Waiting for this moment to explain itself through

Firstly, I’d like to thank everyone who left such lovely comments on my last two posts.

Blogging, like most things, can be positive and enriching, or incredibly destructive.

Alhamdulilah, I’ve found my three years in the blogosphere to be in the former category. However, that doesn’t mean I have always behaved perfectly, so at this juncture, I remind myself and anyone else to be nice.

Nice. Nice is an underrated and frequently mokced quality. It does not mean being weak or artificial, like many think it does.

No, to be nice means to treat others with politeness, dignity and respect. So that even if you disagree with someone, you critique the idea or opinion instead of criticising and insulting the person.

Despite frequent reminders of the importance of correct speech within the Islamic faith, the Muslim blogosphere is not always a nice place to be.

It is sad that most Muslim blogs use comment moderation, not just to block abuse from Islamophobes but from their brothers and sisters in Islam.

Actually, sad doesn’t quite cover it. It is a devastating fact. We are meant to love each other, want the best for each other, yet we seem to relish insulting and mocking each other.

We could be so much more then that. The concept of “Online Friends” is an odd one, yet I feel like I have met so many wonderful and inspiring people through the internet. There are many wonderful blogs out there, that inspire me and push me, challenge my ideas and preconceptions.

Let’s encourage and nurture each other.

As a kind of third birthday thing, here are some posts from my old blog:

Blame it on the Burqa/This is why I mod

Prithee Fair Cliche

Barmy Stickers at Bus Stops

So Easy

Everybody is a V.I.P to Somebody

Not Right in The Head

What Rape Is

Is there a Special Fruit You Can Eat To Keep Gynaecologists At Bay?

For The Love Of…


In case you’re wondering, Oreo is fine, Alhamdulilah. I’m resisting the temptation to write reams about her, because I don’t want to bore you all!


The Last Days of the Baby Disco

Content warning: This post is about childbirth and no, that doesn’t involve any storks.

Oreo was due on the 20th of January. That came and went with no sign of anything happening and lots of advice on how to make things happen.

With all the nursery long set up, I was starting to feel like Miss Havisham with a bump.

So when I was eating my Sunday lunch and felt a small twinge, I didn’t think too much of it. Me and Mr Outlines went for a walk as the contractions gradually became more regular.  By about 8pm, they were powerful enough to have me bent over. I rang the birth centre* and the midwife told me “You sound very calm”.

“I’m not when I’m having them, I replied”.  She told me to take some paracetamol and have a warm bath. This is when we discovered we didn’t actually have any paracetamol in the house (cue Mr Outlines going on a mad dash). Sat in the bath, I felt like a whale in spasm. The warm water did not help me at all and I didn’t like not being able to move freely through each contraction.

My parents arrived and we decided it was time to got to the hospital. On the way through contractions, I was thinking of everyone I wanted to make dua for, and made du’a for them.

Bent double, I was introduced to my midwife and shown the softly lit private room where I would be giving birth. Between contractions, I said good bye to my Dad, then got changed into my nightie. The midwife examined me,  I was 4cm dilated, so thankfully something was happening, but she felt it was too early for any stronger pain relief. So I persevered and was asked if music would distract me. I said yes, tuned in the radio and a Queen song was playing. Me, my Mum and  the midwife  all agreed what a wonderful band Queen were, much to the bemusement of Mr Outlines, who still doesn’t believe me when I tell him they are one of Britain’s best selling bands.

I would like to say that I remained calm and composed throughout, but I didn’t. I screamed and shouted, although to my Mum’s great approval, I only swore once.

Gas and air time and I was puffing and blowing on it so hard, I felt like a demented saxophonist. The midwife offered me an aromatherapy massage, but it lasted about two minutes before I screamed at her to stop, because I couldn’t bear for anyone to touch me.

“When do I get to the pushing part?” I screamed.

“Soon,  dear”,  said my Mum, which as she later admitted was a big fat lie.

Strangely,  despite the fact I tremendously lazy and hate even standing in a queue, I couldn’t bear to sit or lie down. When the midwife offered me pethidine but said I’d have to lie down to have it, I refused.

And time passed. Then I was pushing, compelled to push through the buring pain, just wanting to get the baby out. The midwife guided me through each push, until finally, whoosh  she came out. I could see that she was



I couldn’t believe the size of her. It was like they’d snuck a six week old in there. I felt absolutely vindicated as I had sworn all along that she would be a big baby, but as my bump wasn’t that big no one believed me.

Mr Outlines held her while the midwife delivered the afterbirth. On examination, I was told I’d have to go to theatre for stitches. While I waited to go, I held her in my arms. As I predicted, she looked like a baby version of Mr Outlines. Off to theatre and I had a spinal anaesthesia, which was amazing, I just lay there all cozy and warm while the surgeon did what needed to be done.

Then back to my baby, Mr Outlines and my Mum. I fed the baby, while we decided on a name. The first name had been decided before she was even made, but we were still deliberating over middle names.

I fed her and and enjoyed that wonderful feeling over getting to know her little face and falling in love. A love that is not because, a love that just is.

*This is a midwife led, low tech centre, based within the delivery suite. I gave birth at an NHS (universal health care system) hospital and it was fabulous.