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It’s true, your father didn’t write on this blog. But in his own way, he is an amazing story teller and in his own way, in his simple existence, he wrote through me.

Every word here is shaped by the subtle and  gross existence of your father from the day you were conceived to the day you were born to the day you saw him for the first time in the eyes and said : baba.

You may want to know more, and I will tell you more. I will tell you for example that during the labour, your father stood behind me for four hours in a row, with nothing to drink, nothing to hang on to, and prayed non stop repeating the mantra “om”. He saw blood, suffering, he heard me yelling like a psycho, yet he kept repeating the mantra Om until you were out of my womb and then he held you and put you against his chest so you would feel the heat, so you would be warm and safe.

I will tell you  that when you were born, you didn’t sleep next to me the first night, but on the chest of your father, and of the beautiful picture of you two, lying on the bed, I remember your synchronised breath like a delicious and surrealistic music.

I will tell you also that when you started to cry the second night you were born, your father was trying to find a way out. He held you, walked and bounced you on the terrasse under the stars, and despite all his efforts to confort you, you kept on crying and so your father looked at me and out of  despair and tiredness, we nervously laughed, so hard that our stomach would hurt.

I will tell you that when your father was away and then would be back, he’d always say : ” Now, she does that and that” with pride, noticing every change, every move forward, every difference in your ways of being you.

I will tell you that in the moments of darkness he stood by me, allowed me to cry, allowed me to complain, allowed me to be myself, allowed me to say ” I hate you” when I felt desperate or “I can’t make it anymore” when I was burnout. Your father would listen, say nothing and just hug me till the storm would pass.

I will tell you that when I felt  I wasn’t myself anymore, your father would always say that I’m your mother and that he loves me more now because I’m your mother cause he sees me through you and he loves you so much that he loves what he sees through you.

I will tell you that since you were born, your father introduced you to all the variety of plants that he grows in our garden, that your father showed them to you numerous times, naming them in french, in arabic and in english so you recall them, and I will tell you that once he trusted you so much that you ended up eating a chili pepper -your face bursting into fire and your tongue looking for relief on my breast- and your father felt so guilty about it that he came to me like a little child asking for forgiveness.

I will tell you that every morning when he wakes up, you are the first face that he wants to see, and everytime he sees you, his face illuminates like a bowling sun.

I will tell you that when we go outside, he always wonders whether we should take you with us or not, even when the places are reserved for adults. Your father always believes that you belong everywhere and that you can do anything.

If you father had to write about you, about being a father,  I think it would sound like the most beautiful love poem of all.

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