My sister had her third son yesterday. I haven't seen him yet, since he was born in Al-Sabah's Maternity hospital and they don't allow "stranger" into the nursery. Other than that, the hospital isn't half as bad as the stories you hear.
Only the parents are allowed in the nursery apparently. My sister, who had a c-section yesterday morning, wasn't well enough to go see him, so I thought they'd at least let me go to take a picture for her. The nurse at the nursery wouldn't let me in and refused to take a picture herself (wasn't very compassionate of her).
I received a text message from my brother-in-law this morning. But was greeted by Timtim,4, with a "the doctor tore my Mommy's belly and pulled the baby out" as I walked into my parent's house later in the day. He also said that regardless of what his parents call the baby he's going to call him Bader.
Jooj, 2, who now became a middle-child, told me (at the top of his lungs) with a lot of conviction that baby was not a boy but a girl and he's gonna call her Mohammad. He's just beginning to understand gender and his confusion is cute.
Once she's discharged from the hospital, my sister's going to be moving back to my parent's home with her children and two maids (they're already there) for her 40 day nfas ("incubation period").
It's going to be loud, smelly and chaotic.
If anyone would like to join the circus this is your chance!
There's going to be 14 people including four children under the age of five living in my parents house sharing two television sets and one computer (the number does not include people working in the house).
Let's just say I'm glad I don't live in the same house (I live next door).
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
19 February 2008
07 January 2008
On homesickness.
A friend's brother returned from the U.S. awhile ago but has been suffering severe "reverse culture shock". He's homesick to what he considered "home" for over six years. She keeps asking "How long did it take you to get over it?" I usually just smile, "quite a long time."
I've realized that for me this "homesickness" seems like its always gonna linger.
What is it like? The only metaphor I can come up with is you know how when you have more people riding in car than it can carry. Say you have four people and a car seat with a baby in it in the back seat of a mid-sized sedan (its always a maroon car in my mind for some reason) and you're a backseat passenger who'snot really comfortable but after 20 minutes everyone's gotten somewhat acquainted with the crowded situation. Twenty minutes into your trip the driver decides to make a sharp turn and all the passengers have shifted in their seats so you all have to adjust your positions to try to get comfortable once again. Then 10 minutes later the same thing happens all over, the car's maneuvered in some way that makes the passengers uncomfortable, they adapt their positions just to be moved and uncomfortable again. Does it make sense?
That's what homesickness and "reverse culture shock" is like to me. Moving back to Kuwait becomes like getting into a crowded car. It's never really comfortable but you get situated and settled then one thing changes and its uncomfortable again. To a certain extent its cyclical.
I distinctly remember the few months after I moved back to Kuwait I would only listen to Mohammad Abdou (the singer not the revivalist)'s CD's in the car. (shout out to Bu Noura!)He voice was familiar, his songs made me feel safe; and as crazy at that sounds like in the midst of the chaotic roads full of idiotic drivers he was my security blanket.
Today's lesson: It's not easy coming "home".
I've realized that for me this "homesickness" seems like its always gonna linger.
What is it like? The only metaphor I can come up with is you know how when you have more people riding in car than it can carry. Say you have four people and a car seat with a baby in it in the back seat of a mid-sized sedan (its always a maroon car in my mind for some reason) and you're a backseat passenger who'snot really comfortable but after 20 minutes everyone's gotten somewhat acquainted with the crowded situation. Twenty minutes into your trip the driver decides to make a sharp turn and all the passengers have shifted in their seats so you all have to adjust your positions to try to get comfortable once again. Then 10 minutes later the same thing happens all over, the car's maneuvered in some way that makes the passengers uncomfortable, they adapt their positions just to be moved and uncomfortable again. Does it make sense?
That's what homesickness and "reverse culture shock" is like to me. Moving back to Kuwait becomes like getting into a crowded car. It's never really comfortable but you get situated and settled then one thing changes and its uncomfortable again. To a certain extent its cyclical.
I distinctly remember the few months after I moved back to Kuwait I would only listen to Mohammad Abdou (the singer not the revivalist)'s CD's in the car. (shout out to Bu Noura!)He voice was familiar, his songs made me feel safe; and as crazy at that sounds like in the midst of the chaotic roads full of idiotic drivers he was my security blanket.
Today's lesson: It's not easy coming "home".
16 September 2007
Home! (And I forgot to blog)
Aaaah! I haven’t updated since late August. Sorry During this “hiatus” I’ve had internet problems, been traveling, and gotten sick (again!)
Oh…and Ramadan Mubarak to all!
My surprise trip out of the country turned into this twisted “quest” for the meaning of home.
I made some interesting observations on different people’s idea of “home”.
The cliché is that “home is where the heart is” but I’ve always been in conflict with myself as my feelings tell me that my heart isn’t where my home is.
In talking with expats who were living in Dubai for a variety of reasons I came across people who had extremely different ideas of what home is.
On one hand, I met a Muslim British lady who wants nothing more than for her family to return to the U.K. On another, I met an atheist Dutch lady who thinks three days in the Netherlands is more than enough and living in the Middle East is much more fitting for her family.
I also met Iraqi sisters who agreed that if the situation in Baghdad was not as harsh as it is, they wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world (which was kind of a dis because I’d said that I wouldn’t be devastated to live somewhere other than Kuwait). But I guess when you lose a “home” your sense of patriotism overtakes any other definition of home.
After much thought and deliberation (shda3wa!) my conclusions are:
1) Home is where you want it to be.
2) Home is what you define as “Home”.
What struck a real cord with me was one some Syrian-American lady asked me if I was familiar with the “Third Culture Kid” label.
I’m a TCK! Of course, as is normal for me…I read about it all night and decided that what I’d previously called “the Bastard Children of America” were more kindly labeled as Third Culture Kids by sociologists. YAY! People like me are not chemically imbalanced nor are we merely confused chicken nuggets (which is a label that doesn’t apply here)…but we exist the world over and we’re apparently a global phenomenon.
All in all it has been an interesting and revealing trip.
Today’s lesson: When you ramble about personal struggles that are not shared with other people, you’re just blabbing about uninteresting topics and making a fool out of yourself.
Oh…and Ramadan Mubarak to all!
My surprise trip out of the country turned into this twisted “quest” for the meaning of home.
I made some interesting observations on different people’s idea of “home”.
The cliché is that “home is where the heart is” but I’ve always been in conflict with myself as my feelings tell me that my heart isn’t where my home is.
In talking with expats who were living in Dubai for a variety of reasons I came across people who had extremely different ideas of what home is.
On one hand, I met a Muslim British lady who wants nothing more than for her family to return to the U.K. On another, I met an atheist Dutch lady who thinks three days in the Netherlands is more than enough and living in the Middle East is much more fitting for her family.
I also met Iraqi sisters who agreed that if the situation in Baghdad was not as harsh as it is, they wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world (which was kind of a dis because I’d said that I wouldn’t be devastated to live somewhere other than Kuwait). But I guess when you lose a “home” your sense of patriotism overtakes any other definition of home.
After much thought and deliberation (shda3wa!) my conclusions are:
1) Home is where you want it to be.
2) Home is what you define as “Home”.
What struck a real cord with me was one some Syrian-American lady asked me if I was familiar with the “Third Culture Kid” label.
I’m a TCK! Of course, as is normal for me…I read about it all night and decided that what I’d previously called “the Bastard Children of America” were more kindly labeled as Third Culture Kids by sociologists. YAY! People like me are not chemically imbalanced nor are we merely confused chicken nuggets (which is a label that doesn’t apply here)…but we exist the world over and we’re apparently a global phenomenon.
All in all it has been an interesting and revealing trip.
Today’s lesson: When you ramble about personal struggles that are not shared with other people, you’re just blabbing about uninteresting topics and making a fool out of yourself.
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