On Heightened Alert

Posted on April 22, 2014 by ajummama

Read somewhere that sometimes, raising up these little ones is like raising wild animals.

I noticed that after the BEST days, whether it be a sunny, gorgeous day at the zoo with friends or exploring Manhattan, admiring the display of giant Faberge Easter eggs (more Mama’s thang than the boys’), I am not quite able to exhale, even hours later when Daddy got next.

I wondered why this was the case since I much prefer these adventurous days outdoors to the cooped up house arrest days of yesterweek’s polar vortex.

It is due to the perpetual heightened alert. You really have to have eyes in the back of your head, or at least on the side of yo face, like other animals.

When I was single, in my 20s, I remember attending a small church plant at someone’s house. There was a mom who visited with her baby / toddler and as soon as she entered the house, she would NEVER watch after her own kid. Of course, I don’t know her story, maybe overtired, maybe had zero support, but also it’s a personality thing to be able to relax so much that you leave it to the crowds to watch your child while you’re having a grand ol’ time.

As a person who was generally on heightened alert even before I had kids – too much alert, just noticing everyone’s energy at a gathering or noonchee-bah’ing (reading people’s micro-expressions) at any given time, I couldn’t FATHOM how a mama could just Be On Break (at least without asking someone to please watch her child for a moment) and assume that OTHERS, mere acquaintances, would keep her child from playing with knives.

While I am proud to be an attentive parent, too much alert isn’t good for my health either. I’m sure it adds to irritability and exasperation but it is SO very hard to turn off.

Even when hanging out in our small home, my attena is up – ears tuned in to pick up cries of pain from the other room, like the boys fighting after their hug fests go awry or worse, SILENCE. Silence followed by hysterics from falling off the desk that Ellis had climbed this morning before we headed out for the subway.

[Of course, I’m learning to let them fight it out instead of hovering or rushing to their aid for everything, but they are still so little, especially the second one.]

Outside, heightened alert is cranked up a couple notches. We are not contained. They are not contained.

Possibility for more fun, and we ARE fun-seekers, but always the behind-the-scenes energy spent on heightened alert.

This energy is not captured in the picture-perfect moments displayed on Facebook. I think this energy is a type of at-home parent stress. Working parents have plenty of different stressors, the stress of juggling, spending enough time with their little ones, entrusting them in others’ care, but definitely different from this heightened alert for most of the day.

Chatting with a mama-friend while our boys are climbing a jaggedy boulder. Chatting but ever-aware. Chatting but making sure the younger ones won’t fall and bust their lips open. Chatting but making sure the big ones aren’t grabbing the thorny plant as they talk about dinosaurs.

Laughing but keeping one eye on the child who is about to cozy up against the couch right by friend’s window with no child-protective bars. Catching up with Kevin’s co-worker but making one son stop using my purse as a swing.

This is why chatting with some mamas with similar-aged kids is so easy, like water flow. Actually, water flowing intermittently.

We understand that we will be interrupted 18 times before finishing one story: “So what was I saying?”

“I’m not sure but two tangents ago we were talking about expectations and then you were about to tell me…wait…ELLIS! ELLIS! CLIMB DOWN NOW! You are NOT a big boy!”

Today we took an impromptu subway ride into Manhattan to enjoy the weather before the rain hits tonight and Micah goes back to school tomorrow. I tried to take lots of pictures but always on heightened alert. Making sure the newly fearless Ellis doesn’t nosedive into the fountains on 6th Avenue or moshpit himself into a bed of lilies by Rock Center, beaming and proud.

Even when I start to decompress, due to my bat hearing and sensitive constitution, it takes me a good long while to get my groove back, especially when I hear other babies’ cries from all the different floors of our co-op building, not exactly a Calgon vibe. This is why exercise is key! Easier said than done but when I get a workout in, I can shake that nervous stress off.

Speaking of sounds, I’m hearing raccoon-rummaging sounds from the boys’ room. Sounds like Ellis never succumbed to a real nap today due to sensory overload: subway, Rock Center Plaza, giant Easter eggs, Daddy’s office, more subway.

Time for heightened alert at the playground. Be well.

Bro, you bess NAP on high alert too cuz I’m about to Three Stooge you.

(True) Love Handles

Posted on April 10, 2014 by ajummama

One of my favorite episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm is the one where Larry is about to fall off a roof, so he hangs onto his assistant’s bare muffintop for dear life. His feet were dangling while his hands desperately clung to both sides of her bulging spare tire that she had been proudly displaying at work.

Today Ellis used my hair to keep himself from falling when he had helped his juicy self to a piggyback cuddle when I was seated on the floor, while his big bro had occupied my front.

These days, whenever my kids see me sitting on the floor (or resting in any form), they rush over and fight for my lap. Or, if they are feeling zen about my lap already being occupied by the other, one will graciously piggyback himself onto my back.

But today’s acrobatics ended in pain. Mine. I shrieked and my eyes teared up. But for little dude, it wasn’t no thang. He laughed. Mommy is always there to lend a helping hand. Or hairs.

After dinner tonight, Micah helped himself to a small dessert his Daddy had brought me as a pick-me-up. Micah went to town on them, with no shame, with a chocolate mustache and one word requests of “More?”

This is just what they do these days. Help themselves to whatever it is that’s mine. My body, my privacy, my time, my chocolate-covered strawberries, my chips. Of course sometimes I wish that I could just have some peace or some PIECE of my own food but generally, I love how they are so entitled.

Why?

I think it is BEYOND beautiful. They are so confident and secure in Mommy’s love that, of course, they are entitled to anything and everything of hers. My body is theirs; after all, they lived in it for nearly 39 weeks each. My boobs were theirs up until 13 and 14 months old for Micah and Ellis, respectively.

I am floored by the beauty of their presumptuousness that what’s mine is theirs. At my age, I cannot think of ANYONE I can be THAT comfortable with other than perhaps my husband and my parents. Although, even with my own parents, I am too grown to take what’s theirs. Especially as they age, I feel I should be providing for them more. And even with close friends, I try to be a polite guest, not overstay my welcome, or otherwise impose on them, unless they insisted I eat off their plate.

That is what I’m marveling at these days. It never crosses their three-year-old and 18 month-old minds that they may be inconveniencing me in the least.

They are polar opposites from their grown Mama. I am working up the nerve to ask for help from people in my church community and it makes me SO uncomfortable.

If anyone helps me out in any way, I feel that:

I owe them,

or they now have something to lord over me,

or that I’ve burdened them.

I excessively thank people all the time because I feel indebted. Even for something as simple as holding the door open for me and the boys in their doublestroller.

My kids will grow up and learn about boundaries and about reading people, about how you can’t just take. So for now, I will thoroughly enjoy their brazen claims on my green juice, my miso soup, my face, my lap, my boobs, and even my hair to catch their fall.

But I draw the line at my love handles being used as a lifesaver. Because after their precious lives have been spared, I would have to go and jump off a roof my damn self.

Do You?

Posted on March 30, 2014 by ajummama

“Hi! Wow, the last time I saw you, you were pregnant with him,” I said, pointing to the baby she was wearing in her carrier.

She looks utterly confused. She has no idea who I am.

Jihee, please, girl, just keep it vague and say you seen her around at the park. AND KEEP IT MOVING.

Oh, I kept it moving. Kept my mouth moving.

“Yeah, we were stuck in a storm together at _________ Park last summer. It was a crazy downpour. One of those torrential downpours, remember? We had to stand under the train tracks together for a good long while since it was coming down so hard. You were just about to give birth. Time flies, huh?”

She looks downright bewildered the more I talked.

Self, stop talking now since she is NOT going to remember that one random day in July.

But I kept thinking if I broke it dee-own for her, it would click! She may recall those moments that were playing so vividly in my head when I saw her at our mutual friends’ kiddie birthday party.

“You had to take out a potette for your little girl right before the storm hit and we had to wait it out together?” I was feeling like Chris Farley in the “Re-re-remember when…?” sketches on SNL.

Now at this point, even *I* knew that I had to leave it be. I could have gone on to say that she and some other mamas were making jokes about how “potette” is a funny word for portable potty, how she was telling us that you can totally use plastic bags from the market instead of buying the expensive refills for those things, and other details that kept gushing forth in the movie reel playing in my head. Images of her being way pregnant.

I’ve always been like this, remembering stuff that other people couldn’t care less about, not just now because I am at home with the kids, swimming in the mundane rather than speeding along on the “fast track,” whatever that means.

She smiled, still a bit uncomfortable, and found her way towards her friends, the people she actually knows.

Naturally, we end up bumping into each other again because her baby was playing near the rest of my family in a different part of the museum. Kevin starts saying, “Aww, how old is the little guy?” about her baby and AGAIN, I hear myself say, “awww, and he wasn’t even born when I ran into them last.”

She looks thrown off AGAIN and mumbles softly, “Yeahh…..I guess.”

AUGH! This was such a painful little interaction. And I had invited it.

On the rainy drive home, I told Kevin, “Yo, I feel like a doofus. I think I just gotta shut the hell up! I get so excited and happy to see familiar faces even when they are TOTAL strangers who only wanna talk to THEIR people. It doesn’t sink in for me that these people are not interested in a ‘remember when’ moment. Why do I embarrass myself? And did you see me hug up on that other mama just cuz I hadn’t seen her in months? She didn’t see that coming but I’m such a hugger! I just have too much jung for people, it gushes out before I can stop it, like an excited puppy!”

Kevin was firm. “No. You don’t have to shut the hell up. You just keep doing you. If they don’t remember you at all, don’t be embarrassed. That’s them and you’re you. If you get excited and want to bring up meeting them, go ahead. Still do you.”

“Really!? I feel so stupid that I bust out hugs or remember stuff in SUCH detail. I just gotta act like I don’t remember and that I’m not as excitable as I really am. I should learn to just not mention it. I just get so dang bang-gah-wuh.” (Happy to see someone.)

“No, I say Keep Doing You.”

We had arrived at home so I took the sleeping second son into our home while Kevin temporarily parked on the street, watching March Madness in peace, on his phone, as Micah snoozed.

Once I got home, I iMessaged him from our bedroom: “Hey, you know my crazy infallible memory? Remembering every detail about being stuck in the storm with that lady I scared off today? I got the wrong woman. She had bounced before the storm hit and I was actually stuck under the subway tracks with another mama, her girlfriend.” (To which he replied: HAHAHAHA)

I do love the message that Kevin had for me, but maybe I need to be more refined as I creep towards my 40s? Not busting out with bearhugs on the subway platform when I run into a mere acquaintance, or saying, “heyyyyy, remember when….?” to a stranger (especially when I got the wrong person!?).

But then again, some of the friendships I’m now blessed with have sprouted from the most random of initial interactions.

Do You? or Do You, But Less Doofus’d, More Refined?

Do I even wanna be more refined, though? photo by Jodee Debes

Charles E. Quest

Posted on March 26, 2014 by ajummama

What’s the opposite of a Bucket List?

Things I Need NOT Cross Off My List before I croak, and am more than fine with never experiencing:

I have never eaten an Arby’s sandwich (or an Arby’s anything).

I have never gone to Applebee’s. I had to look up how to spell it (Applebee’s or Appleby’s? apostrophe?).

I have never had a nosebleed.

I have never seen any of the Star Wars movies.

I have never had a coffee or soda habit.

I have never been to a Chuck E. Cheese.

Chuck that. I had never been to a Chuck E. Cheese…until two Sundays ago.

Kevin takes the boys there on his own every now and then, especially during this endless winter when outdoor play is not an option. They visit their friend, Chuck, to give me some time to myself. It’s become their boys’ club.

When I was sick one weekend, Kevin hit up the usual spots with the Li’l Kims. They’d already explored the museum and mall, before he sent me an iMessage (technically, I still don’t have text on my phone):

“We going to Charles E. Quest.”

Later, I found out that he had meant to type “Charles E. Queso” for “Chuck E. Cheese” but autocorrect had struck.

I’d always been certain that I would naturally loathe the place. I have zero interest in video games or arcades. In fact, they give me major headaches. Can’t deal with stale air. Hate mice, hate noise. And terrible pizza is a terrible waste of calories.

On another frigid Sunday, the boys were headed to see Chuck again and I needed to stop by Target within the same mall so the boys’ club gave me a ride. I realized that passing by the boys’ stomping grounds with nary a looky loo was just plain silly. NOT going somewhere JUST to keep the Never-Been-There routine going was pointless, so I dropped by to see what this Charles E. Quest had to offer.

Wow. Just wow.

Immediate thought: Good Lord, this must have been what the Superdome was like after Hurricane Katrina.

Teeming with too many children and too many weary parents.

Dirty. Even the air. Stank like parmesan cheese stuffed into a pair of size 12s. Well-worn size 12s. And balls.

No order. There were no sections. No separate eating area from the game area.

Where you ate was smack dab in the middle of where you played.

Commotion everywhere.

Kids taller than me were running around. Fast.

More lights and sounds than Times Square.

AND A SALAD BAR RIGHT NEXT TO THE PRIZES. A salad bar!? Right next to where you redeem your tokens for a prize.

I had to call Kevin to locate them amidst the din and blinking lights.

He saw the “Oh, uh-uh!” look on my face as I took it all in. The boys were entranced by sensory overload.

“How can this really be your first time here? You never went as a kid? You really that surprised – whaddid you expect?” he CHUCKled.

“I thought there would at least be sections so that you can eat and THEN get your game on. You actually volunteer to come to this Superdome with the boys!? Is that really a salad bar or are my eyes wigging out from all these flashing lights? I could imagine an ICE CREAM bar next to the prizes, but SALAD? In case you just have to have some greens while up in this piece? Look at that canned baby corn, just waiting for someone to holla!”

But then again, Kevin loves video games so he’s probably been waiting to have kids so that he can swing by a spot like this on the reg.

It wouldn’t be wholly fair if I gave this spot a 100% negative review. At least it is free admission unlike every other kiddie play place. But “You get what you pay for!” never rang truer, especially for highly sensitive souls like me, with my supersonic hearing and low threshold for noise.

Charles has another thing going for him – his security. I wasn’t able to walk out with Micah and Ellis because they had come in with their Daddy. I had walked in alone after them, thereby not receiving a stamp on my hand. When you enter, an employee stamps everyone with the number of people in your party, and will not let you leave unless everyone in your party is present to leave together. So, the boys got to leave, only with Kevin, once their infrared stamps marked “3” were verified under the special flashlight. I liked that.

This is a much needed security measure as this is THE backdrop for a Lifetime movie about a desperate dad abducting his child after a bitter custody battle, while the boy is hunched over a game of “Need for Speed” (after a trip to the salad bar and token redemption bar).

Chuck E. Cheese’s: where a kid can be a kid…and Daddy can play video games, and have wings and greens…and Mommy can swing by at the end for a cute family sketch that only costs one token or approximately 33 centavos.

Magic – Check, Reality – Check

Posted on March 19, 2014 by ajummama

A couple nights ago, instead of going to bed like I should, I was savoring the quiet of the (obscenely) late hour when the habitual tic came upon me.

Again.

To check my Newsfeed. Like opening the fridge door to see if anything worthy magically appeared since the last time I checked.

My scrolling expedition yielded this article by Ruth Graham.

Ms. Graham writes from the perspective of a childless woman who hopes to have kids one day, feeling inundated by the excessive updates and tweets on social media about the woes of parenthood. She doesn’t want to be scared off by all these status updates making parenting sound like Guantanamo. She wants to believe in the magic of it all.

She writes, “For overwhelmed parents, I imagine the relentless stream of realtalk is comforting. As a possible future parent, it’s utterly terrifying.”

Chile, please. If status updates can scare you off, you ain’t ready.

I feel more of a connection to someone when they deviate from the easier, more superficial stuff and share from the heart, particularly the messy stuff of life, including parenting. These days, Facebook has become more about sharing articles, memes, Internet quiz results (so many quizzes!), and pictures of food, but for me, as a stay-at-home mama, it’s also the “place” I look to for some connection with other adults.

People’s lives are so much more interesting and REAL when presented in three dimensions, not limited to “look where we went,” “look what we ate,” and for fellow parents, “look at yet another picture of our little cherubs,” though I am definitely guilty of that last one.

I love it when photos are sprinkled with what you’re thinking or feeling on any given day. Some editorial, please.

Naturally, everyone has different comfort levels when it comes to sharing, like those who only use social media passively, scrolling through their Newsfeed, Liking and commenting here and there, but not feeling a need to update, not really looking to Facebook as a community, per se. Or many who are concerned about privacy issues so they prefer to just spectate. That’s fine, to each his own.

However, sharing only the photogenic moments can often do our Facebook friends a disservice, as there is a comparing of lives, albeit subconsciously, that we all do with each other when we share only our shiny, happy, blemish-free moments. Particularly, when we’re struggling in a certain area of our lives, in the more downtrodden moments, we succumb to envy (at least I do).

The seemingly happier marriages, the fatter wallets, the bigger/cleaner homes, the exotic vacations, the angelic, well-behaved children, whatever you’re yearning for at the moment, Facebook will offer a smorgasboard of lives to compare yours with.

You don’t MEAN to do it but it happens.

So it’s reassuring when we can share on a deeper level from time to time, about what we’re yearning for or what we’re pondering on. Or what we’re struggling with, like the tough moments of parenthood.

Despite my own attraction to hearing from the trenches of any experience, one thing I have noticed is that there is a trend towards irreverent parenting that rubs me the wrong way. Magnifying and trying to profit from sharing the crappy parts of parenthood: Cursing gratuitously, making too many jokes about desperately needing those boxes o’ wine, pretending that they are somehow “above” the rest of us boring, domesticated parents by being snarkier than ever.

The Too Cool For School syndrome.

I’ve stumbled across a few Mommy (and Daddy) blogs whose primary goal is to be viewed as a hip and hilarious parent, even mocking their own kids for a laugh. I hope I don’t ever come across that way as I do share a lot of my life. I don’t mean to ever mock my children.

I’m not down with spewing forth anything and everything in the name of “honesty,” while angling for a laugh, especially when you seem to think that the snarkier and more irreverent the “confession,” the cooler you are, talking about, “Hey, I don’t even LIKE my own kid sometimes, LOL.”

Is nothing sacred?

That stuff is completely different from genuinely and earnestly sharing your life – the highs and the lows. And while parenting is full of joy, there is a lot of tedium and heartache and pressure (I’m talking mealtimes alone).

And then there’s the polar opposite on the parenting spectrum. Those who feel compelled to ONLY share the positive stuff. But that is only a sliver of real life. Not that we have to post pictures duking it out with our significant others or actual tantrums (adults’ and toddlers’).

I like the middle ground. Sharing the shiny, happy stuff, sprinkled with some of the grit.

Made me think about how just one day as their Mama is full of shiny, happy stuff, sprinkled with some grit. And on a few of those days, more like a whole lot of grit, sprinkled with some shiny, happy stuff.

One minute, I’m begging dude to clean up his toys. “It’s not Mommy’s job to clean up! You took out all these toys so you have to put them away. MICAH!? Please start picking up your kitchen pieces first, MICAH. I’m going to count to three…”

“NO!”

“Oh, I think you’re confused, Micah. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

Ignoring, resisting, laughing at Mommy’s expression, pushing Little Bro down while running away from me, more resisting, then finally my wrangling him into a Timeout.

Then, I hear Micah wailing, “Mommy, I have to pee-pee!”

“OK, Micah, we can go pee but you have to come back for your Timeout because you were NOT listening to Mommy.”

“No, Mommy, I already did pee pee in my pants.” (This dude who has almost never had an accident and has been peeing in the potty since before the age of two.)

I, of course, step on an assortment of hard fake food pieces on the way to fetching him for a pee clean-up in the bath, feeling clammy and faint from the same cold that all three of us are battling, and dread lunchtime, at the rate things are going.

And when things calm down with Big Bro, Little Bro decides to giddily run the entire length of our long couch, only to faceplant on the one square of wooden floor that is NOT covered by a playmat.

Often, it’s not circumstances that get the best of me. It’s how I’m doing emotionally and mentally when these circumstances pile on top of each other, including this very long stretch of polar vortex winter.

But then, that same afternoon, when Micah and I are snuggling, I name the three friends he chose to bring along from his huge entourage of stuffed animals that I’m so tempted to discard while he sleeps (too many to launder each week, too much of a germ-magnet).

“Micah, today you brought Small Bear, Winnie, and Elephant, I see. I like how you always tell me that Small Bear is Micah, Winnie the Pooh is Daddy, and Elephant is Ellis!”

His eyes get big, and he looks around. “I forgot the Mommy. We need Mommy. I have to go back in the room and get Mommy.”

“Ellis is sleeping so can we please not go get the Mommy? You mean that Dragon doll? That’s Mommy, right? But you have the real Mommy right here so you don’t need Dragon Mommy.” (I really didn’t want to get up to fetch one more thing).

“No, I need Lion Mommy, not Dragon Mommy. The family can’t be a family with no Mommy. I need Lion.”

And boom, just like that. I feel the weight and honor of my three year-old’s statement. Just when I think I’m really phoning it in on days like this, my dude tells me that there is no family without Mommy. I sneak into their room and get Lion for him. As soon as Lion joins, he falls asleep on the couch, clutching all four animals so tightly, making sure all of them are in his arms.

Or when these guys literally pull each other off of Mommy so that they can be the sole beneficiary of her snuggles? Thank you to both my sons for making my (retired) immature fantasies of a guy relentlessly pursuing me to the point of obsession come true.

Or when Micah hears me tell his dad, “Go to sleep right away! You’ve been up with these guys since 6:30 am and going full speed ahead so that I can have time to recover. You have to sleep as soon as you put Micah to bed. Thank you so much!”

Micah runs out of his room and chimes in, “Go to sleep now, Daddy. You have to sleep NOW! Right here by my door so I can watch you sleep, my Daddy.” (Both our hearts melt, though Daddy is about to keel over after an especially active Saturday).

When I’m older and greyer, these heart-tugging memories will outlast the memories of being bone-tired and wiped out.

So don’t be scared off by our sharing of lives, Ms. Graham. There is still so much magic left in parenthood that my uterus twinges just typing this.

BUT, let it also be known, the tough stuff of life, including this crazy, incredible ride called parenting is so very real, thus making this family seriously consider putting up a Closed sign on this here noble uterus for good.

Magic – check. Reality – check.

what time is Daddy getting home again?

my precious boy with his favorites. Lion Mommy and Ellis Elephant not pictured

It Is What It Is

Posted on March 13, 2014 by ajummama

Not writing, among other things, has put me in a foul mood.

It’s definitely easier and less loaded to blame most of my stuff on this harsh winter, which has legitimately been a prime mojo-sucking factor but obviously, it can’t be all of it.

The dilemma regarding how much to share is a recurring one for me. I’m very open by nature. I’m sure I’ve said that a countless number of times here on this blog.

But as I grow older, I want to reign that in a bit because when I do share lately, I fear…

not being truly HEARD,

or getting terribly misunderstood,

or feeling judged,

or only being seen through the lens of the listener’s own emotional landscape regarding their own marriage, life choices, struggles, and coping mechanisms.

Lately, I find myself thinking, “WHY did I even BOTHER?” as well as, “OHHH! NOW I get it! THIS is why people choose to only share with the safest and closest of friends, if at all…just with people who know that you aren’t ONLY your current struggles.”

Recently, I shared with a group of fellow Christian women about how I’m struggling emotionally and how being cooped up for months due to freezing temps in a small living space with two toddler boys is a big part of it. One of the gals tried to comfort me by offering me this:

“People are so concerned about status! Like if you don’t own a house by a certain age, you’re a loser. I grew up in 300 square feet in _______ and I was so happy. Your boys are happy too. You don’t have to be in a bigger space.”

While she seems to be a sweet and caring gal with the intention of helping a sister out with those words, I felt so invalidated about what I had just shared.

It touched an already exposed nerve about why I can’t be as positive or content as so-and-so and why I gotta share messy feelings with folks when folks have a compulsion to edit your struggles as they see fit or to try to “solve” it for you with solutions you’ve already been running through your own mind 77 different ways.

And to be clear, I compare myself against truly positive folks, NOT those living in unhealthy denial, living like ostriches with their heads buried deep in the sand, not facing their stuff.

My response (and I may have shed some tears):

“Status? I couldn’t care less about status. Just look at me: I happily wear hand-me-downs and I don’t care what kind of car we drive, as long as it has room for two carseats in the back. Lack of physical space also adds to lack of mental space to just exhale and calm down from the hectic, LOUD day with the kids. And maybe some people are just fine in similar or worse conditions but that is not my constitution. Lotta things affect me. I’m highly sensitive to noise. I need to be able to escape and think. I don’t want a bigger place for STATUS. I can’t just sit here and nod at that, I’m sorry.”

She apologized and of course, I accepted because I knew she got it and we all say unhelpful things sometimes. I don’t mention this here to put her on blast because she really thought she could try to encourage me to be more content. I mention it because it was a good example of why I am beginning to retreat and censor myself more as I grow older.

My friends have pointed out that I judge myself when I have to wave the white flag and say that things are hard.

It’s because I don’t think I’ve ever felt ALLOWED to say that things are hard. Everyone is so quick to point out why I should be grateful, as if I weren’t already beating myself up for not being strictly grateful or comparing myself to folks who only focus on the positive. Everyone rushes to point out the silver lining.

I’ve had my dad and my mother-in-law both tell me, in efforts to ENCOURAGE me, “What have you to complain about!? You have two precious, adorable sons! What more could you want?”

I already KNOW I am SO blessed in so many ways and so many have it worse…BUT would it maybe be okay if I can share from the heart? Will you not dismiss it? Or invalidate it by saying, ‘well, at least you…?’ or ‘why can’t you just…?’ And please please don’t try to solve it by telling me how a law degree is so versatile and opens so many doors? Could you please just see me and hear me? Just as I am?

It’s like when you have a huge whitehead on your forehead, pulsating, about to pop, and you and that whitehead enter a room. I prefer to announce, “Hi! I already know that I have a gnarly, ripe whitehead on my forehead. I’mma pop that sucker as soon as it’s ready so no need to point it out, THANKS!” I’d much rather point it out myself instead of having others tell me what I am already fully aware of.

I battled severe depression when I was 17-18 and people wanted to solve it away, dispensing advice to me via my heartbroken and confused parents. It didn’t dawn on them that the proper response was simply, “That must be hard. Sorry to hear that your daughter is in so much pain.” Instead, they said stuff like:

“What she needs is a boyfriend. Get her mind off things.” (I had one, a great one, someone I am still friends with to this day, but depression don’t pass you by because you “lucky” enough to be dating.)

“She should listen to Enya.” (Surprise: I was not cured.)

“Maybe she is having issues now from being a latchkey kid. Maybe she has a deep sadness there.” (At least this one was deep.)

“Maybe she had trauma as a fetus.”

“Maybe she should get exorcised.”

They also made me feel worse by saying that this SHOULD be the time of my life, going off to college with my whole life ahead of me. I knew this. I beat myself up over it constantly. How could I be suffering from a catatonic depression when this was SUPPOSED to be the prime of my life?

I know people just say stupid things without intending to hurt. Maybe it makes people uncomfortable to let something messy and ugly and painful just float in the air without taming and caging it.

Even as I blog, I put pressure on myself to not be too negative as I don’t want to be seen as a Debbie Downer, or make sure I remind folks that I’m also hella funny and not always so angst-ridden, or try to show a prettier, positive side. “Don’t be self-indulgent, girl. No need to go on and on.” Oops.

I was reminded this week about how I’ve always been boggled by the phrase, “It is what it is.” Boggled as in, I detest it. I see no value to that combination of words. What the freak does it mean!? It is as valueless as “…whatever…” I ran into another mama who lives in the next building over. She is always so positive and I can tell she is a hard-working mama who pours herself out for her immediate and extended family.

I found out that her living space has the same configuration as my co-op unit, but with THREE kids instead of two. I had always thought she had more space.

“Don’t you get so frustrated about the lack of space?” I asked, trying to imagine another little kiddo squeezed into our place.

“It is what it is. Plus I love this neighborhood.”

Here, she was using it to mean, “What can I really do about it? What’s the point in getting frustrated? I choose to focus on what I like about our living situation.” I understood where she was coming from, yet whenever I hear the phrase, I think, “What is what it is? And what it be? How do you really feel about it?”

So, me, right now? I is what it is and this is how I is (here I go sharing again):

Though my default emotion is anger, I know I have a deep pool of sadness directly below it. About a lot of things, past and present.

I miss how much closer I was to my dad, the only person who gets my demons because we are so similar, for better and for worse.

Life is moving faster and faster. I feel like time is running out and God, I want some guidance and I wish my parents had the capacity to be the ones to give it to me.

I wish my husband and I could communicate and really hear each other instead of only focusing on whether we were heard or understood first. I can’t even remember the Us that was so googly-eyed years ago, so rich with leisure time, rest, and extra income.

I love being a mama but it is so hard in ways that I’ve never imagined. Sure, I’ve heard the general warnings during the ten months you’re pregnant, about sleep deprivation and breastfeeding and how your life is going to change completely but until you actually raise up these morsels, the warnings are empty and vague. The living it out, the dying to self moment-by-moment? Downright brutal.

Their comfort is more important than mine. I feel clean and refreshed when the baby’s dirty diaper is changed. I feel satiated when they are fed well. Waking up to a whining, crying duo, while sick and battling your own demons is not some noble sacrifice – it’s just called Wednesday. Getting on a plane back to your reality and your duties is called being a Mommy – that’s just what you do.

It is what it is. And that is how I is.

3.12.14 a parent at rest

P.S. After I hit “Publish” on this blog post, I stumbled upon a Psychology Today article that is somewhat on point. Saying that the present is hard is not Less Than focusing on the positive.

Here is the article: Being “In” the Moment When We Don’t “Like” the Moment

50 Degrees of Separation

Posted on February 27, 2014 by ajummama

I’m not doing well. Burrowing in a deep dark pit, like a small rodent taking a dustbath. Squirming.

On the morning of February 13th, we fled to LA in the midst of Snowstorm Pax. I used to be really into storm names but I can hardly keep up with them now that we’ve had storm-after-storm-after-storm, sometimes within the span of a week. Have to admit that for all the anxiety that Pax caused us prior to flying out, I did like the name.

When I called the Korean cab company the night before for 5 am pick-up to JFK, they said they would not be able to reserve a car for us due to the impending storm. We’d all just have to wait and see as this storm was predicted to be a doozy. I called them back at 4 am and they said they’d send someone.

My heart was beating wildly as we loaded up the freshly awoken, footed-pajammied little ones into the cab. The snow was falling down steadily and our surroundings were already white.

We still did not know if our flight would be cancelled but it seemed highly likely according to the forecasts predicting about a foot of snow, starting 4 am through 9 am. Our flight was scheduled for 6:55 am, smack dab in the middle of Pax, but Kevin had not received a text from the airline regarding any cancellations or delays.

Kevin was somber and reminded me to manage my expectations: The flight could get cancelled after we arrived at the airport. It could get postponed by a few days since many of us would have to book a new flight. To please not get my hopes up until we actually made it off the runway.

Even after a minor delay of about an hour to de-ice the plane, we touched down at LAX on time! I still can’t believe how lucky we were. I arrived to emails from friends assuming we hadn’t made it out.

“Mommy, you dunno if we can fly out? But the plane is right there!”

We were on the only flight that made it out of the storm that morning. If it had been cancelled, we would have lost about three days of our trip before the next available flight.

During the whole flight, I wanted to raise my hands in Halleluyer! We had made it! These morsels didn’t know how much I worried about being able to flee. They just knew that there was a small tv in front of them.

And now, after shaving my legs upon touching down at LAX, to rock glorious short shorts and flip flops in a land that was at least 50 degrees warmer, we are back.

The thing is…while here in NYC, I thought I was holdin’ it down relatively fine. After all, I’m going on nine years this October. What choice do I have but to live life yul-shee-mee (“diligently”)?

The only place I’ve ever experienced being someone’s wife, someone’s attorney, and someone’s mama is here in NYC.

But this winter has definitely been siphoning my mojo from me. I didn’t even know about the robbing of the mojo until faced with the possibility of being stuck here for days longer if our flight were cancelled, then actually experiencing healing and calm just by spending time in my hometown, with the sun literally warming my body and soul. Sun + Family + Friends + Being able to walk out the door without winter gear = Life-giving visit.

Reminds me of that movie, “The Bridges of Madison County,” where Meryl Streep was married to a nice but dull man. She remained devoted to him and was a dutiful wife and mother, holdin’ it down at home as best as she could in the only life she knew, until Clint Eastwood comes into town and shows her what she’s been missing.

LA was my Clint Eastwood.

Nibbling on Cara Cara oranges in the sun,

slurping down oysters at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market,

swinging by the local playground in shorts and flip-flops at 6 pm IN FEBRUARY,

getting photographed in Malibu with the sand between our toes,

subsisting on authentic Mexican food including homemade tortillas, spicy chilaquiles, and too many nacho platters in the name of “vacation,”

talking unabashedly with girlfriends who’ve known me for at least a decade,

watching my sons, especially the playground deprived newbie frolic about on beautifully plump, bare toddler feet, feeding ducks, hiking mountain trails, and riding ponies – ALL THINGS YOU CAN DO IN THE OUTDOORS when it is not a frozen tundra framed with weeks-old snow.

This winter has been the most brutal yet. The lowest temps (first time I heard of “Polar Vortex”) and the most snow. According to our doorman, it has been the worst winter since 1983 or 1984.

I remember the winter of 2010-2011 producing at least seven snowstorms before we fled to LA with our 11 week-old firstborn.

When Cali friends would often comment, “How do you handle living out there with the two little ones?”

The answer was simple.

“Because I have to. Because this is all I know.” You mean, there is an alternate universe where I wouldn’t have to carry my child over a snowbank, while the other smaller child waits patiently in his stroller for his turn to be carried over the same snowbank?

Or where I won’t be slippin’ and slidin’ when the bigger child refuses to cross the street in the middle of a traffic jam?

(Yes. See Clint Eastwood above).

This trip to LA was especially painful due to how tough things have been emotionally and on the homefront. Reminds me of the movie “Sliding Doors” with a drab-lookin’ Gwyneth Paltrow back in the day. This trip was like watching what my life would have been like had I walked through a different door, raising my boys with my tribe, in the sun, dealing with traffic and smog instead.

(I know there is no benefit in regretting or thinking “what if” but that is where I’m at now, a bit of wallowing before I climb out of my pit.)

I realized, through this trip, that our values and must-haves are ever-evolving.

For instance, I now know that I NEEEEEED sun the way I NEEEEEEED exercise. It is healing. It provides energy that I didn’t know I was missing until I noticed how alive folks were in SoCal while many people here seem to just DEALING with life during these harsh winter months.

When we hiked Coldwater Canyon, I wanted to jump into so many of the conversations that women were having with one another as hiking in and of itself lends itself to quality gabbing. And again, the sun energy was so potent. People would shower Micah and Ellis with so much affection and open adoration in a way that was markedly different from NYC. They didn’t hesitate to step to us just because we were strangers.

Everyone’s energy was on and poppin’ because they weren’t spending it clearing snow off the roof of their cars, shoveling their cars out to go food-shopping and considering that a victorious afternoon, or stuck running with active toddlers in the basement hallways to burn off their energy since outdoors is almost never an option these days.

I tried not to overschedule during this visit. I usually try to meet at least one friend per day while I’m there and while that sounds so doable, it’s stressful to arrange. The few girlfriends I did reconnect with made me have another Sliding Doors moment.

Imagine the revolutionary concept of being friends since junior high, high school, or college, then becoming mamas and raising our kids together instead of the way I did it. “You’re a mom, I’m a mom, we live in walking distance, so let’s at least try to be friends.” Don’t get me wrong. The local mama friends that I’ve been blessed to do life with are gifts. They kept me from going at this all alone and will always hold a special place in my heart when I look back on my boys’ early years, especially the raw first year.

Also blessed to have my spiritual communities through church and small groups.

I’m just talking about the organic way of being friends for years first and then naturally navigating through motherhood together.

So we’re back and I’m taking it pretty hard. Prior to the day we flew back home to NYC, I called the airline a few times to brainstorm about how I can stay back for at least another week. But I was jerked back to reality when Micah took a big fall smack onto his nose on parking lot asphalt.

We all boarded the plane as planned. Suddenly, I was on the plane again, being transported to my colder life in NYC and already in Mom-on-Plane mode, like grabbing a sippy cup in the nick of time when Micah just HAD to pee as the plane took off the runway. And humiliating myself by asking Amy Poehler for a picture at THE WORST POSSIBLE TIME.

So while I can do it and I have done it, I no longer want to do life in this way, where good weather days are treated like holidays. I do agree that there is no place like NYC even though I’m tempted to fight with (annoying) NYC enthusiasts who will cut you if you won’t bow down to it being the Be All End All and dare compliment another city. It just ain’t for me at this mature age and life stage.

Being a sensitive soul prone to intense emotions, I neeeeeeeed my sun. I need my tribe. I need my mojo back.

And when I miss the novelty of frigid temps or humid summers, I can always visit.

2.27.14 back to running laps in the basement hallway. even if mama bothered to bundle them back up after naps to go outside for fresh air, too cold to stay out for long.

EZ Pass Whilst Swervin’ in the Slush…

Posted on February 5, 2014 by ajummama

“Think there’s something wrong with our car. There’s a dark yellow cartoon that keeps popping up on the dashboard. Lookin’ like a car with squigglies around it. Am I okay to keep driving today?”

“That just means the car is swerving,” explained Kevin.

“Oh, aight then. Not sure what it’s telling me to do because I’mma keep swervin’ in this slurpee snow globe.”

A couple days ago, we had another snowstorm. I should have kept an accurate count as to what number storm this is in the past two months or even in 2014 thus far. Could these frequent snowstorms be attributed to the polar vortex?

We got more than 8 inches here in NYC and it brought us a gorgeous winter wonderland. Soft, fluffy snow and trees with powder-white branches, encased in an icy shell, looking nearly edible. A party planner would drool over this backdrop.

2.3.14 my gentleman callers outside our window

2.4.14

Snowbanks are so high by the curb that I have to lift my boys over them while I am forced to step knee-deep right into them. A groundskeeper in our co-op asked me, “Aren’t you cold?” and I realized I hadn’t even zipped up my jacket as there was too much carrying of gear and bundling up of the little ones, plus random Micah artwork I was holding.

The aftermath of the winter wonderland is hitting us hard today. We had more snow AND freezing rain overnight AGAIN so the streets are even slushier and that cartoon on my dashboard is showing up more frequently.

“YOU SWERVIN’, LADY.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

People are annoyed by this mess yet I’m starting to wonder if I’ve Turned.

This October will mark my 9th year living in NYC. Though I was raised in LA and schooled in both LA and the Bay Area, I have never had the experience of being a married woman or a mama in Cali. I’m curious what ajummamahood in my home state would be like.

Would I strangely miss all this weather drama if we were to relocate to sunny SoCal? Could I have Turned so much that everyday temps in the 70s could possibly…bore me? The many months of brutal cold and humid summers are vexing, no doubt, but I wonder if this has become my New Normal so much so that I would twitch in a land where I don’t have to check the weather updates constantly? I’m sure a part of me would actually miss Mother Nature’s mood swings.

This week has been an unexpected move towards deliberate gratitude. It had become too easy to audibly groan with the slush and lack of sun all around – being forced to stay home and surrounded by drudgery – but strangely, I’ve also experienced unexpected pick-me-ups in the midst of these bad weather days.

For instance, I’ve been getting so blessed with good parking, better than in good weather. I rolled up to Bible Study at a friend’s place and was able to park in a spot that someone had JUST dug his car out of, leaving a perfectly cleared spot for my car, like a small coffin in the snow. It was too good to be true. I asked around, “Is this a legit parking spot!? Or is there a fire hydrant hidden away in the snowbank?” The other dude digging his car out of the snow said, “Nope, you’re good! You can park there.”

This has been happening a lot this week. Parking blessings. A BIG DEAL in these parts. Truly unexpected.

Last night, Micah and I were returning from Long Island when I got distracted for one second. (I’m driving more than usual during this slushy mess for some reason). I rely 100% on GPS so I actually have no clue where I am without the GPS lady’s voice directing me. Either she didn’t direct me early enough, I just didn’t hear her over Micah’s Music for Aardvarks CD, or I ended up looking at the map that goes along with the GPS voice and I missed the highway I was supposed to continue on.

I found myself driving on an unfamiliar part of the highway and noticed a tollbooth and a beautifully lit bridge coming up.

I called Kevin on speakerphone. “Yeahhh, so I’m on this beautiful bridge. It has a gross name: Throgs Neck Bridge. No possible U-turn before a tollbooth right?”

“What?! Jihee-yah, how did you end up over there? No possible U-turn.”

“Well, we not gonna be home for a good long while then. Wish me luck.”

Micah chimes in, “Mommy, we lost? You don’t know where we going?”

Siighhhhh….”I’m so sorry, Micah. Mommy made a mistake and yes, we are lost but we will get home soon. We are going to turn off your music so Mommy can CONCENTRATE and listen to the GPS better, OK?”

“OK, Mommy. Watch the road!”

There on that bridge, I wanted to practice mindfulness and a deliberate gratitude. “Mindfulness” and “gratitude” have been such buzzwords in recent years that I may have rebelled against them at times, but they are so necessary in my life right now, especially to combat the word that I keep meditating on unhealthily instead: DRUDGERY.

The drudgery of picking up the toys and shoes and winter hats and wiping down chairs and picking up dropped sippy cups leaking milk onto the rug and playmats. Begging the kids to eat, now Ellis, too, since he doesn’t feast the way he used to. Repeating myself constantly.

Gratitude hasn’t been coming to me all that naturally, the way it used to my very first year of mamahood where even the drudgery was connected to the awe and wonder of having my first baby. Lately, I’d been feeling like so much was a dang bother, like simply leaving the house with kids, making sure they aren’t overheating or exposed to the elements. And our brief trips out, mostly for school dropoff or pickup, consisted mostly of rushing back in with our winter gear to avoid the chill of the polar vortex or the slush and slip n slide of snowstorm #7.

My NATURAL inclination was to beat myself into a bloody pulp for getting lost driving a route I’ve done a few times now (though never in the dark).

“What the hell is wrong with you? How you gonna get lost, even with the GPS and now you have to spend money going thru a tollbooth you have no business being anywhere near! Oh wait, you need to make a U-turn right past that tollbooth at the next exit so that means you gotta pay again? Way to go, blowing $15 on toll after saying we must save more money this year!”

But a small miracle occurred in my inner dialogue. I didn’t follow the same mental route I usually take. (Perhaps to match the usual route I didn’t take going home?).

I opened the window a smidge to get some fresh air up into my nostrils, thanked Micah for being so helpful and patient (and even encouraging), tried to enjoy the spontaneous excursion via bridge and got us home after about a 40 minute delay.

As we drove to our parking spot, Micah cheered, “Mommy! This is our home! We not lost any more.”

When I walked in the door, Kevin looked apprehensively at me. He knows how badly I beat myself up when I make mistakes. Something I definitely need to work on as it has wreaked havoc on me for years now.

He was surprised when I smiled and said, “Yeah, so I’m not gonna throw a fit. Totally was gonna go that route but I am so tired and thankfully, we only got lost. No accident. And hey, you know I love a beautiful bridge. Maybe not worth $15 for a drive-by but oh well, memories.”

“I still dunno how you ended up on that highway but hey, stuff happens.” I could tell he wants to crack up about my clumsy navigating even with the Godsend of an iPhone GPS but he wouldn’t dare just in case I decided to beat myself up after all.

“And if it makes you feel ANY better, we do have an EZ Pass so we’re going to be charged less than that. Wow, I have to say I’m proud of you for being able to let it go. We all make mistakes.”

Huh, EZ Pass. I like the sound of that for beyond saving money at tollbooths. Next time I sweat the small stuff, I’m going to give myself an “EZ Pass” out of it, as long as I learn my lesson and do better the next time I’m in a similar situation. Such a small step but it was progress for someone who self-flagellates like it’s her job. It was amazing to not go down the same treacherous path and salvage what remained of the evening. Thankful for the bad weather to make me check myself.

Progress, Not Perfection.

Lonestar, Lone Yellow Face, Getting Schooled

Posted on January 31, 2014 by ajummama

Every little thing that you do
I’m so in love with you
It just keeps getting better
I wanna spend the rest of my life
With you by my side
Forever and ever
Every little thing that you do
Oh, every little thing that you do
Baby I’m amazed by you

How was this cheesy old song by Lonestar making me catch feelings?

It came on as Ellis and I drove out to another potential preschool for his big bro, while Big Bro was busy at his current school ’til we swooped him up before noon. Maybe I was just relieved and happy that I knew some song lyrics for once or maybe the

“Every little thing that you do
Oh, every little thing that you do
Baby I’m amazed by you”

took a hold of me as I kept looking back at my cutie, tickled by his constant companionship in his ubiquitous polar bear hat and puffy navy jacket on this “warmer” day of the week (high of 30). Growing up so fast. Would definitely be needing a new carseat next month. Mo’ money, mo’ money.

I had just left the open house of the prior school, stuffing the application packet in its nice maroon embossed folder into the back of Ellis’ stroller. Our car, streaked with winter wear, was parked on the street that still showed vestiges of the most recent snowstorm. This song from 1999 came on while my second son cooed and babbled at his mama stealing glances at him from her rearview as we drove away.

All of that coupled with my realization, AGAIN, that my boy was going to start PRESCHOOL this fall. NOT pre-preschool or nursery but PRESCHOOL where, depending on the school, he would be grown enough to wear a UNIFORM to school, like a bonafide little scholar.

I’d been learning about this whole NYC preschool selection process and at first, it was too daunting. Too many choices for preschool and too many factors to consider. I know it’s “only preschool” but that doesn’t mean I can skip the due diligence required to ensure that my son attends a safe, stimulating, fun, nurturing school.

As I drove, I started wondering if my parents could have afforded to take time off from running their store to go on preschool tours for me. Then I realized, WE WEREN’T EVEN IN AMERICA when I was Micah’s age. This blew my mind for some reason as that Lonestar chorus continued to replay in my head: “Baby I’m amazed by you-u-u…”

I attended a couple months of preschool in Seoul before we immigrated to Los Angeles. I vaguely recall standing around in a big circle with a bunch of other kids. I also remember my mama telling me that I wasn’t quite feeling it one day so I walked home during the school day, telling her an elaborate story about how Soojin (imaginary friend) and I were not enjoying school so we decided to come back home.

My East Coast boys were already growing up so differently from their mama. I was born WAY east…Seoul east. They have professional, English speaking parents who take preschool TOURS, not hesitant to ask any questions due to their limited English. Being the most vocal parent during the tour, asking about the school’s general philosophy, daily schedules, and whether our new mayor’s push for more universal pre-kindergarden could affect the upcoming academic year, and teacher-student ratios. Stark contrast from my own parents gathered in a huddle with other Korean immigrant parents after our kindergarden class let out, to group-translate the memos pinned to the back of their children’s shirts.

The second school Ellis and I checked out was comprised of 100% African-American students, from age two through third grade. One wide-eyed little girl said to her classmate, “It’s a Chinese baby!” as she gazed at my boy.

When I saw the classrooms filled with all Black students, I time-traveled back to my childhood, where my brother and I were the only non-Black kids in the neighborhood my parents ran a Chinese take-out store.

I was already a bit emotional after the unexpected Lonestar infection (“Every little thing that you doo-oo-oo…”) but it got cranked up a notch, maybe to Snow Patrol proportions (“If I lay here, if I just lay here…”). I am the first to admit that these songs are clearly the wrong soundtracks for this school tour day but I had no control over the DJ in my head.

The time travel was fast and furious. It had to be since I was a grown woman now, a mama, checking out a school for her firstborn. SWOOSH. Back to the present now.

I took it all in: the blue mesh cots stacked on top of each other for the kids’ naptimes after lunch. Different patterned blankets that each student had brought from home. It was clear how much they loved this place, even gathering around the staff member who was showing me around, repeatedly saying, “Hi, Mr. ______.” A teacher was giving a two year-old little boy some water to drink, the boy draped on her, looking so comfy.

I asked the staff how they thought my son would feel as the only non-Black face among his classmates. They explained that it was a very personal decision for our family but that they welcomed everyone.

The two school visits made me think about how much power we have in impacting our kids’ lives. By submitting a few sheets of paper, we could have him enrolled in school with all Black classmates, mostly Jewish classmates, or about 50% Japanese classmates (what his current class demographics ended up being, though still diverse). That would definitely shape his worldview, just like it did mine.

Ultimately, Kevin and I decided that the schools Ellis and I visited today were not for us. The first school simply did not fit our schedule and we would definitely mind that Micah would be the only non-Black child in the second school. Likewise, we would not want to send him to a school where the student body was 100% or nearly 100% of any race, be it White or Black or Asian.

Looking back, I loved having always attended such diverse schools though I did feel inferior when some of my classmates in the gifted magnet school I was bussed to from fourth to sixth grade were well off, with parents who were so involved in school activities.

I was in shock when I attended Kevin’s high school reunion where we were the only people of color. Well, us, and one Japanese-American dude that Kevin’s classmate had married, and of course, one other classmate actually went up to the dude and yelled, “Kevin!” while draping his arm around him, having to apologize to both repeatedly through the night. Kevin tried to show that he was just as down as me by peppering conversations with “all you white kids….” when a drunk classmate complimented him with what she probably deemed as the ultimate compliment: “Oh come on, KK, you’re as white as the rest of us.” Coming from schools where people of color outnumbered the White folk, it just felt gross. I wanted to open up my tattered copy of Malcolm X and read it near the bar.

And as much as we can help it, we do not want our sons to be the lone Asian-American representative at any school.

Aside from the racial composition of his school, we could end up choosing a school that he just did not like, or a school he absolutely loved. A school with loving staff, or a school with bad seeds. Or a school that just didn’t care enough. Or just a bad fit for whatever reason. Then we would just have to go back to the drawing board.

Education is such a personal choice for families. I just didn’t think too much about it since I didn’t have to when my kiddos were younger.

Of course, education is highly valued in most cultures, including mine, but I’m talking about the different paths parents choose for their kids. Homeschooling, charter schools, private schools, even UNschooling, just for starters. One common point of discussion while shopping for preschools is whether it’s “academic” enough and whether that’s even what you’re looking for. Some folks are certain that there is no place for “academic” among four year-olds, since they will be SCHOOLED for many years. No rush to pressure them into formal instruction. Preschool time should be child-led, letting the child choose areas of interest.

On an instinctual level, that sits well with me. Our dude will only be turning FOUR come November, no need for worksheets or memorizing anything…until I talk to some other mama while double-parked next to each other during pick-up time at Micah’s school, talking about how one school is “only nurturing, not actually teaching enough” or when a parent who moved away from our area tells me that her child is learning SO much more at her new school. Then the hibernating Tiger Mama in me wants to jump out my chest like in “Aliens” and start preparing Micah for his SATs.

“Micah, finish your cereal. You have to feed yourself! Stop dropping your sippy cup! And tell me again, what does ‘tergiversation’ mean? Use it in a sentence before I take you to the potty.”

Or when I’m good about our decision to send Micah to only a few hours of preschool since kindergarden and beyond will be full-time unlike the limited quality time to spend with Mama and Brother…until I hear a preschool director tell me that kids really need to prepare for kindergarden by getting used to the hours in preschool, and acquire “more skills.”

I am not cut from the same cloth as parents who’ve already formed their firm convictions about how to do thangs. I always enjoy chatting it up with others to see if I have a blind spot or if I should reconsider. Even with our choice for me to stay-at-home with them indefinitely, there are many days I waver in the conviction or confidence behind that choice. On the one hand, I’m glad I’m open-minded enough to talk to others and sift through different opinions, taking most with a grain of salt.

I also know that I need to remember WHO I’m talking to, as all opinions do not hold equal weight. Are they the type of parents or educators or people I respect and wish to emulate?

But on the other hand, I’m reminded of what Keith Urban said on American Idol this past week. He said that sometimes, listening to everyone’s critiques and ideas about what kind of singer you should be, can actually drown out your own natural voice/style and make you sing without heart.

I’m sure I have a lot of learnin’ to do as I mature in my parenting over my kids’ lifetimes, but what I do know is that I’m all heart. And when I do get nervous about choosing wrong for them, I’ll have to keep in mind that their mama couldn’t even speak English when she started kindergarden but still rocked the SATs, got herself jobs with zero connections, passed the NY Bar Exam on her first try, and started a blog with a readership of tens of tens.

But I do want them to surpass me in every way. Have more joy and confidence and peace. THRIVE.

I want to do right by them…

Cause “Baby I’m amazed by you-u-u…”

“Mama, you up there by the window again? Choose a great school for me, aight? Good lookin’ out!”

New ‘Do, New View

Posted on January 22, 2014 by ajummama

I won “Best Hair” in my high school class of 683 students. My hair was like the little girl’s on “The Incredibles,” one cartoon that I willingly watched. Like a flat sheet of black silk was sewn into my scalp. People often accused me of getting a straight perm on the ‘low when I didn’t even own a blowdryer. I didn’t think I deserved the title because what Asian girl doesn’t have stick straight, slippery seaweed herr. Typical! Bo-ring.

I wanted to win the more meaningful category I was up for, Best Sense of Humor, something I must earn. I think I subconsciously campaigned by being more “on” the week we cast our ballots for Senior Superlatives. I bet many of the candidates were campaigning in some way, trying to sound extra smart or run extra fast that week.

I ended up losing to a white girl named Megan or Meghan and I was a gracious loser, not even thinking about demanding a recount. And it’s not like the loss was the first thing I ever mentioned to the then-stranger, now babies’ daddy, nearly a decade later. (It just happened to come up in the first email, that’s all).

After the ballots were counted, someone said they didn’t know I was funny because I didn’t look it. Megan or Meghan, on the other hand, was loud, super sarcastic, and sported crispy, tight dirty blonde spiral curls. I think it also helped that she was in the Performing Arts Magnet, not in the unfunny Math/Science Magnet.

Come to think of it, my second o.b. was also surprised by how funny I was. Maybe folks really don’t expect it from an Asian gal? Que lastima.

Moving on…

I had heard that your hair starts to fall out after giving birth, at the same time your baby’s does. I braced myself for it and even asked my doctor when it might happen because I became nervous to look down at the drain each time I took a shower. He said, “If it hasn’t happened yet, Jihee, it ain’t happening!” Sure enough, I never shed after both my sons were born. My sons didn’t either. I was extra blessed that THAT was hereditary while my mom’s extremely difficult pregnancies were not.

Around the holidays last month, I got dreadlocks. No, I didn’t go get them done in Brooklyn – they just appeared. Not even dreadlock extensions which would have been cool but at the roots. A few bird’s nests that I couldn’t brush out when I bothered to brush my hair. Then some more at the nape of my neck where I tie my unstylish, purely functional ponytail.

I couldn’t stand it any more and went for a chop.

My hair guy told me that he did the best he could but that even after the long overdue haircut, I have new growth: some major ggohp-sul-muh-ree (“wavy/kinky hair” in Korean) right at the part I was always ponytailing. He prescibed, as predicted, the ubiquitous Magic Straight Perm that ironically, my straight-haired people love to subject themselves to – for straightER hair. No thanks.

My once comically straight hair, something I always took for granted, was working itself into dreadlocks and getting called kinky. The way Koreans treat “kinky,” I thought he was going to stick a “Do Not Resuscitate” sign onto my neck. They gasp when handling Kevin’s atypical Korean ‘fro.

I told my hair guy that it was probably due to aging and also that the birth of my second kid resulted in additional hormonal changes. He shared that his colleague went through hair transformation after hair transformation after the birth of each of her three kids. She was styling another client next to us, looking as lovely as ever with her hairdo of celeb proportions. “She only has a fraction of her hair left, though,” he told me.

The idea of my New Dreads reminded me of when I was talking to Micah’s teacher after school.

“Miss B, you would think that I’d have accepted the fact that of course, my boy at age three can’t be compared to the sweet, gentle, shy, angel baby he was as an infant. But Miss B, when Micah gets so mischievous and doesn’t listen to me, I can’t believe how much my baby boy has changed.”

“Yes, I understand. But you have to look at him with New Eyes. He is growing up.”

New Eyes. I liked that.

In fact, I need to look at lots of things with New Eyes.

My relationship with Facebook. Definitely can be a way to connect with folks but also deserves a big fat demotion in how much time it can suck up, even when I think I’mma just check real quick. My friend Jisun was agreeing with me last week via email: How we were just SO OVER a lot of things we used to be into. She said that with Facebook, her new style is “just random flyovers, dusting the back 40 acres.” Such a perfect way to put it. No need to constantly check because I don’t want to think about something I have to do for the kids or because I just have to read each article on my Newsfeed to escape the mundanity of these holed up winter days, while my kids lose me to that evil little screen I hold in my hands.

My marriage. Of course, it can’t be the marriage of our honeymoon period, Double Income No Kids years, or even when we had just the one son. It’s been tough and it doesn’t help to compare now to how it used to be.

My friendships. Even though I love and cherish my ride-or-die chicks, talking on the phone has become nearly extinct or at least to the level of “endangered” these days and at first, that saddened me – that thumbtyping to your loved ones had become the norm, but frankly, even this chatterbox just wants to exhale and unwind when I have a block of uninterrupted time. Even uninterrupted time will surely get interrupted these days by a certain bedtime resister.

My priorities/dreams/values. I can’t beat myself up for not being the same type of “ambitious” I was when I was in sixth grade, with my yearbook page stating, “Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court” under “future goals.” Or even more recently when I thought I had no choice but to practice law or just be at home. Still trying to figure things out.

My kids. I do grieve the ending of their delectable babyhoods. I can only look at pictures and video clips and try to recall every facial expression and mannerism when they were so new. When they were more like new puppies than humans. When they would peer into my eyes, clenched fist around my finger, as I nursed their warm bodies.

But they’re also going to be delectable in some form at each new stage, except maybe as deep-voiced, facial hair sprouting, hormonal teenagers, oh Lord help me…

But like now…no longer babies but still as juicy as ever, in a different way. Like when the 15 month-old runs full force into my arms for a hug, ever since he learned to run 25 hours ago, but ackin’ like he been born running. And when my three year-old, on his 17th excuse for not going to bed at a decent toddler-like hour, yells, “Yes, I know Mommy, I can’t leave my bed but I have to tell you something. I love you, my Mommy, OK? That’s right.”

My hair. I actually don’t care about my hair despite devoting most of this post to it, but I just wanted to bring it back full circle, to tie up the loose ends. In a dreadlocked-ponytail.