning several generations of a Palestine family from the 1940's and onwards. I planted myself on their farm, in their home, gathering their harvest by their side.
Then in 1948, the Israeli regime began threatening their homes, their lives, their livelihoods. I was engrossed in the world of guns, violence and the fear that they lived in, interspersed with happy moments, a marriage, a child being born. As I kept reading I was unable to remind myself that I was not in Palestine with them.
Halfway into the book it hit me hard. I really was not in their world. I looked around me, suddenly thrust into my reality, four sturdy walls, a soft bed, a ceiling not ridden with holes, listening to the sound of crickets chirping outside my windows, not bulldozers or guns.
And the it REALLY hit me. This was NOT fiction. These were characters based on real people in real situations. How could I have been so numb, so stupid, as to forget that I was not just reading a piece of fiction, I was in fact reading history. The realization was heartbreaking. When I hear or see the news of Palestine in the media, I am sad for them, but watching these characters who I had placed myself next to go through the actual events put everything in a different light. I could not be the same person after reading this book.
Often my eighteen month old and I fight over the use of the laptop, ipad or even my cell phone. Naturally I assumed it was because kids love screens. I hate that she wants these things so I try to limit my use around her. A book would be different, right? Wrong! Every time I sat down with my first book in two years, Noor would run over, say "I want book", taking my book to the nearest sofa and plop down to read with the book in her lap. As frustrating as it was, I must admit I was proud of her.
On Saturday we took a family trip to the local library. I recently received many book recommendations from a few friends, via facebook, so I had decided to work my way down the list. The first book was "Mornings in Jenin," by Susan Abulhawa. Fiction, which is usually what I prefer to read.
Despite the battle over the book with my toddler, I was able to read it here and there and within 24 hours I got through its' 325 pages. In truth I had trouble putting it down or thinking of anything else until I got through it. I had forgotten how time consuming reading can be when you are someone like me who has the need to know how it ends.
I started off reading the book like it was any other piece of fiction. I was immediately drawn to and immersed in the lives of the characters, spanning several generations of a Palestine family from the 1940's and onwards. I planted myself on their farm, in their home, gathering their harvest by their side.
Then in 1948, the Israeli regime began threatening their homes, their lives, their livelihoods. I was engrossed in the world of guns, violence and the fear that they lived in, interspersed with happy moments, a marriage, a child being born. As I kept reading I was unable to remind myself that I was not in Palestine with them.
Halfway into the book it hit me hard. I really was not in their world. I looked around me, suddenly thrust into my reality, four sturdy walls, a soft bed, a ceiling not ridden with holes, listening to the sound of crickets chirping outside my windows, not bulldozers or guns.
And the it REALLY hit me. This was NOT fiction. These were characters based on real people in real situations. How could I have been so numb, so stupid, as to forget that I was not just reading a piece of fiction, I was in fact reading history. The realization was heartbreaking. When I hear or see the news of Palestine in the media, I am sad for them, but watching these characters who I had placed myself next to go through the actual events put everything in a different light. I could not be the same person after reading this book.
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