There are some moments when I feel like I’ve got this whole ‘motherhood’ thing down. I’m whipping up fabulous meals to ravenous children. Potty training is a snap. I’m disciplining like a rock star.  I’m rocking, I’m strolling. I’m the best mom, ever! I’m so awesome, it literally hurts. And stings. Huh?

And I turn over in bed to realize that there is a three-year-old ninja kicking me in the face. Where is my husband? Correctly assuming that a king sized bed is not sufficient for the two of us and our breakdancing-in-her-sleep daughter, he has shuffled off to the guest room. Welcome to a day in the life of me.

I get ready to tackle another day in my own Metropolis. Let’s take on some errands shall we? At the bank, the cute, young, pretty, perky teller is complaining of bad coffee burn she got that morning. I whip out my trusty Neosporin/Bandaid combo pack and save her day. She says, ‘You’re amazing’. I smile, because I kinda am.

At the supermarket, the shopping cart ahead of me is occupied with a child who is out-screaming my own. I notice an old, raggedy stuffed dog on the floor and hand it to his mom who smiles gratefully. Disaster: averted. I look at my own daughter, dressed in her full-on princess get-up, who is now distracted with a bag of M&M’s, and smile gratefully.  At school pick up, I commiserate with other parents on the challenges of raising a pre-pre-pretween five-year-old. We exchange book titles and websites and part ways knowing that we’ll never read them, but feeling better for being a little bit more responsible and informed than the day before.

On the way home, I get a call from a friend having a particularly rough day. What can I do? I lend a sympathetic ear to her. Once home, I provide a welcoming lap to a cranky three-year-old, a warm, proud hug to a spunky five-year-old and a hot, yummy meal to a tired thirty-nine year-old.

You may not believe it when you see me for the first time, but I am one tough cookie. Once, I pushed an entire living, breathing, screaming human being out of my body without the help of any medication. Before that even, I  pushed another, also screaming human being out of my body, blissfully unaware, hopped up on all kinds of epidural and sedatives. Even so, it was fairly heroic.

There is no bullet faster than me if anyone messing with my kid on the playground. I will leap the steps two at a time to get upstairs before there is any more hair-pulling, biting or screaming coming from the girls’ bedroom. More powerful than a locomotive, I can be just as stubborn and determined as any kid throwing a tantrum.

My panther-like reflexes have caught throw-up in restaurants before it hits the floor or causes a scene. My hands of steel have wiped tushies on the potty. My stomach has remained an iron trap despite the gross things I’ve seen coming out either end of my children. My eyes can pierce even the most oblivious of husbands, saying, without any words: ‘When I said ‘fine’, of course I didn’t mean fine, and you absolutely should get up from your nap and do the dishes’.

My heart? My heart is weak. It melts like butter at any wink, smile or tilt of the head. All I need is an ‘I love you Mama’ and I’m as vulnerable as can be. Every hero has her kryptonite.

As I get ready to take on another day of obstacles, villains and near-disasters, I neatly part my hair to the side and tuck it into a ponytail. I hide my cape under my usual uniform of t-shirt and jeans. I don my dorky glasses, not to disguise my appearance, but to help me read the microscopic labels on the children’s ibuprofen bottle. On the outside, I may seem like any other mild-mannered mother. On the inside though, on the inside…I…AM…SUPERMOM.

And so are you.

Saba Ali Arian

Saba Ali Arain is an amateur circus performer; juggling two wonderful little girls and a loving husband while whistling a happy tune. She lives with her family in Oakland, NJ.

The first time I visited Masjid Al Haram, or the Grand Mosque as it is also known, in Mecca, was two years back on a Hajj trip. I was 30 years old. There was an immediate connection and sense of belonging I felt. I left there wanting my kids to experience the same feelings and connection and made du’a to be able to bring them there soon.

I wanted my children to be able to go at their young and impressionable age so that they would develop a deep love, longing, and attachment to the holy cities of Mecca and Medinah. By the grace of Allah, we were invited to perform the blessed journey of Umrah with our 8-yr-old daughter and 4-yr-old son recently. I kept telling them how much Allah loves them that He invited them at such young ages.

Their perception of what the Kaa’ba would be like was very fantasy-like. Mecca and Medinah were lands far, far away, until now. In school, they had studied all the rituals that we partake in and knew that we face the Kaa’ba for prayers. However, standing in front of it and praying was a completely different reality for them.

Performing tawaf around the Kaa’ba and running between the mountains of Safa and Marwa were new forms of worship for them. One of their favorite experiences was to hug the Kaa’ba and cling onto its cloth. They grabbed onto the door of the Kaa’ba and asked Allah to let them into His Home. My son shook hands with one of the Imams of the Haram. They saw Prophet Ibrahim’s footprints and were mesmerized by its’ great size. “He must have been so tall!” they screamed in amazement.

They enjoyed tasting the blessed zam zam water from its tap and quenching their thirst like Hajarah, the wife of Ibrahim.

In Medinah, the kids soaked in the city’s coolness and calmness. They greeted their Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) in the city where he spent some very important years of his life. They sent their blessings to the great martyrs of Islam and companions of his time. They greeted the blessed mountain of Uhud, ate the favorite dates of the Prophet, stepped where the Prophet may have stepped, and prostrated where he may have done the same.  They cried as we left the holy cities, wanting to stay behind.

They now have such a depth to their understanding of where our religion and beliefs centralize. They got a sense of their “roots” being in the Grand Mosque where they felt at home, connecting to their identities first and foremost as Muslims. They saw all colors of the rainbow praying together, worshipping the same Lord. That helped to greatly expand their perspective of the beauty and universality of Islam. The kids conversed with many Muslims from all different parts of the world and heard supplications in all kinds of languages. Most importantly, they now know where they truly belong.

Tayyaba Syed

Tayyaba is a freelance journalist from Illinois. She has been featured on NPR and writes for numerous publications. She also speaks about marriage and family. Most importantly, she is blessed to be a mother of two little adventurers and blogs atwww.tayyabasyed.blogspot.com.

I clench my fists and grind my teeth, but I can tell already that I won’t be able to hold in the onslaught of anger. I’m tired, so tired of refereeing games and wrestling matches; the he took my, she hid my, he hit me, she ate my…. constant bludgeoning of my senses. Sometimes I can’t tell whether the wailing screech I hear is one of pained anguish, or hysterical laughter. The noise level beats me to my knees, and I beseech Allah for peace…. just as bedtime rolls around. I prepare to bask in the quiet but it’s shattered; she’s in my bed, he’s in my room, he hid my toothbrush, she keeps turning on my light.

Even as I’m struggling for composure, I already know that I’ve lost this battle. Every day I resolve to stay calm, I think of solutions in advance to head off impending calamity, but alas I am finally willing to admit that I am at a loss.

Dr. Phil, Nanny 911, I spent hours watching your episodes, modeling your behavioral modification methods, adopting your positive reinforcement speech, to no avail. I used to think that asking for help meant I had failed in some way, that I had not nurtured enough. But I know in my heart that I did the nurturing, that I provided a safe home environment. This is simply their nature, to be competitive, aggressive, ambitious, sometimes ruthless even, with one another. I redirect their hostility, try to channel their energy into vigorous activities, construct situations where they must become allies.

But I have finally asked for professional help. And to my surprise, it feels good to know that there is yet hope. I am not weak for reaching out, but strong for admitting the need.

One day I went to open house at school, and I was introduced to a side of my kids that I very rarely glimpse myself. “Your son is the most polite student we have.” “Your daughter is so compassionate; she’s always helping others out.” I’m told my kids are full of energy, organized, always volunteering for activities. Masha’allah, the echoes of their praises rang through me. I bowed my head and humbly thanked Allah.

I thanked Him for the strength to reach out for help, for the eyes to see their goodness, for the ears to hear their praises sung, for the voice to let them know that I am proud of them and for the fortitude to keep seeking and finding that composure.

I know there are things I’m doing wrong. But I must be doing some things right too. So I’ll keep on putting my faith, my trust, and my hope in you, Ya Allah. Guide us to wisdom, direct us to the straight path, give us the strength to do what needs doing, the humility to accept help, and the courage to ask for it.

Amanny Muslim

Amanny is a mother to an energetic pack of kids who enjoys curling up with a book and sipping a good cup of coffee.