Passport Privilege and Postpartum Prep
February 18 2025
I’m going to start this new thing where I pair each post with a song that captures the mood or feeling behind it, because sometimes music expresses what words can’t. For today, it’s Lisztomania by Phoenix.
Hello from Scottsdale, Arizona! In what feels like part 4958 of my pregnancy, we’ve now made it across the Atlantic to the land of highways, stripmalls, and an insane amount of static (IYKYK). Unlike New Jersey, where we usually go, here we’ve got some desert mountains and towering cacti peppering the view. It’s vibey. It’s dry. It’s a whole different planet from Beirut. The one thing that seems to have followed us is the sound of buzzing in the sky - not from drones but from small private planes. What a joy. Feels just like home.
Ali, Imad and I will be here for the next couple of months, awaiting the arrival of the little one currently slow-roasting in my belly. In what feels like a generational pilgrimage many Lebanese families before us have made, we (reluctantly) chose to give birth here so that the baby would get an American passport and avoid the bureaucratic hell we went through with Imad when he was born in Beirut. And before you ask, no, Trump's dumb law doesn’t affect us - Ali’s American and I have a green card. For now.
A part of me feels dirty being here, like we’re on enemy territory, considering the state of our region and homeland. Being in a place that is responsible for the very instability we’re trying to shield our children from. That we are, in some ways, giving in. Choosing to raise them with a foreign passport because the Lebanese one, the one tied to their roots, their history, their culture, is worth less in the eyes of the world. And that stings. It feels like playing a rigged game where we have no choice but to fold. So, yeah. Here we are. The end of my pregnancy and birth of my child nicely wrapped up in an existential crisis.
But anyway. If I spiral too much, I won’t be able to fully enjoy the one thing I do love about 'Murica - online shopping. Yes, consumerism. Don’t come at me. I have earned the right to fully lean into my nesting era and order every little thing for the baby. Breast pump, bibs, blankets, onesies, nipple cream, nipple pads, postpartum diapers (for me), and all the other glorious things to help get us through the first few months in the trenches.
Meanwhile, my Instagram algorithm has decided I need to see every American momfluencer in existence. It’s a lot. These women are running their homes like Fortune 500 companies - managing three kids, a newborn, a dog, a home, a husband, all while filming and editing content for our entertainment. And doing it with a smile. I know it’s not real, not entirely, but it makes me wonder - when did motherhood become a competitive sport? When did ‘keeping up’ become a requirement? The whole “moms are superwomen” trope - sorry, who said we wanted to be? It’s an exhausting standard. I know I wouldn’t be able to get through half the things they do. But maybe American mums really are built different and function as if on a tv show where each day is an episode that they know will end well (enough).
That’s all for now. Wish me luck - on birthing, bureaucracy, and resisting the temptation to start filming “A Day in The Life of a Tired Lebanese Mother in America.” I’ll keep you updated.