There are three things my future son Phog is going to have to love: basketball, the Kansas Jayhawks, and Jayhawk basketball.

And by future, I don’t mean the near-future. I’ve yet to find the woman to carry my son, which is sort of important I hear.

What’s also important, in my world that revolves around sports, is practice. I’ve spent thousands of hours in a gym shooting a basketball over and over again until my hands turn black. I practice my craft — sports writing — through reading.

But there’s no gym where I can practice, or book to read to learn how to brainwash — ahem, convince — my future son that he should love three of the most important things in my world.

Luckily, I’ve found a guinea pig.

My 1-year-old nephew Juleon has recently developed a deep fascination with the Jayhawk logo. Anytime he sees one, he stops whatever he’s doing, points to the Jayhawk, and shouts, “Da, da, da!” To be fair, his current vocabulary includes “ma” and “da.” He usually needs something when he’s shouting “ma” and “da” usually means he’s excited.

Juleon discovered the Jayhawk the past few months when my sister and her boys moved in with my mom. My mom’s house has Jayhawks all over the place, as it should, and Juleon loves to point them out, stare at them, touch them and shout “Da.”

He’s especially fond of any Jayhawks on clothing, which is half of his uncle’s wardrobe.

Last weekend when I arrived at my mom’s house, I picked Juleon up and held him upside-down behind my back, so he could see the huge Jayhawk on the back of my sweatshirt. He spent the next few minutes trying to climb over my shoulder so he could stare at the Jayhawk.

Last week, my mom got Juleon and his 11-year-old brother Tayte some KU apparel. Tayte is also becoming a big fan and watches all the games with my mom, asking a ton of questions, half of which my mom answers, “You’ll have to ask your uncle.”

Mom got Tayte a Jayhawk jersey and Juleon a Jayhawk sweatshirt jacket. She bought both items in the middle of the week. She said the boys hadn’t taken them off since, and they were still wearing them when I left on Sunday. Juleon’s jacket had a small Jayhawk on the chest, which he of course liked to point out to everyone, letting them know there was a “Da” on his chest.

Tayte sported his jersey proudly, and asked me questions about the team.

The boys’ new-found love makes for a very happy uncle and has taught me that I’m not even going to need to brainwash my boy Phog.

When he’s a baby, the colorful and cool-looking logo will win over his love. And when he gets older, he’ll learn to appreciate the Jayhawks for the same reason I did: because they’re awesome.

“Ahlan!” said my professor when I walked into my first day of my master’s in Arabic class a month and a half ago. I stammered for a response, feeling completely unprepared as my “Teach Yourself Arabic” book sat on my desk gathering dust the entire summer.

“Ummm in English please?”

I never got a response in English, only more Arabic. Within minutes of my very first language class we were already forming sentences and reading letters. I sat there confused and embarrassed at my lack of knowledge, cursing myself for even trying this.

This is my second master’s degree. After finishing my first,  for which I researched and wrote about Arab portrayals in American cinema in a post-9/11 society, I longed for fluency in Arabic that would give me a little more professional credibility. Luckily, I could make the change seamlessly into this new program at my same university in Scotland. Two weeks after finishing my first master’s I was well under way of my first year of my second master’s degree, in a subject I had absolutely no solid experience in. What on earth was I thinking?

After getting by for a week in Morocco on my holiday last winter, I thought my Arabic skills were decent. I was gravely mistaken. Now I was faced with not only learning how to speak and read a new highly, inflected and complex language with different versions for both writing and speaking, but also an entirely different alphabet (with different symbols).

Now I watch how studying gobbles up my free time: five hours a day in class, five days a week and hours of homework as I try desperately to absorb this odd sounding language. Every day I wake up and it’s a gamble: will I be completely in the dark or will I be able to understand a third of what’s going on in class? Will I feel utterly stupid or just slightly stupid? I find myself struggling, flailing and grasping to keep my head above water. I stutter out crude sentences in class, in my strong American accent: “Ummm…andi…umm…bayt…ka…kabir.” (roughly transliterated as “I have a big house” not including the “umms” of course). I am quite sure that to everyone else I sound like I have a major disability. And I am sure a few of my classmates have even secretly questioned my intellectual abilities.
But the weeks have passed, and I’m learning and doing more than I would have ever believed. I hope so. I’m moving to Syria for the summer, come next May.

While I might stand a very good chance of being laughed out of the Middle East at the mere sight of the funny American girl blubbering like a child. I am eager for a comfortable fluency when forced to live and breath this language.

I do know that a lot of good things come as a result of a lot of hard work. Two long years from now I sure hope that holds true.

I may be a little weary by then, but at least I won’t accidentally order vegetables when I want bread.

It’s Sunday and I am facing hours of obligations. I dither about, rearranging stacks of paper and pouring another glass of water because my previous glass of water is no longer cold enough. After approximately 20 minutes of relatively useless activity, I sit down at my computer, ready to start eliminating items from my To-Do list.

And then it hits me. I am tired. I cannot possibly be productive if I am the least bit tired,
I think. I ought to take a nap.

Naps are one of my all-time favorite activities. It is an equal opportunity activity: everyone can participate, whether old or young, large or small. Naps are infinitely customizable, coming in all shapes and sizes, and serving myriad purposes.

In an effort to promote one of my favorite diversions past-times, below is a list of some of the countless variations of naps that I have personally experienced. This list is not meant to be exhaustive (although that might help promote my cause), or the last word on napping, but instead, I hope that perhaps one of these might inspire you to nod off, catch a few winks, snooze, rest your eyes, visit the land of nod, count a few sheep (but not too many), take a siesta, catnap or grab a book, close your eyes and pretend to read.

1. The 20 Minute Power Nap

I start with the 20 Minute Power Nap because it’s my least favorite of all napping varieties. It tends to leave me frustrated and unrested — the complete opposite outcome of a good nap! I just can’t wrap my head around why I would possibly want to take a nap for less than half an hour. I’m getting worked up just thinking about this. 20-minute naps are great in theory, but no one will be able to convince me of their usefulness. If I only have 20 minutes, I’ll drink a coffee. I’m moving on.

2. The 60 Minute Standard

The 60 Minute Standard is the pepperoni pizza of naps, the cheeseburger of naps, the US Postal Service of naps. There is nothing flashy about it, but it always delivers. I always awake from an hour nap refreshed, rested and with a much better outlook on life. That To-Do list? Still there! But it’ll get done. Or not! The hour nap delivers just enough glorious unconscious me-time that everything in the world becomes possible. Or, as in the case of solving world hunger or deciding on the appropriate Christmas present for my parents, at least I have a more balanced perspective on the whole ordeal.

3. The “It’s Cold/Rainy/Snowy Outside And All I Want To Do Is Stay Inside” Nap

This nap is one of my personal favorites, especially because it is typically unplanned. On days that prompt the ICRSOAAIWTDISI Nap, I usually start with the good intentions of “reading a book” or “watching a movie” or “playing hide and go seek and deciding to hide under the covers of my bed,” but all of these lofty goals always end up the same. These naps also have some of the most varied and interesting locations because you tend to drop-off in unplanned locations such as at a desk, in a chair or on the floor.

4. The “I’m In A Beam of Sunlight And All Is Right With The World” Nap

Taking a page from dogs and cats everywhere, sometimes a spot of sunlight emits such strong nap pheromones that I have been known to literally collapse. Sunbeams make great napping locations, especially when accompanied by a pillow and really thick carpet.

5. The “Two Hours or Over, I Need to Recover From My Nap With Another Nap” Nap

This is my all time favorite type of nap. Ideally this nap combines elements from some of the other naps; maybe you find a spot of sunshine, maybe the weather is really gross. Whatever the reason, this nap is all business. With a minimum duration of two hours, you are seriously risking altering your nightly sleep-cycle, so the meek need not apply. You know you have accomplished this nap variation when you wake up, have no idea when, where or who you are, and can only manage enough energy to move to another potential nap location.

Regardless of the location and duration, naps are easily one of my Top Five Favorite Activities. Life is a little sweeter with a nap and I am a little bit nicer with a nap. My opinion: We made a big mistake at the beginning of Kindergarten. Nap time should be a daily occurrence.

Yesterday evening I was on my way to a talk by a visiting Buddhist teacher. I was feeling out of sorts. My heart was filled with yearnings for the life that I didn’t have and this was getting in the way of enjoying the life that was right in front of me. Although I wouldn’t admit it, I was hoping that the teacher would offer me a shortcut out of the funky mood I had been in all week.

When I arrived in town, I decided to stop by a friend’s apartment to drop off my heavy bags. I was due at her house for a party later that evening to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day.

Guy Fawkes was a Roman Catholic revolutionary who, in the 16th century, planned to blow up the (Protestant) British Parliament. He was arrested hours before carrying out the plan. It is one of the delicious oddities of British history, inherited by those of us who live in the colonies, that this failed attempt to kill the King and most of the British nobility and aristocracy is celebrated every year with displays of fireworks and great bonfires upon which an effigy of Fawkes (the “Guy”) is burned.

My friends have a long-standing tradition of celebrating Guy Fawkes at this particular apartment where the roof affords us a perfect view of the city council sponsored fireworks.

The party wasn’t due to start for several hours, so my plan was to drop off my bag, pop out to the talk and return filled with wisdom and equanimity, ready to be pleasant company.

Instead I walked in to find my friend busy in the kitchen trying to make up time on a party preparation plan that had been sabotaged by an unscheduled and lengthy work call. So instead of heading off to the talk, I put down my bags and started making dips and cutting carrots.

As we worked alongside each other, I told her a little about my no-good-rotten week. I was mindful of the fact that her father had died only a few months earlier and therefore somewhat apologetic about my comparatively petty concerns. She was gracious in her response, assuring me that her grief didn’t trump my small sadness.

There was space in her kitchen for my petty blues as well as for her deep loss. There was space also for my profound pleasure in hearing stories about a wonderful new love in her life and for her joy at a long-held dream of mine that was starting to take shape.

I’m not sure what the Buddhist teacher would have said had I made it to the talk, but I suspect he would have encouraged us to practice meditation. We would have sat together in silence as we settled into the spaciousness that is big enough to contain everything that arises, whether sadness or pleasure, grief or joy. Instead I found that space in the tiny kitchen of my friend’s apartment.

She may be more retro-chic rock-star than Buddhist teacher, but last night she taught me all I needed to know about being a large enough vessel to hold whatever arises in our hearts and the hearts of those we love.

When Eric and I got married and moved in together, we had long conversations about how to share the household duties. Who would clean what, who would handle the finances, who would cook when. We settled into a nice little rhythm based on a few simple principles: do as much together as possible and divide everything else according to what we are good at or didn’t mind doing.

The pattern we constructed has worked well for over a year with very few hitches. But last week we determined that one particular area— me doing all the laundry and Eric doing all the dishes — was no longer working well. I won’t bore you with the details of why, so suffice it to say we decided to switch.

Sounds trivial, right? Sounds like it couldn’t possibly be a big deal, right? Here’s how week one of this domestic experiment went down.

Our lack of a dishwasher and the weirdest shaped sink of all time make washing the dishes particularly annoying. I wanted to prove that I could do them every day, so I found myself cursing the dishes and the deep-but-narrow sink and the tiny counter at midnight just about every night. We love to cook together, but I made it less enjoyable by suggesting we cut out side items or anything that required multiple pots. And I’m a little embarrassed about how many times I drank out of the same glass.

Whilst a bachelor, my dear husband defined “sorting” laundry by darks, not-so-darks and whites (or one big load of all of the above). Towels and sheets were washed maybe once a month. Maybe. My laundry is much more complicated. I conducted a mini workshop with him on sorting, what washer settings to use for which load, what to hang up and what to dry all the way, etc. When it came time to fold and put away, he (rightly) looked at me like I was crazy.

Eric: So you fold your T-shirts like this?
Me: Um, not exactly, let me show you.
Eric: OK so this tank top goes…
Me: Middle drawer, left side.
Eric: So all the tank tops go in the middle drawer, left side?
Me: Nope… there are tank tops I sleep in, tank tops I wear with jeans, grungy tanks. They each go in a different drawer.
Eric: So these pants go with pajamas?
Me: Nope, with the lounge wear.
Eric: Here?
Me: No, that drawer is knit lounge wear; these pants are sweats.
Eric: How are those possibly different?

Household chores are one of the most banal, mundane parts of life. And that’s precisely why they are so important. They say much about what we value individually and collectively, and about how we choose to support each other in the most menial of tasks. I frequently fight two different temptations: to split it up 50/50 so it’s perfectly equal (which is impossible and creates competition) or to do it all myself (which doesn’t make any sense). We believe marriage is about oneness, and sharing these household tasks is a reflection of that, in the most ordinary way.