Rachel and I started doing a St. Patrick’s Day craft today and were talking about what St. Patrick’s Day is about. She’s pretty much convinced that it’s Uncle Patrick’s birthday and that I know nothing.
Leprechauns, shamrocks, godhead, snakes, pot of gold?
Clearly I’m crazy.
Miriam took her first successful stroller ride this week. I tried putting her in the stroller about a month ago but she hated it. She did alright this time. Rachel sat on the foot rest when she got too tired to walk. Does anyone have any words of advice on double-strollers? I think we might want one at some point.
At the beginning of the week both girls slept through the night and both girls stayed dry and I thought to myself, “This is going to be a great week!”
Hardy-har-har.
I was stressing all week about arranging transportation to get ourselves out to the leprosarium for the branch service project. We were told there was some sort of a list that we had to get on to get seats on the bus, but every time I called the Burtons, the humanitarian missionaries volunteers, no one would answer.
Sometimes when people say “bus” they actually mean “van.” Last year we also arranged a “bus” but it was just a twelve-seater van and some people had to take their private cars out to the leprosarium as well. This year we were shocked to see that we have our very own charter bus. Who knew?
Even after fixing our satellite a year ago, our television viewing experience has not been improved much. We don’t watch television much but occasionally there are things that we’d like to watch like, say, the Olympics. We didn’t get to watch those this year since our satellite isn’t working again and our internet connection is too slow.
Our landlord finally stopped by to see if he could fix the problem for us. He’s one of few people with access to the roof, which is sealed off by a locked door, which is weird because usually the roofs of buildings are open-access or private oases for penthouse residents.
Ours isn’t either of those things, although I suppose we could go up there if we wished since the door is only haphazardly framed by a pony wall of stacked bricks, dusted with mortar. With the aid of a stool we could scale the wall and see about the connection ourselves, but we are lazy.
Also, sometimes there are dogs on the roof.
Sometimes I wish that I was the one in grad school, but not really. Not right now. One grad student is plenty for our household. Still, there are classes I wish I could take and things that I wish I could research and learn about.
For example, I really want to research how Arabic writers hold their pens. Since left-handed people hold their pens differently when writing left-to-right, I wonder if right-handed people hold their pens differently when writing right-to-left. I think I hold my pen the same way for both directions, but I’m not a “native” Arabic writer. I haven’t ever paid close attention to how Arabs write, though. Do they write differently? Should I be holding my pen differently when I write in Arabic? Is writing in Arabic easier for left-handed people?
So many questions, so little time.
We tried to catch a taxi to take us to Midan Hussein from Midan Opera. No one would agree to take us there, so we walked. It isn’t far.
Today is Mawlid al-Nabi so I dragged Andrew out of the house—literally dragged him—to go downtown to see the celebrations. He was a little grumpy about having to give up his Friday afternoon nap and insisted that he wanted to take a taxi downtown since he didn’t feel like battling the metro. There weren’t many taxis to chose from and he got tired of waiting so we ended up taking the metro, anyway, which was fine.
Miriam is four months old today (where has all the time gone, right?) which is crazy. She’s recently begun trying to grow up altogether too quickly for my taste.
Right now she’s working on sitting up by herself (in addition to wriggle-crawling). We’re pretty sure she can do it, although there isn’t any way to know for certain because anytime we try to let her sit up on her own she is joined seconds later by Rachel.
…about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the foundation thereof even until now.
It rained this morning. I was the only one up—reading the first chapter of Andrew’s thesis—sitting next to the window, hearing it patter against the pane. It was kind of surreal.
To say that we are anxious to hear back about grad school would be an understatement. Already having been turned down by two schools, we are always at the edge of our seats almost biting our fingernails while we wait for news from the remaining four. It comes up in conversation every night.
Another nightly discussion: back up plans.
This is Miriam’s ooh-I-like-that-face:
Not pictured: my don’t-swing-those-beads-by-the-baby face.
This is Rachel’s yeah-whatevs-mom-nothing’s-going-to-happen face:
“Hey, Mommy! Take a picture of me, too!”
“Okay, smile!”
*focus*
*whir*
*click*
“Ahhhh!”
*flash*
Oh, you’re so funny, Rachel.
More often than not we leave Miriam in one place only to come back a few minutes later and find her in a completely different place. She’s determined to break me of the habit of leaving her on her back on a blanket on the floor—she just won’t stay there and chances are, if I leave her like that I will find her across the room on her tummy.
And what do you think the chances are that I left her on the floor like this:
Next up on our literary tour of Cairo was The Lamp of Umm Hashim (and other stories) by Yahya Haqqi. This story takes place in the area of Cairo called Sayyeda Zeinab, around the Sayyeda Zeinab Mosque. It tells the tale of “Uncle” Ismail, who left his home and family to study medicine in Europe after missing the cut in his exams in Egypt. His family lived impoverished but comfortably and scrimped and saved to support him in his educational endeavors abroad.
Haqqi aptly describes the bustle of Cairene life as viewed from an outsider when Ismail tells of his feelings upon returning to Cairo.
“The sight that met his eyes was uglier than anything he had imagined:
Before today we had never been to Al-Khayimiyya, the tent-maker’s market, in the Khan. I don’t know why. We’ve been so close, just a short walk from Bab Zwayla (where we’ve been several times), but never bothered to stop by.
This semester Andrew is taking a class called “Cairo in the Modern Literary Imaginary,” which is basically an awesome class, not that I really know since I’m not in the class but I have been reading all the books for the class and listening to a condensed lecture by Andrew when he comes home from class on Wednesday nights.
The first book we read was Midaq Alley by Naguib Mahfouz, who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1988 due to this book.
I’m pretty bland when it comes to hair styles—I’ve always been nervous about cutting, colouring, or trying out new styles so as a general rule I just don’t. Ever. My brother David once accused me of having the same haircut since I was eight years old. And, partially, he’s right. Only partially, though, because aside from occasionally having bangs, and excluding the bald baby years, I have had the same hair style my whole life.
The thought of trying something different terrifies and thrills me but it’s doubtful that I’ll ever try anything new because I have never set foot inside a real salon. Ever.
Today Miriam rolled over from her back to her front, and quite on purpose, too. She flipped from her back to her side, which she’s been able to do for quite some time, and then continued to fuss and grunt and work. When I left the room she was almost on her tummy rolling to the right but when I came back into the room she had clearly rolled to the left. Perhaps she was winding up on the right purposefully aiming to use centrifugal force to propel her over on the other side. However she managed it, she was one proud baby.
So now she can flip from front to back and back to front.
And those awkward inchworm things I mentioned that have been happening lately?
