Having fun wasn't “haraam” in our home, but we kept the home environment as pure as possible.

It would be extremely remiss of me if I failed to mention that every single family I interviewed emphasized the need to severely limit exposure to entertainment media — television in particular, but internet and video games included.  There were some families who didn't have a television set in the house at all, while there were others who allowed their children to watch an hour of pre-screened Saturday morning cartoons or an occasional family night movie.  Computers were always stationed in a public area of the house where email exchanges and internet research were conducted on a set schedule under the watchful eyes of involved parents.
“If Shaytan (Satan) were to ring our doorbell and ask if he could come in and babysit our children, we would throw him out,” one scholar says, “yet we allow the television set to do exactly that…we literally invite Shaytan in when we turn the TV on!”
“Preserving my children's fitra (primordial state) is of the highest priority to us,” one mother of two pre-schoolers tells me.  “Right now, the difference between right and wrong is so clear in their eyes; they really get it when we explain what's what to them.  The entertainment industry's depiction of what's 'normal' manages to confuse adults, so just imagine what it does to children!”
“We're Indian, but we never watched Bollywood films in our home,” a friend admits matter-of-factly.  “We didn't have bhangra dance parties; we didn't wear revealing clothing like skimpy saris and sleeveless blouses; we weren't allowed to be overly chummy with our guy cousins.”
Basically, what she's letting me know is that what is often excused as “culture” was not allowed to contradict the Islamic shariah her parents taught her to respect.
“But don't think we were bored or deprived!” she is quick to reassure me.  “My parents inculcated in us a love of Urdu poetry.  We read classic English literature aloud to one another in the evenings and went on father-daughter hikes in the mornings.  My mother showed us how to garden, my father taught us how to fish.  My brother had a paper route; the younger ones were Girl Scouts.  We had a home life full of energy and activity.”
“It's important to replace every haraam you stop your child from with at least two halaals they can enjoy,” advises a popular Muslim family counselor.  “You don't want your children to grow up thinking that Islam is just a bunch of no's — 'no, you can't do this; no, you can't do that.'”  She laughs heartily, “Make it about 'yes, we can!'”
I have a Yemeni friend who has taken that philosophy to heart with gusto.  She and her husband may not throw birthday or New Year's Eve parties, but you should see the festivities they do arrange.  When her twins memorized the thirtieth juz (chapter of the Qur'an), the picnic in the park was enjoyed with two separate gourmet cakes and party favors for all.  When this same brother-sister team went on to memorize the twenty-ninth juz, they came home from school to discover their bedrooms decorated with streamers and presents.  My five-year-old son Raahim and his preschool buddies recently memorized twelve surahs under this auntie's guidance, and she was quick to organize a party complete with a pinata, awards, balloons, and treats.  With memories like these, Muslim adults are bound to look back on their childhoods as a time filled with celebrations, insha'Allah.
“There is so much fitna (tribulation) out there in the world.  We can't protect our kids from everything bad,” warns a devout grandfather of ten children.  “But it is for that very reason that the home must be an oasis where Allah is remembered and obeyed, where children can relax and feel cherished, where they can practice their religion without feeling apologetic or alien.  The home environment should be as halaal as possible.  Our litmus test was always 'Would we be ashamed if the Prophet were to walk into our house right now?  Is there anything we would want to hide?'.”
The result of this family's “test” was a tidy, simply furnished home where the television set was absent and books lined the shelves.  Flowers bloomed outside every window, intricate Islamic calligraphy adorned the walls, and healthful food was served with generosity and enthusiasm to all who entered.  The sense of serenity in the air was something tangible.
I'll never forget what one daughter of a highly respected elder in the community told me when I asked her how her siblings remained so close to their parents despite being raised in a small town with only a handful of Muslims.  Didn't they ever rebel?  How did they resist the siren song of the un-Islamic peer culture around them?  “If you feel love in your home, you don't look for it anywhere else.”