Monthly Archives: January 2013

Lazy Susan

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Don’t you just cherish those moments when you get so inspired and renewed with hope?

Last night, when half my family, K and M, went out in the fresh snow to fetch the family some Chinese food for dinner, I used the half hour to unwind by playing on Facebook.

I came across a video clip called, “Oprah: ‘This Is Gonna Shut Your Mouth!'” It’s really too late at night for me to summarize the clip accurately but basically I got to “meet” Nick Vujicic, a young man born without arms or legs. Sure, I’ve heard inspirational stories before but this dude really got to me. He had such lively eyes as he broke it down for us all – how he is now able to truly rejoice in the Lord though he was tormented in his childhood, feeling cursed and worthless.

His journey to self-acceptance and blessing others all around the world is beyond astounding. Visually, he is jarring to lay eyes on, especially for the first time, as he is only a handsome face/head set atop a torso with no arms or legs. All you see is a torso making its way around effortlessly. No prosthetic limbs so he is sometimes carried around like a baby.

Nick sports a huge smile like he just can’t contain all his joy and has that twinkle in his eye as he speaks. He plays soccer, surfs, golfs, and is more active than most of us able-bodied folks. He just recently married the love of his life (gorgeous, of course), and is expecting his first child (a boy) in just a few weeks (I think).

I started reading up on his organization, Life Without Limbs, and was truly inspired to overcome my own deep-seated self-doubts and negativity that sometimes have their way with me. This guy was born without LIMBS yet he is able to THRIVE and live life to its fullest.

As I basked in this moment of Church right at my cluttered desk, my boys arrived with our warm, fatty meal in honor of TGIF. Kevin set up the Korean sahng (table) on the floor, where we eat our dinner.

As I reached for more Beef Chow Fun, Yang Chow Fried Rice, and Walnut Shrimp, I realized I had to get up yet again to grab water and napkins from the kitchen.

I growled, “Man, we can’t be eating on the floor no more! Do you know how hard it is on me, to get up to grab stuff? You know I have a bad back…and a long-ass torso!”

milkshake apéritif

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When my husband comes home soon, I get to go into our poorly lit bedroom for a little bit (until our congested #2 needs to be nursed) and BE STILL, after a day of meeting our kiddies’ demands, without a playdate or an outing to break up the wintry hours.

It is comical to me, a Californian, how cold it is this week. It’s a joke. And it’s doing nothing for my VERY LOOSE plan to slim down before seeing my best friends. The husband is an enabler when he asked all on his own yesterday, the Day Micah Didn’t Nap, “Do you want me to get you your peanut butter/chocolate shake from your spot? I have to move the car anyways and you’ve had a rough day.” Even more ridiculous than this week’s arctic temps is that we still have to move our car. And yes, that is my usual “beverage” of choice.

Being at home with the kids makes me feel like I have multiple personalities. When I’m squeezing and kissing them, or watching the gorgeously fat-cheeked one beaming at the now-lean one, upside down, from his Boppy pillow, with a milky smile, I think, “I SO understand the Duggars. How can we stop at just two of these morsels?” Same for when I see the boys bonding, or #1 beaming at his music class or at Sunday School, or feeding me tons of imaginary food.

But when I still don’t have it together enough to plan and cook nutritious, delicious meals for them or run the home like a small preschool, all the while being a Proverbs 31 wifey, I feel like I am only surviving, not thriving. Not being the best mama I can be while blessed enough to be at home.

Or when I see myself, really see myself a la “Avatar,” on a day like today, dressing PURELY for comfort, wearing the same hole-y tore-up loose grey t-shirt and navy elastic pants that aren’t so elastic any more, with dried milk stains on or around the chest, smelling not unlike cheese because of said milk, and hair falling out of ponytail holder like I’m actually TRYING to look like the BEFORE on The Ricki Lake Show, makeover episode circa 1991, with my teef knocked out (not really, but the gheem I overate while waiting for the husband to make his entrance, makes it look like I lost a couple teeth), I think, “How am I gonna revamp myself to look and feel as presentable as working Jihee? To be motivated in the mornings to not be a slob just because I knew we weren’t going out at all today?” Big ups to my hair, though, steadfastly thick and sustaining a gal through some blah moments, though not able to be held in place.

During this free time, I should finish at least one of the Christian books I’ve started.

I should at least START the book on toilet training that I procured from the library. But how does one read more on parenting after a whole day of parenting? NO THANK YOU!

We really should change the lighting in our home to not look like we’re filming a PSA against domestic violence here.

We really should do something about the clutter that enrages me yet never goes away completely. We just seem to rearrange shit into different corners of the home, a stupid game of Hide-and-Seek, where everything is actually in plain view.

We really need to move into bigger space. Already. After having bought this place so recently (Sept. 2010). But the bank is so unreasonable, not willing to accept Monopoly money for the monthly mortgage and maintenance payments.

All I want to do is tune out for a bit and be on this heavy laptop that Micah forbids me from using during the day, tune out by reading a blog I found called “People I Want to Punch in the Face.” Today, I want to add to that list “people with unlimited free time.”

My time is up. I didn’t get to read that blog but at least I got to type a sliver of my own thoughts. And yes, I know this is all just a season and soon I will find my groove and I need to be kinder and more patient with my self, blah blah. Let a girl get her therapy on via blog, though, won’t you, please, my dear seven readers? Peace.

It’s the Thuggish Ruggish…

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“Excuse me?  Hi.  I received an email this morning that my book had arrived.  But it’s not there.”

The man behind the desk looks up from surfing the ‘Net to say, “You sure it’s not on the reserve shelf?”

“I already checked under my last name and library card number but it isn’t there.”

After he checked two other spots, he apologized and said he didn’t know what to tell me.  The book was just missing.

My theory for my missing copy of “Toilet Training Without Tears” was that one of the many local parents of toddlers saw my copy set aside in the reserve section and swiped it for their own pee pee, poo poo needs, all the while knowing that it was pre-ordered for a Ms. Lee and her clearly marked library card number (last four digits). 

My vengeful nature flared up.  I was tempted to retaliate by swiping the pre-ordered copy of “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” that was hovering next to the other book I had requested.  It could be easily mistaken as an accidental borrowing as the other patron’s last name was also LEE. 

I’m proud to say I didn’t follow-through with such an immoral act, as tempting as it was. 

I AM a mom after all.  I have to set an example.

Library Beef.  That was how a fraction of my Friday unfolded, with my two boys waiting for me patiently in my tall-ass double stroller.

What happened to my street cred (shout out to Slauson Swapmeet, Crenshaw Blvd)?  My hard core South Central upbringing where people would retaliate for more major offenses like, say, KILLING THEIR LOVED ONES, not for borrowing one’s pre-ordered How-To book?  Did my thuggish ruggish bone get replaced with sorry shelving woes?  card catalog catastrophes? 

(Truth be told, Library Beef is quite in alignment with my nuanced flava of street cred, i.e. my doing homework diligently Joy Luck Club style in the back of my Korean parents’ Chinese takeout store in a neighborhood where drive-by shootings were as expected as the mail).

Such a fruitful week in terms of playdates and other activities but by today, (thankGodit’s)Friday, I am wiped out.  Too wiped out to write about the mundane details of my day other than Library Beef, like about how Micah wanted to pick out his own clothes (blue shirt and black pants), how Ellis has become real quirky wanting to nurse only in strange and uncomfy positions, like lying upside down next to me on the bed, at which point, Micah will join us in the high, King-sized bed jumping up and down with all his might, squealing with delight, not caring that he’s giving me small heart attacks because he could fall onto Ellis, the frame, or the wooden floors while I am helplessly latched onto / occupied;

how it has become a bigger production to get out of the house now that Micah has such strong 25+ month-old opinions about what he’d rather be doing than getting bundled up and strapped into the stroller, and how Ellis pooped so much after skipping a day, that it went up his back and onto the shoulder blades, while they were supposed to have already been strapped into the stroller. 

Later on in the day, after taking apart all the dried-up blue PlayDoh all over crazy messy living room, Micah told me he has to pee, by which he meant, he had already peed into his training briefs, into his sweatpants, and onto some part of the living room.

One of those days I get real grouchy towards the husband for simply providing for us via a desk job where he can run out to buy some premium olive oil without two kids and a Transformer-looking stroller in tow.  Punk!

Tomorrow is Saturday.  I’mma drive up real slow to the library…

(after stopping by the charming French bakery)

and find out what happened to my book (thumping chest, adjusting bandana).

Wisdom from “The Bachelor” aka “I Just Know My Wife Is In This Room”

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Happy New Year! 2013. Year of the Sssnake. Hard to follow the dopest year around, Year of the Dragon, but perhaps this is the year, the snake can redeem hisself from the Garden of Eden associations.

Since I may not be able to write a more thought-out post until later, I’ll just get something down to get into the practice of posting more often. I had so many deep thoughts during the holidays but sho’ ’nuff, since I didn’t jot them down, they may be lost for good.

Whether I’m five years old or 36, I have to tattle when I witness bad or unbelievable behavior. It is a compulsion. I was a precocious kid, not a cool one.

When Micah was around five months old, our little family was roaming around Roosevelt Field Mall. A mama of twin infants started chatting with me and said, “Wow, another one on the way already,” pointing to my “bump” (upper stomach fatty fats).

I was not even a little bit pregnant. She was embarrassed so I actually made her feel better by saying, “Yeah, I guess my stomach can give off a pregnant look” but I just had to vent immediately to someone who would be just as indignant as I was at this woman’s comment. I nearly ran into one of my favorite baby stores, Janie and Jack, and vented to an employee there while Kevin strolled off with Micah to change his diaper.

Homegirl said, “Wait, I’m confused. You’re NOT pregnant?”

Double Ouch!

Kevin walked in on my asking her, “Wait, so you thought I was pregnant too!?” He said, “Jihee-yah! I knew it. I knew you were gonna go off and tattle so you can get a satisfactory response from someone out there. That’s what you get for tattling and fishing for compliments.”

I was mortified and wanted to hide myself in the clearance rack, under the basket of miscellaneous items (hats, ties, socks) but my stomach would probably protrude and a customer might congratulate me on the twins I was carrying. But I have to confess…STILL tempted to find someone else to tattle to. Someone who might say, “Clearly, you don’t look pregnant.” But even I have a little bit of shame. Not much but a seed-sized amount of shame.

Today, I wanted to tattle on a woman I’ve interacted with at least 16 times with our toddlers yet she NEVER says hullo or even looks at my boy or his mama like we human, while I’ve tried so hard to continue to be my warm and gushing, kid-loving self.

Sure, this must be my own deeper issue, something about how not greeting or even acknowledging my walking into a room makes me feel invisible or small or unworthy (oh, starting to remember some of my deep thoughts at the end of 2012 now…some fetal position profundity), but I think non-greeting is SUCH a huge pet peeve of mine, I treat it as a form of immorality.

Extremists will be out there picketing abortion clinics with me across the street with a sign painted, “SAY HULLO!”

Kevin came home to my tale of No Greeting at 17th meeting with Nongreeter:

K: “Jihee-yah, do you know what today is?”

Me: “Of course. Season Premiere of The Bachelor.”

K: “Have you not learned a thing from your faithful viewing of all previous seasons?”

Me: “Of course I have. But remind me in your own words.”

K: “The girl who tattles and causes unnecessary drama? It NEVER works out for them. That girl never gets picked!”

Who would’ve thought that this vapid show would be teeming with such rich life lessons? Life lessons that I cannot apply overnight but life lessons, nonetheless, to guide me throughout this new year.

And I will not hoard them. I will share them with you. (“The Bachelor” also scoffs at greed, those who already had a one-on-one date AND secured a rose should NOT hoard quality time.)