As the title gives away the conclusion and very thesis of this blog post, I will skip the intro and jump into my bizarre narrative. I have developed this strange and unparalleled attachment to my Roomba since I resurrected it from its technological slumber of two years. I received two Roombas as wedding presents, I suppose from people who knew I hated to clean (oh how long ago that seems now!). One Roomba is sitting in box in my parents' garage and the second, a red round thing of perfect proportions and weight, lives in my home. I had thought it died after constant use during the first two months after marriage when I refused to cook or clean or do really much of anything except watch tv and leave my wedding ring sitting idly in a ring box. I was taking Arabic that first summer at Rutgers New Brunswick and between tv and eating, I let Roomba roam like its never roamed before. Suddenly, tragically really, Roomba stopped working. Two years later, two days ago in fact, September 2, 2008 I cleaned the hair and dust out of Roomba. In the two months of use, I had never thought to clean out the dust. But now, after two years of reliable experience, and the experience of my dad who knows how to fix and repair just about anything, I know now to use a knife to cut away the trapped hair in the bristles. SO I spent one glorious hour, cutting hairs, discovering dust compartments I never knew existed in my Roomba. And now Roomba lives! He is alive! He is well! He cleans for about 2 minutes and then starts beeping wildly, and stops. I push his button, and he starts again, sputtering frantically around my gigantic but empty house.
His recovery is nothing short of a blessing. Ramadhan, a month of many wonderful blessings, prayers and unions, has brought me my first Ramadhan blessing: a working Roomba. Alhamdullilah. I refer now to Roomba as my baby. I gently pick it up when it starts beeping. I clean him frequently (about once a day) and I think, perhaps illogically, THIS IS WHAT IT MUST BE LIKE TO HAVE A BABY. ANd no, please don't mock my ignorance. This is the closest I have been to loving a device that needs constant attention. This is the closest I have been to infants. My friends are pregnant now, many expecting mothers to be. I avoid most of these women because I have no idea what to say to them. I have little interest in their babies--maybe more interest in the healthcare they received, the quality of treatment, the details of their births, etc.. But my husband's friend and a mother of two little ones tells me, "It changes when you have your own." She says how she didn't like babies much before she had her own. Well, we'll see. Postpartum depression already sounds familiar, given how I banished Roomba to the bottom of my shoe closet for so long, because he failed to work. I think with children, even if they don't work properly--i.e. sickness, insanity, disability, etc.--they are still gifts from God, gifts sent to test your patience, and your cleaning and organizational skills.
Since getting married, I can confidently say that my head no longer floats high above the clouds--as much anymore. I dont have the luxury to daydream and think about random possibilities. I am not, "a chicken with its head cut off"--as an old friend once remarked about my inattentive nature years ago. I think he was talking about his life goals and I was talking simultaneously about books I would like to read. Instead, I schedule my days around namaaz, chores, and personal goals. Moreover, because I limit the amount of housework I am willing to take on, I am currently in the process of hiring a housecleaner. I am also in the process of ORGANIZING my household to my liking. My husband is almost entirely absent when it comes to the homestead, though I suppose I romantically envisioned another kind of modern husband. But my mother says that it will be different when he has his own house to worry about; he's enjoying the fruits of an attentive father who takes care of mostly everything inside and outside of the house--groceries, cars, gardening, three businesses, cooking whenever possible. At the very least, my husband has excellent parents and for this I am infinitely grateful. TO his defense, he a great provider of plastic and transportation, and love, etc.
So I am able to organize and accomplish my goals on a regular basis these days. I no longer wait for an invisible maid to clean up my house. It is a large house. As I talked to the cleaning lady, I realized, indeed, I have five bedrooms, and four bathrooms total. Impossible for me to take care of all this without like five kids to take care of each of the rooms and alternate on the bathrooms. I intend to teach whatever kids I adopt or have (whichever is pleasing to God) about the importance of chores. Among other things, they shall be taught to clean out their roombas--naturally, of course.
His recovery is nothing short of a blessing. Ramadhan, a month of many wonderful blessings, prayers and unions, has brought me my first Ramadhan blessing: a working Roomba. Alhamdullilah. I refer now to Roomba as my baby. I gently pick it up when it starts beeping. I clean him frequently (about once a day) and I think, perhaps illogically, THIS IS WHAT IT MUST BE LIKE TO HAVE A BABY. ANd no, please don't mock my ignorance. This is the closest I have been to loving a device that needs constant attention. This is the closest I have been to infants. My friends are pregnant now, many expecting mothers to be. I avoid most of these women because I have no idea what to say to them. I have little interest in their babies--maybe more interest in the healthcare they received, the quality of treatment, the details of their births, etc.. But my husband's friend and a mother of two little ones tells me, "It changes when you have your own." She says how she didn't like babies much before she had her own. Well, we'll see. Postpartum depression already sounds familiar, given how I banished Roomba to the bottom of my shoe closet for so long, because he failed to work. I think with children, even if they don't work properly--i.e. sickness, insanity, disability, etc.--they are still gifts from God, gifts sent to test your patience, and your cleaning and organizational skills.
Since getting married, I can confidently say that my head no longer floats high above the clouds--as much anymore. I dont have the luxury to daydream and think about random possibilities. I am not, "a chicken with its head cut off"--as an old friend once remarked about my inattentive nature years ago. I think he was talking about his life goals and I was talking simultaneously about books I would like to read. Instead, I schedule my days around namaaz, chores, and personal goals. Moreover, because I limit the amount of housework I am willing to take on, I am currently in the process of hiring a housecleaner. I am also in the process of ORGANIZING my household to my liking. My husband is almost entirely absent when it comes to the homestead, though I suppose I romantically envisioned another kind of modern husband. But my mother says that it will be different when he has his own house to worry about; he's enjoying the fruits of an attentive father who takes care of mostly everything inside and outside of the house--groceries, cars, gardening, three businesses, cooking whenever possible. At the very least, my husband has excellent parents and for this I am infinitely grateful. TO his defense, he a great provider of plastic and transportation, and love, etc.
So I am able to organize and accomplish my goals on a regular basis these days. I no longer wait for an invisible maid to clean up my house. It is a large house. As I talked to the cleaning lady, I realized, indeed, I have five bedrooms, and four bathrooms total. Impossible for me to take care of all this without like five kids to take care of each of the rooms and alternate on the bathrooms. I intend to teach whatever kids I adopt or have (whichever is pleasing to God) about the importance of chores. Among other things, they shall be taught to clean out their roombas--naturally, of course.
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