Lunchboxes & Love Notes

March 21: Mother's Day in Amman. Meaning, street vendors manning major intersections. Meaning, balloons for sale, boxed chocolate tinged with the scent of exhaust. Single roses (red, yellow, white) in plastic wrap just a JD each, the equivalent of about $1.50.

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My son is bouncing in his bouncer, content to spin the plastic toy with plastic beads inside. Last year at this time he himself was like a little bead -- not yet jumping or kicking, but taking shape inside. I watch him. He squeals and laughs, showing his two teeth. I'm a mother, yet it's another woman I'm thinking of -- a woman in Florida who's recently lost her son, although "lost" is hardly the word to describe when an innocent boy has been gunned down.

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Activists have been calling for the government to amend the country's citizenship law. In short, Jordanian women want equal rights for their children born to foreign fathers. Over many months, dozens demonstrate in front of the Prime Ministry. Why? Throughout the Kingdom, gender plays a critical role in determining rights and privileges: a man can marry up to four foreign wives, for example, and pass on his Jordanian citizenship to his offspring. Meanwhile, children of Jordanian mothers married to foreign husbands must report to police stations and health centers in order to obtain residency clearance. What's more, they're required by law to secure special permits to enroll their daughters and sons in public or private schools.

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Upon having a child, I was warned not to write poems about motherhood. Too sentimental, some say. Too obvious, too cliche. Meanwhile, a poet who writes about fatherhood is said to be daring, even brave. 

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Mother (noun): meaning, a female parent or the superior of a religious community of women

First known use of Mother: 13th century

Maternal: feminine, womanish; caring, giving, nurturing


Mother (verb): to give birth to; to care for or protect like a mother

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In February, I heard this: an ex-pat (Czech, let's say, or French -- let's call her French) fell in love with a Jordanian man and moved to Amman after they were married. Forward a decade, three children: he has an affair and offers to divide his time between the wife he's basically abandoned and his mistress. Although her husband shows no interest in his children, the woman can't legally leave the country with her own sons and daughter. Her in-laws disapprove of their son's decisions and offer their assistance. The man's older brother uses his passport to help his French sister-in-law, nephews, and niece cross into Israel. From Tel Aviv, they fly to Paris. The only reason this works is because the children share their uncle's Jordanian citizenship, as well as the name printed in their passports.
  
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My maternal mother's name is Jewell. Her mother's name was Eula Belle.

My paternal mother's name is Carolyn. Her monther's name was Mary; for as long as I can remember, we called her "Peppa."

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For Mother's Day, one headline reads, many Jordanians opt for practical gifts: electric kettles, a citrus juicer, a mattress, a set of knives. One son purchases his grandmother a new house-dress and headscarf instead of sweets -- the picture of practicality.


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During my short time as a mother, I've learned this: a child is the most impractical gift in the world.