The Complicated Road

Yesterday, was my daughter’s 22nd birthday. As has been the case since she went to university, she is thousands of miles away, and I just get to remember the day and celebrate over here.

While living in Kuwait, she was always sheltered as any girl over here is – I would take great pains to shield her from prying eyes, weird glances, and always prayed that as she got older, she would be extra cautious, wary, strong.

Cut to the pandemic, and she truly surprised me. She managed with barely any groceries, had to move twice, pulled a muscle while moving resulting in excruciating pain, suffered through an undiagnosed stomach virus and had to make emergency hospital visits during the height of the pandemic.

But for all I got out of her, it appeared as if she was just breezing through. She truly became the bravest girl I’ve known. That little tiny thing I had brought home 19 years before became a girl of steel (she had just turned 19 when the pandemic struck fully).

I pray she always remains safe, and remains true to herself. God bless my little one.

I’d read a long time ago that to decide to have a child is to decide to have your heart forever outside your body; and that is so true – for both her and my son.

As for last, but not least, I’m going to leave you with a little story that still gets me in stitches. One of my favourites regarding one of my children, and one that I’ve related many, many times.

My daughter, as a little child, was always so hyper; it took tremendous effort to keep her interested in anything for long. So, going to church on the weekend was something akin to drama. I used to tell her and my son (2 years and 4 months older) whenever we went to church, that we were going to God’s house and to see Jesus, hoping that the silent reverence we kept at home while praying, would carry over to church.

Now, during our weekly visits to church, her father had realized that she would act up sometime just after the mass started. This was his escape green signal to offer to take her outside the church where he would let her run around while he conversed with anyone he found. At the end of most masses, I would always find her running around the church courtyard and him blabbering with anyone he had found, stranger or not.

But what would happen if I was going to church with my children by myself? I would use the “We’re going to God’s house, Jesus’ house; we mustn’t make any noise – and of course there are a lot of people around, so NO noise”.

And then on fine day, on Easter, my car would not start. I had to take a taxi to church (their father was at work), and so was late for the evening mass. By the time, I entered the church, it was already full, and I managed to just get standing place right at the back.

Holding both their little hands tightly on either side (I believe she was just over 2 and he was 4 something). Unfortunately, as I had a bad back at the time, I could not carry her; unfortunately, she was surrounded by the backsides of people, and she started to get antsy.

There I was praying that the mass would get over quickly, but of course, it was Easter. And the priest, facing a huge crowd took advantage of the opportunity to talk to his heart’s content. So there I was, standing at the back, packed like sardines with two little children and a whole bunch of very tired looking people who had come in for mass after their working day (Sunday is not a holiday in the Middle East).

After quite some time of talking non-stop, the priest decided to take a breather. And that’s when my very frustrated and overactive little one decided to speak out in a very loud voice – “When is Jesus gonna stop talking?”.

OMG!! Freeze… I didn’t know where to look; I was so embarrassed. When I did look, it was to see a lot of very amused faces, understanding but totally amused. I just smiled and took my kids out of the church, furious thoughts rushing through my head – she actually thought we were meeting Jesus every week, and He had been the one going on and on?; that ‘I’ had put those thoughts in her head saying we were heading to Jesus’ house.

Suffice to say, we spent the rest of the mass standing outside, with me praying, not for the joy of His resurrection, but that no one would recognize me as “the one with ‘that’ little child”.

To this day, that is one of my favourite memories, and as much as I would have wished for the ground to swallow me whole at the time, I do cherish this memory with all my heart. Thank you for the funny memory. Happy 22nd Birthday, my Baby!