A dramatic morning - Tharaa heads off to camp and Shakeel's morning of forgetfulness

Every year the 3 senior grades at my kids' primary school venture out into the world, leaving their yearning, aching, grieving mommies behind. Or perhaps that's just my reaction to my kids going on school camp.

Today was, once again, Tharaa (11)'s turn. She had been talking about it for the past 2 weeks - though not as happily as one might expect, because unfortunately she seems to take after her clingy mother and was therefore dreading leaving the family behind.

So, selfishly, I left her to make her own arrangements while I carried on, happily in denial. 

Until yesterday, when I realised that the day I'd been dreading was nearly upon us and that I'd been so wrapped up in my own issues that I'd left my poor baby to do her own planning and packing. So, to assuage my guilt, I set about baking cupcakes - loads and loads of them, as if burying her in cupcakes would compensate for my selfishness.

So, as expected, this morning was a crazy rush. The bus was due to leave at 07:30 a.m. , which meant that we had to leave here by 07:10. But, by 07:20 I was still, after 30 minutes of negotiating, screaming and yelling, trying to get Aisha (3) dressed. It was also round about that time that I discovered that Tharaa had only packed one pair of shoes, no long sleeved tops, no socks and neither a toothbrush nor soap. 

And then, as we headed out the door, Nuha (8) spotted Shakeel (14)'s Social Science (History and Geography) notebook on the table along with his pencil case. I felt ill - my son had forgotten his study notes and stationery on the morning of such an important exam!! I debated whether I should greet Tharaa there and then (sending her off with her dad) and then rush off to Shakeel's school OR just let him suffer the consequences of his negligence.

But I had no time to waste by thinking about it - so I packed his stuff into the car and undertook to deal with that (or not) once Tharaa was safely on the bus. 

The drive to the school was torturous, with Aisha screaming and yelling that she did not want to be strapped into the car seat. Despite the fact that I'd conceded to her wearing her tattered (and I mean completely punctured with holes) pink tights to school, she remained in a bad mood because of the stressful start to the day.

I felt sorry for Tharaa. Before we left home, she'd walked into our room and then become all teary as she embraced Mo and me. In the car, she sat worrying about the very real possibility that she might miss the bus. Then, to make matters worse, just as we headed into town, a bus - exactly like the one they were to take - drove toward us in the opposite direction. I silently prayed that we had not caused her to miss her camp. Instead of the takeaway meal Mo promised he'd buy for her on our way to school, he only had time to grab a small pie.  But I don't think she'll starve - although she only took half the cupcakes, she still has enough with her to feed a small army. 

The goodbyes were not as difficult this year. I promised her that I would not embarrass her by crying and I hardly shed a tear, but focused on being happy for her instead. Maybe I'm growing up. Even she seemed happy and excited. Maybe she's happy that I'm growing up.

Tharaa - right in front wearing the pink scarf

After kissing  and hugging her and then running after her to kiss her and hug her again - and again - they finally headed off. And naturally, this was when Aisha started to cry for her sister. By that time I'd had enough of her nagging and tears and, for the first time, I was actually relieved at the prospect of dropping her off at school.

And then I was left with the decision as to what to do about Shakeel's notebook and pencil case. Mo felt that I should just leave him to suffer the consequences of his negligence, which I would probably have done had the consequences been him having to suffer punishment by missing a break or detention. But, what if the notebook meant the difference between him getting 70% or 80% or, heaven forbid, passing or failing! And with that thought, I jumped into the car and dashed to school to ensure that my child got his hands on this potentially life-changing notebook. 

Arriving at the school, I wondered whether this was really necessary or if I was just making an arse of myself - after all, the notebook contained very few pages of written work, since most of his studying was probably done from his textbook, which I was certain he had with him. But, then deciding that there might just be a vitally important paragraph in the notebook which could make all the difference, I headed into the school.

When I got back home, I heaved a huge sigh of relief as I walked through the door. I was alone, with a stressful morning of averted crises safely behind me. I started to tidy up, when - on Shakeel's bed - I saw his Social Science text book.

" #$%^  it, " I told myself, " that kid's on his own."

And I sat down to enjoy the remaining pile of cupcakes.

Tick tock - a cry baby's countdown

Last week Tharaa (10) reminded me of something I'd been trying to forget. ''Mommy, I'm so excited for my school camp next week''.

Oh no. I am such a wimp about my kids spending time away from me. I pine, I weep and feel sorry for myself. Shakeel (13) has been on two of these school camps already. I remember his first time two years ago - I'd stared after the departing bus, eyes brimming with tears, lip quivering uncontrollably, snot suspended threateningly, trying desperately not to start bawling in front of the other parents, who calmly waved to their kids and then proceeded to chat to one another as if it were just any other day. I'd waited until I got into the car before bawling like a baby, sobbing madly at the cruelty of the school for ripping my baby out of the arms of his needy clingy adoring mother.

Then Tharaa asked, ''Mommy, will you cry for me the way you did for Shakeel?'' Yes, the fact that I'd been avoiding the thought of her leaving was an indication of how I felt. But suddenly I felt pressured. What if the morning of her departure arrived and I couldn't cry? What if I felt sad, but only burst into tears once she'd left - would she feel unloved? What if I had grown emotionally since Shakeel's last camp - and am now a normal well-adjusted mommy, no longer emotionally dependent on her kids? (And now I'm trying to ignore the rude laughter in my head).

But I needn't have worried. In fact, my concern should have been that I'd, once again, be threatening to embarrass myself and my daughter. Each time I looked at her as she excitedly queued and chatted with her little friends, I had to clench my jaw and pinch my thigh to distract myself from my threatening tears. ''Stop being such a baby,'' I rebuked myself, but the wimp in me ignored the reprimand and proceeded to tear up, smiling bravely at my daughter, who I am sure, no longer wished for her mommy to express her love through her tears, but by not embarrassing her.

Eventually the bus left. I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled at parents' jocular comments to one another. ''Be normal,'' I warned myself sharply, '' for just a little while longer''. This time the wuss in me complied, docile and defeated. Resigning myself to the fact that my kids are growing up and embarking upon their own adventures without me. Trying to be happy for them so that they needn't feel guilty for abandoning me. And counting down the hours until the return of my baby - and the restoration of my incomplete and temporarily dismembered family.

Children flee the clutches of desperate clingy mum

I awoke this morning feeling complete. Everything that had been missing for the past three days had been restored- and I was at peace.


My uncomfortable feeling started on Thursday afternoon, when Tharaa asked if she could spend Friday afternoon at her friend's house.

With the exception of Friday evenings,which we spend at Mo's sister's place,and Saturday evenings, which is spent by my mum; Mo, the kids and I usually spend all our time together outside of school and work. Whether it be at movies, picnics, going for ice-cream or just spending time at home- we are always together.

Our relative isolation is more a result of circumstance than choice. We do not live in a neighbourhood where I'd feel safe to let the kids ride their bicycles and go out and meet other children. Also, their school is situated in the city, so school friends come from all over as a result of their parents working in the city. Their exposure to their school friends outside school, therefore necessarily results only from organised play dates. These do not take place very often.

To date, this situation has not really been a problem. Generally the company of their siblings has sufficed and they have never really needed other children during the school holidays (although they adore spending time with their cousins twice a week).

This situation suits me well too, as I get to have them around all the time. It is especially beneficial to me, since the older two are there to keep the younger two occupied.

So this weekend, I felt as if part of me was missing. Immediately after their school's early dismissal at 11:30 am on Friday morning, Tharaa went to her friend's house for the whole afternoon. Shakeel, Nuha and Aisha spent the afternoon at home with me and although I spent the afternoon playing, chatting and arguing with them, I couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that something was missing. I knew that I was being completely unreasonable- spending a few hours away from home is completely normal, I knew; but I selfishly wanted her home with us.

It turned out that I was not the only one who felt her absence. At dinner, Nuha and Aisha couldn't stop talking about their sister, trying to guess what she'd be doing if she had been there.

My happiness at having her back home was short-lived, because I knew that Shakeel had been invited to spend the weekend at his friend, Caleb's house. I absolutely hated the idea of him being gone for two whole days.

Our rule is that other than organised karate club/school camps or sleeping over at grandparents, we do not allow our children to attend sleepovers. To ensure that Shakeel would not miss out on a minute of the fun (and to stop his incessant begging), his amazing dad said that he would fetch Shakeel at 23:00 on Saturday night and would take him back at 07:00am the following morning.

Although Shakeel initially agreed, we knew that, come Saturday night, we would still have to deal with begging and complaints. The begging came in the form of an SMS from Caleb, which read,
"Sir, can shakeel please sleep over because we really want him to sleep (sic) and so does he. Also its a wast (sic) of time and petrol and money, so please think about it please ... Caleb"

To which Mo responded
" I appreciate your concern for my time and money, but Shakeel knows the rules. I will fetch him later tonight".

Shakeel woke his poor father up at 06:45 on Sunday morning.
"Daddy, I'm going to be late!" he complained, as his poor father tried to catch his last few minutes of sleep. Late for what? Thoughts of violence passed through my mind, as Aisha stirred and moaned in response to having her sleep disturbed. Interrupted sleep inevitably results in a unstoppable tantrum. Luckily for him she went back to sleep.

When we collected him at about 17:30 yesterday late afternoon, he could barely keep his eyes open. We headed off to our usual Sunday evening prayer meeting; where I experienced more than the usual feelings of peace and gratitude, which usually wash over me at these gatherings. I was so deeply appreciative and happy that my family was back together once more.

I know that I am probably coming across as way too clingy (and maybe a bit loony), and that I probably am. It's just that I know that our family as we know it, is bound to change at some point, as everyone starts to go his/her own way.

Is it so wrong that I want to ensure that we take advantage of every second we have with one another in the meantime, before the inevitable happens?