Fashion Mujahid's blog

Let's party like it's 1431! Because it, you know, is.
What's with the no celebration of the new year thing? I've always wondered about that. The eidayn are great, really, but they lack the frivolity one needs to really have a good time. With the obligations, the recommended sunan, etc it's definitely more rite than party. And everyone needs a good party.

With the eidayn, one must rise and get all gussied up early in the morning. I don't know about you, but if I must be presentable before seven, I'm out cold by noon. Not exactly conducive to hitting the party circuit. And the whole eating sweets, making sure you've paid zakat-ul fitr, and mapping out different routes to and from the eidgah? I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but the only thing I want to map out for a party is the shortest route to the dance floor. And before you ask, Schenectady does dance with his mama.

Schenectady is doing OK as a mini-Muslim, but his duties aren't too complex, mostly consisting of not biting too often and not having a hissy fit while I pray. But he's not always going to be seven months old, which means some sort of Islamic upbringing will come into play. But which sort?
In terms of what I'd want for the Islamic aspect of his upbringing, it's been a forest of nots- not being taught to look down on women and non-Muslims, not coming to view Islam as simply a brand of politics, not using religion to be a douchebag, etc. But what should a progressive Islamic education actually contain?
It's not as if there's a progressive Muslim Sunday school or summer camp to put a kid in and let the staff do all the work; this will be quite the slog. Some things, like memorizing Qur'an, can often be assigned to tutors, but teaching a child about creation and God's role in daily life can't be delegated to a teacher- it's got to happen entirely at home. Where does one start?

Abu Salmah related that Abu Hurayrah said,"The Prophet of Allah kissed Hasan ibn 'Ali while Aqra' ibn Habis was sitting nearby. Aqra' said, 'I have ten children and have never kissed one of them.' The Prophet looked at him and said, 'Those who show no mercy will be shown no mercy.'"
Hadith - Bukhari (#91) and Muslim

I never thought I'd be chastised for giving Schenectady the best of myself, but here I am, with him in his Bjorn, hiding out from relatives and friends of relatives with an odd desire to hear Schenectady shriek for mercy. For mercy is what he needs when I've put him down and he can't cope, when he's tired and can't settle down alone, when he is out of sorts for some reason that we can't pinpoint.

Schenectady, you're surrounded. Come out with your head down.
Alas, if it were that simple! My marriage taught me, among other things, that I cannot control another human being's choices or actions; the end of my pregnancy is teaching me that God and my child have plans that are better than mine and I have no say. That lesson will be reinforced many, many times in the future, insha'Allah, and it's also giving new dimensions to my patience and my impatience.

My due date is tomorrow. That will probably be blithely ignored by Schenectady, but the significance of how far we've come, and the journey ahead, is worth noting. There is another being, a separate soul, just beneath my rib cage.S/he will be born soon, alive and healthy, insha'Allah, and a fate I cannot begin to imagine has already been decreed for the life currently kicking me. When we began this journey, I was more naive, but sadder than I am now. I am more cautious, but also filled with joy.

With my usual gusto and willingness to swim upstream, I'm seeking to have a birth experience with a minimum of medical intervention. No person, including me, can really control birth, but we can control the choices we make and the professionals whose help we seek, for the most part. Alhamdulillah, I've a midwife whose care philosophy includes, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it", a precept that I wholeheartedly agree with. However, I had to erase the following from my birth plan, as she thought the nurses (or an OB, if my midwife gets held up) wouldn't like it quite so much.
1. Episiotomy: you cut me, I cut you. Capisce?
2. No, I don't want an epidural. But if you're offering pain meds, my sis would like a vodka and tonic.
3. As you didn't pick the position in which I conceived, you don't get to pick the position in which I will give birth. You try to muscle me into some uncomfortable position, you'll be sporting a foot-shaped bruise.

Promoted to the front page

If I'd been in an actual classroom, I would have walked out in protest. But as this is an online class, I'm trying to distract myself in the hope that I'll be able to listen without wanting to scream at my computer. The insanity being peddled as fiqh sets my teeth on edge sometimes, and it makes me even crazier when it's insanity I paid to hear.

If I weren't living this, I wouldn't believe it.
My ex, at 400 Sunday morning, called demanding that I become a co-wife. Normally, I ignore his late night phone calls, but some half dozen calls in a row can be hard to just ignore. I responded to remind his sorry self what time it was, that I was pregnant, and to generally leave me the frick alone.He suggested this nonsense as a possible solution to the dispute over separation terms.
Never mind that it would put a quick, ugly end to his military career; never mind that it would be incredibly fiscally irresponsible. That chowderhead is ears deep in debt, and he suggested buying not one, but two houses? Whatever he's on, I want a hit during labor.

Two terms that you'll almost never see juxtaposed: latex burqa. But I saw them in a blog by a woman who wears one on a regular basis. Assuming that this isn't a grand hoax, this is a woman who lives in Ireland, is in a sub/dom relationship with her husband, and wears restricting and enveloping garments made of latex 24/7. No mention is made of religious or cultural background, but the author is clearly educated, fluent in English, and has an active social life, although her world is filtered through a layer of latex and any restrictions that her husband (who she calls "Sir") may choose to impose.

When life comes at you funny, you've got to laugh. Between the constant need to pee or eat, a soon to be ex who keeps finding excuses to call, and hunting for baby knitting/crochet patterns that won't nauseate me all over again, occasions for a good belly laugh abound, even though my life, some might say, is a wreck.

Being a single mother-to-be and domestic violence survivor is definitely serious business, but it's not a death sentence, nor will anyone benefit from me treating it like it is one. I have my life, one that is going through lots of changes as I seek to provide someone else with a life. But there are many women with more responsibility, more challenges and fewer resources. Who am I not to pray for them, be grateful for what I have, and yes, even enjoy it?