Just “Cute” Me!

Posted on November 1, 2013 by ajummama

Dear Micah,
Thanks to you, I’ve been gifted with a memorably cute week, with some trick-or-treating as the grand finale. When Ellis joined our family, Grandma Lee called it while looking at the Kim boys: “Alvin Simon Theodore!” so that’s what y’all went as this Halloween.

Halloween 2013

Yesterday, the night before Halloween, was my first Parents’ Night. There have been so many moments, following your birth, where I thought, “I have NOW arrived. I am REALLY a mom.” One such moment was when we visited a baby music/dance class at Dragonfly Dulou in Los Feliz, CA on your first trip back to LA, to escape the many snowstorms of NYC. You were ridiculously young to be in the class, even for overeager modern parenting or Korean parenting (achievement-obsessed) standards. Grandma Lee came with me and she cracked up, commenting, “I dunno how much baby Micah enjoyed this class since he’s still a fetus but his Mama was delirious with excitement throughout the whole thing. I was just watching your face.” I nearly teared up as we danced around, making silly sounds and trying out musical toys, looking good and crazy. I AM IN A BABY MUSIC CLASS WITH MY SON! I AM A MAMA. I AM FOREVER CHANGED.

I felt like this again last night, attending PARENTS’ NIGHT as a newbie. Daddy stayed back with you and your brother, while I was gifted with the chance to enjoy a nice walk to your school, in perfect fall weather. I thought, “This is a trip. I am attending my son’s PARENTS’ NIGHT with other PARENTS. I am REALLY a mama now, maybe a year away from wearing jewelry he will make with flour and bake in the oven, under the careful supervision of his teachers.”

Naturally, I sat in the front row. Just so you know, all the cool kids in school sit in the front row, so as not to miss anything the teachers have to say, or get distracted from watching the people who sit in front of you. Reminds me of Grandpa Lee getting pissed when someone too tall sat in front of him at your uncle’s 6th grade graduation. We laughed because Mr. Too Tall happened to be Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, his classmate’s very famous daddy. But I digress.

I listened to your teachers explain early childhood development theory, how even during something as simple as snacktime, you are learning so much. I was touched by how much your teachers genuinely desire for you and your little classmates to feel valued as a member of their school community. I soaked up every word, and nearly teared up hearing about the details of your mornings, including how you and your classmates are learning to develop conclusions on your own: “That red paint and yellow paint that Miss B poured separately made the new orange paint!” Miss B also informed us that soon we are going to take a “field trip” around the neighborhood, on a Shape Walk, a trip that will make you guys look for shapes everywhere you go. Mommy and Ellis will go on that little trip with you, if we don’t cramp your style too much. They ended with a slideshow presentation and when I saw you up on the screen, larger than life, I just felt so lucky to be your mama, sitting in that front middle seat in that auditorium.

yup, yo mama took a picture of your picture, from the front row. no shame.

I have to admit that for a few months, I found myself stuck in a rut of “Get It Over With” parenting. I wanted to get all the tough stuff over with just so I can exhale and rest and tune out, fast forward to the end of the day when I can just have some peace and quiet. Mealtime battles, discipline issues, answering your many questions from the kitchen while nervously running back and forth from the living room to make sure you are not closing Ellis’ eyelids shut, talking about, “You can’t watch TV, baby! It’s mine!”, repeating myself and still not getting listened to. I confess that I just wanted to phone it in. And I sighed. A LOT.

What helped me slowly START getting out of the rut was you. You made me marvel again the way I used to during your earlier years, before I let the wear and tear of daily demands of two toddlers get at me. When you were an infant, or even a less verbal, more baby-like toddler, everything you did was amazing and I had boundless energy because of this marveling and wonder. You helped me remember to marvel again as you’ve been growing up so swiftly these days, sometimes in the course of one day.

Your humor is coming along quite nicely. How did my no-necked, soft little baby with fine wisps of hair, develop such a sense of humor. You think you George W. Bush, giving everyone a nickname? I ask you who you like to play with at school and you get that mischievous smile on your face before you answer, “I play with Carry Up and Phone.” Turns out you like to play with a little girl named Carrie (maybe because you are drawn to her name, as you love to beg Mommy to “Carry Up” especially when she is wearing your little brother and steering the heavy stroller) and a sweet guy named Cameron (“Mommy, I call him Camera, like CameraPhone. I call him Phone now.”)

You love to dance HARD when we play some of your favorite songs. A couple days ago you would mimic Robin Thicke singing “hey hey hey..” in “Blurred Lines,” squealing, “This is my Daddy’s song!” You sing songs that you learned at school, songs that Mommy doesn’t know. I heard you sing the end of one school song, “…October brings the harvest…” and when I tried to learn it you said, “No, Mommy, don’t sing! I sing it.” And of course, “Don’t Sing, Mommy!” is not complete without a “Don’t Dance, Mommy!”

I don’t know where you learn some things that I’ve never heard you say before. A few weeks ago, your teacher told me that you fell off the tricycle during playground time, but that it was a complete accident and that you were fine. I later asked you more about that accident and you finally told me more about what happens at school. You calmly shared that your classmate hits you, but “not everyday, Mommy! He only hit me sometimes.”

Upon hearing that, Micah, Mommy’s body got hot with fury. I wanted to do what I usually want to do when I get furious. Strip off all my clothes and beat my chest, howl, revert to animal DNA.

“Did he hit you today?”

“Yes, he hit me today but he only hit me sometimes, Mommy.”

“Did he hit you in the face?” (Really trying not to rip off my clothes as my body heat rises)

“No, he didn’t Mommy! He hit me in my nose. Are you mad Mommy? Are you mad at me Mommy?”

“OF COURSE NOT, MICAH! Where are you getting this from, Micah? Why would Mommy be mad at YOU for telling me like a big boy what happens at school. Mommy feels mad and sad right now but not at you. I feel mad that I couldn’t protect you. I feel sad that my Micah got hurt and I didn’t even know. I will NEVER be mad when you tell me what happens at school. I sometimes get mad when you don’t listen to Mommy but when you tell me that someone hit you or pushed you, I am only PROUD that you were brave enough to tell me.”

“Is Daddy proud of me, too-oo?”

“OF COURSE, MICAH! DADDY IS SO PROUD OF YOU!”

“Do you love me Mommy? You love me?”

You slay me with these questions. How do you even know to ask such things? Apparently I knew nothing about nearly three-year-olds before I had kids. I didn’t expect such profound questions so early on.

I just wanted to say thanks to you, my dear first baby, Micah, Mommy had an extra full, extra cute week. I love you always and I am proud of you always just because you are you, not because of anything you do. You can ask me about that as much as you want, but I hope you know it and feel it…always.

cuteness overload

Evite Reminder: MLK’s (Theme-to-Be-Determined) Ko-Mitzvah 11.25.2023

Posted on October 21, 2013 by ajummama

I can write at least 58 different posts on this one topic alone, the topic being “Things I Used to Judge Only to Do Them Now.”

When I was pregnant with my firstborn, MLK, I had somehow developed a stance against kiddie pay-to-play classes like Gymboree.

I’d be all, “Augh! Why would I pay more than my own adult gym’s monthly payments so that my kid can LEARN to PLAY? That is too yuppie for my taste. I’m old school. I’m au naturel! Why would my kid attend some sorta hakwon as a baby!?” [“hakwon” = Korean prep academy / afterschool enrichment]

Then I happened to take him to a trial class. Not only did I promptly sign him up, we became loyal Gymboree members, referring more than a dozen other kiddos and continuing our membership for longer than any of our peers. It wasn’t about learning to play as I had initially thought, but rather, having a colorful, inviting space to play in regularly, other than our same ol’ same ol’ living room or other buddies’ living rooms.

Micah started looking like Billy Madison among babies, when we finally quit two whole years later, at 31 months old. I almost couldn’t go through with terminating our membership because Gymboree was so beloved by both Micah and Mama, such a big part of our lives as newbie mama and first baby, but it was time. (Ellis as second-born never got to join Gymboree as you’re not allowed to bring your older sibling to the younger class. Too Godzilla-like).

When I was pregnant, people warned me mostly about sleep deprivation, or made vague and ominous declarations like “Your life will never be the same again,” but not about how my weekends would usually include a kiddie birthday party, sometimes back-to-back, before and after naps. Thankfully I still enjoy them, especially watching these little guys light up, but I used to judge elaborate kiddie birthday parties. Hward.

My natural gut reaction was to scoff at how fancy these parties were becoming compared to my childhood where my McDonald’s birthday party was my most pimped out.

We recently went to a sprawling gymnastics birthday party for a cute little three-year old friend of Micah’s (who we met at Gymboree as infants). The gymnastics academy was one of the best venues I’d seen for these active toddlers to tumble around in, complete with a foam diving pit and largest parachute ever. The hosts were so inclusive of their many little buddies that this was the biggest party we had been to…since her 2nd birthday party.

I was wearing Ellis, having a hard time side-shimmying through the crowd during lunch as everyone had to squeeze in behind their seated little ones on a long table and accompanying bench. I watched all the parents obediently file into line, shoulder-to-shoulder, behind their children, amidst commotion, to receive their standard party rations: pizza and cake. Because this party was so big, the tables and benches kept you from mingling about. Strictly single file line. You bess stay at your station.

I saw my good friend multi-tasking, feeding her son and looking out for Kevin by asking him quickly, “Did you get your pizza? You were able to eat?” Kevin, while keeping Micah and Micah’s juice from falling off the bench and table respectively, quickly responded, “Yup, yup, I ate, I ate. Plenty, thanks. You got one, too, right?”

It was heartwarming. They were Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman lookin’ out for each other in the prison mess hall.

Before I had these kids, it was all too easy to snub my nose at these modern day birthday parties because they just seemed too fancy compared to my own childhood. I’m talking gymnastics, carousel, museum, zoo, petting zoo, circus, water station, sprawling “treehouse,” Gymboree, My Gym, Bounce U, farm, and more.

Just yesterday, Micah came home excitedly after attending his buddy’s birthday party with his Daddy while Ellis and I had to miss due to Ellis’ fever.

“Did you have fun at E’s party? Was it fun on the schoolbus!?”

“Mommy! It’s not schoolbus! It’s Fun Bus.”

He had had a blast at the Fun Bus party. A Fun Bus is a schoolbus painted all cute with its insides gutted out so that kids can tumble and swing around.

Micah taking a break from Fun Bus er, fun, to peek out at his Daddy / photo credit: his Daddy

photo credit: Claudia Douyon

I remember a childhood friend telling me, “Jihee, my son went to a party where they had a Bubble-ologist. The weirdest part is that he called HIMSELF that. With a straight face.”

I used to think that I would be able to resist this party culture for my kids but just like with Gymboree, I saw how much he enjoyed himself and how his little buddies, especially now that they aren’t babies any more, really understood that it was their special birthday celebration. Plus, many of us live in small NYC apartments so it’s a matter of practicality. There is just no way to host a party in our own homes unless you invite only two little friends and their mamas.

I’ve slowly come to realize that I can’t keep comparing to my McDonald’s party of yesteryear because this is a whole new world. I was learning this new invention called “computer” on an Apple IIC or IIE in our elementary school’s computer lab, stressing about learning how to play a new game called “Carmen Sandiego” while some toddlers these days have their own iPads. Naturally, the landscape of birthday parties, especially in cities like NYC or LA, would get suped up.

I know I’m a dinosaur but what is up with themes? These days, great parties and weddings all seem to have a theme. Was just thinking that today’s hipsters may throw an ironic McDonald’s-themed party, complete with retro uniforms and modernized purple fondant Grimace cake.

“Does Ellis have a theme for his doljanchi?” asked one of my best friends recently, as she planned her son’s in LA.

“Watchoo mean ‘theme’? The ‘THEME’ is that he turnin’ One and we feeding our friends and family a gluttonous amount of food and dduk. And hiring his music class teacher to do some dope kiddie songs for 45 minutes!”

“No, girl, a THEME!”

Online stores like Etsy make it easy to choose a theme like “Carnival” or “Rock Star” and buy accompanying decorations but it’s just one more thing to have to make a series of micro-decisions about. That is what I am allergic to in event planning: how tending to just “x,y, and z” soon sprouts into tending to “a thru w, and don’t forget the x, y, and z,” even though it’s all for such a happy occasion. So, no, we didn’t have no theme for both boys’ doljanchis other than, “Get Yo Grub On, and Watch Our Son Crawl Towards The Object Which Scientifically Foretells His Destiny aka Doljabi.”

I got married more than six years ago and thank God people didn’t ask me “What is your theme for the wedding?”

My “THEME” is marriage. That by God’s grace, my crazy ass is getting hitched.

So, back to these modern birthday parties. Special venues do allow parents to relax as they usually have most of the details covered. Most of the time, even a built-in THEME!

I recently heard my girl, Wendy Williams, talk about her 13 year-old son’s Bro-Mitzvah complete with a celeb date for him to walk around with and recording artists for entertainment, fancier than my wedding. Also on “Basketball Wives,” Shaq’s son, Shareef, got a Bro-Mitzvah with a stylist picking out his multiple couture outfits and of course, per his request, fire.

While I did end up booking the gymnastics academy for Micah’s 3rd birthday party (with a very short guestlist to keep it intimate), I do draw the line at throwing him a Ko-Mitzvah.

For now.

Can’t Go Home Again

Posted on October 17, 2013 by ajummama

My mama recently came to NYC for her annual visit. The last time she was here, the timing was serendipitous as Ellis waited for her to arrive to take care of not-so-big (22 month-old) Big Bro before emerging from his mama’s womb.

Some parts of the visit made my heart swell with joy. Watching her finally be able to squeeze and hold her precious grandbabies instead of only peeking at them via harried and choppy Skype session. Watching her fall in love all over again, this time with her newer grandson as he has developed into a real person from the newbie he was the last time she saw him back home in LA. Watching her watch Micah with fascination (and sometimes with intimidation), her first grandchild now a young boy, complete with a new, strong will, dance moves with gangsta face and fist pumps, his own sense of humor, and tantrums.

But some parts of the visit made me crazy. I’m sure that her being clear ‘cross the country adds to her not being able to accept and conform to our routines as easily as a local grandma would but it was still exhausting to receive push-back on how we do things. When you are an adult child who has lived away from your parents from the age of 18, being under the same roof for an extended period of time, with child-rearing up in the already cramped mix, can really press some hot buttons.

In some ways, I felt like we were experiencing role reversal, like when I had to lecture her on how handwashing is a MUST after changing E’s diaper:

Ma: But my hands didn’t touch anything! This is excessive! My hands are peeling.

Me: No, Umma, I can’t believe *I* have to tell you this as the daughter! You MUST wash your hands when you change any diaper – pee or poo. You can’t see or feel germs, but they get on our hands. YOU HAVE TO DISINFECT to prevent the spread of germs.

Ma: But my hands stay clean! And if you are so obsessed with germs, why don’t you care more about the dust around the house? And your fridge is a mess. I cleaned it out.

Me: Poo germs are more urgent. Just don’t fight me on everything. Please don’t make me repeat myself. WASH YOUR HANDS EACH TIME. WITH SOAP!

Ma: You are so picky.

Me: And you just won’t listen.

Same convo about 17 times.

It was constant:

“Why do the kids have to sleep at regular bedtimes each night? They are humans, not robots. Like we sleep at different times each night depending on how tired we are.”

“YES, but they are not adults. They thrive on structure. Please don’t mention this each night. HAVING TO FIGHT YOU at the end of the day drains me even more. I don’t have any reserves left to do this.”

Oh, the intricacies in the relationship between Mother/Grandma with an adult daughter-with-her-own-kids in a small space.

And I shouldn’t have been surprised that we had the same issues we had on previous visits, both in LA and NYC. Time doesn’t heal when we both behave the same as we did before. Generational, cultural and personality conflicts. Language as a barrier (which I didn’t notice as much growing up but now that I’m trying to talk woman-to-woman, mom-to-mom, the stuff of epiphanies and deep talks, my Korean words won’t come as fast as my thoughts).

Sometimes, because I didn’t know how to communicate without it leading to another fight, we would only talk about the safe topics, like something cute the boys did or if they’re wearing enough sunscreen or…about food. Talking about food in and of itself is not bad, but I wanted to really connect. It was all too loaded and unsafe, so we would sit at our meal in Punta Cana, talking about the manchego cheese and razor clams instead. I felt so frustrated and resigned. So much love but so hard to really hear each other.

Essentially, I had been hoping that when she made this annual visit, I’d be able to exhale. I’ve become so irritable lately that I actually started hating on well-rested status updates on my Facebook. “Leisure-time-having mofo…” I would unfairly hiss.

So many factors that added to my inability to relax this year: My hormones have registered as off the charts low since I’ve been nursing Ellis, we’ve definitely outgrown our space so there is nowhere to retreat, Ellis sleeps in his crib in our room since he has nowhere else to go…until he creeps into our bed in the middle of the night, Micah has been going through a bad nap/sleep phase since August, plus his recent cough/asthma(?) attacks. AND HAVING TO REPEAT MYSELF all day. These are roughly just a few reasons why I, with the supersonic hearing and nervous personality, haven’t been able to “Poook Shee-Uh” (FULLY FULLY REST) like my body and mind has been desperately craving.

Thankfully, my kids are both healthy and these are just day-to-day stressors but they have still done a number on me.

So when my mama arrived and we ended up WATCHING THE KIDS TOGETHER, I kept thinking, “What a damn waste. Why do we end up watching the kids together!? Her visits are the only real time I can leave the kids for an extended mental health break but here we are, BOTH feeding them, BOTH making sure Ellis don’t climb over the baby gates. A waste of manpower.” I expressed this to my mama but she said that because she hasn’t taken care of them BOTH at their current ages, she doesn’t feel confident, especially with Micah being more strong-willed and vocal now.

When their naps overlapped after much cajoling with Micah who is now nap-resistant (and we have to go through a whole THING before he succumbs), I told my mama I will just go across the street with my laptop. She seemed to be okay with that since they were both napping (and I was all hurt that she wasn’t all, “Go for it!” She seemed more like, “What if the big one goes hysterical for you?”).

Soon after I scoped out my leather loveseat at Starbucks, ordered myself a warm fatty beverage, and opened up the laptop, my mama called me with a hysterical Micah who had woken up from his nap looking for me.

I felt like he was cranking up the drama because my mama was so reactive.

I told her to calm him and that I’d be right there.

But it ain’t 2011 no more and he ain’t a newborn so I surprised myself: my ass was not rushing home. I was DRAINED in every way. I took my sweet time closing up my laptop and willing my feet to start moving from this refuge.

I know mamas always say their disclaimers about HOW MUCH WE LOVE OUR KIDS before we complain about anything. And I do. They own my heart forever. But so much has accumulated upon this mama this year, that tired piled atop more tired atop “Can I FREAKING Sleep or Be Able to Have a Cough Attack in Peace in My Own Bedroom Without Waking Up my Baby Beluga?” makes for a different kind of mama. I dunno how I used to have boundless energy when it was just Micah and me, running off to the playground or playdate sometimes twice a day, strolling a mile each way.

When I finally started walking down our courtyard, my mama called me again saying that Micah wants to come look for me. Before I could say anything, sho’ nuff, my mama was already in plain view, with Ellis tied to her back with a huge piece of fabric like she used to do in Seoul circa 1976 thru 1980, and Micah scanning the premises for me like Carrie Mathison on Homeland. When Micah gets hysterical, so does Grandma Lee. This has been a recurring challenge for us – how she gets hysterical with them instead of being the calming influence, even when we tried to go to Ellis’ newborn doc visit. She had even left our apartment door slightly ajar because she rushed to get the kids to me.

We love you Halmoni. Thanks for feeding us better than our mama can.

I’ve had to remind her that while it is hard to bear, Micah crying doesn’t mean he’s dying. But she believes that it will have an effect on him long-term so she gets frenzied.

Now that she’s back in LA, I realize that while we have legitimate conflicts and communication barriers, some of it is the stage I’m going through. The notion of not being able to ever take a break from being a Mommy, as blessed as I am. Of course I knew that you can’t ever really be On Break from being someone’s Mommy but to actually live it is different from just knowing it as a notion.

I remember coming home from undergrad finals or law school finals for winter break and I would spent lots of that time just refueling by eating my mama’s homemade stews and boocheengehs, sleeping like a bear on my parent’s electric mat, and repeat. I needed that time to POOK SHEE UH before facing a new semester and its stressors.

I can’t “go home” again in that way again. (And I’m guessing most of y’all reading this can’t either with your grown a$$es).

No one can ever step in for me and be my kids’ mama. I mean, on the one hand, thank God, but on the other, man, it’s been overwhelming. The 24-7 needs of little humans.

One of my working mama friends called me as she was stuck in rush hour traffic and she casually remarked, “But you BEEN home since Micah was born. Why is it any different from before?” It’s just the accumulation of drained upon drained in ways I am too drained to even type out, now with two toddlers in my care, one of them fearlessly climbing everything and another thinking it’s so funny to say “no” to every directive.

Basically, my chapter as Eager Beaver Disney character newbie mama has come to an end. This new chapter is still adorable with the first son talking up a storm and even cracking jokes, and the second son booty-shaking to any beat, but I definitely notice some wear and tear. I do have to think about ways to improve the next visit with my beloved mama, not letting the wear and tear get the best of me.

Motion Detector Mini Monday Post

Posted on October 14, 2013 by ajummama

Hoping to get one real post in regularly (weekly!?) as I’ve quickly learned that if I don’t get my thoughts down, they will be lost in the Black Hole, hanging out with many missing baby socks.

I’ve wanted to write about too much, including When Your Firstborn Picks His Fave Parent (and It Ain’t You, Even After Being the One to Exclusively Nurse Him for 13 Months), family dynamics and pain, expectations, the poison of envy, watching “Parenthood” = watching National Geographic, waiting to exhale, and kiddie birthday parties in NYC.

We were out so much again this weekend, we only came home to feed the kiddos and put them to bed. We maximize our weekends by usually being out from morning to night, but there is a cost. We miss out on time to declutter, organize, plan and prepare meals for the week. But my rationale is that because our NYC co-op is so small, we have to be out as much as possible, exploring NYC, especially when daddy is present for 1:1 adult:kid ratio and before winter hits.

I ended up spending my final moments of the weekend in a spotless Manhattan public restroom with gorgeous tile work on the floor which I had multiple opportunities to stare at during a 3 year-old’s birthday party. Thankfully, it was the eve of my mama’s departure so she was able to wrangle Ellis while Kevin had to stay by Micah’s side at the gymnastics party.

When you are having embarrassing moments, with cartoon-like sound effects, in a public bathroom, that motion detector light sure kicks a girl while she’s down. Making me flail my arms wildly with beads of sweat on my face, hoping that Heath/Leo/Olivia’s mamas won’t be needing to pay a visit any time soon, and fingers crossed that a Heath/Leo/Olivia won’t have a moment and crawl up into my stall, mesmerized by my duckie socks. (By the way, I blame you, The Strand’s Smotheres’ n Smoked Chicken & Biscuit, for this ordeal. So good but so wrong.)

After I joined the party, I told Kevin in detail (in Korean) why I went MIA a handful of times…when I realized that the dad and toddler next to his ear are native Koreans.

Stomach still hurting a bit, Mama/Gramma Lee done returned to LA, Ellis napping, Micah counting down the minutes ’til he is reunited with his beloved fave parent tonight, and mama hoping to write soon, get a real blog post in!

I Have Had an Announcement for 10.10.13

Posted on October 9, 2013 by ajummama

I used to have a recurring fantasy: My girlfriends and I would be at the movies, hooridin’ and crackin’ up until the previews hit. We would shush each other as usual, “OK, everyone needs to shuddup now. We tryna watch this, and that means you, Jihee! Don’t be talking during the movie PLEASE and no asking questions ’til the end…JIHEE!”

The movie would start and BAM, right out the gate, zoom into a close-up shot of Yours Truly. My girls’ jaws would drop, speechless for once. They would finally look down the row at me in the pitch black theater and seethe, “What the HELL!? How you gonna STAR in a freaking movie and keep it a secret?” I would just grin. Real cool-like.

The most savory moment is when I am still seated, gazing at the screen instead of at my flabbergasted friends, like it was just another night at the movies at The Beverly Center. I would simply smile and say, “Just watch the movie, heffas,” as I reached for more popcorn. Gangsta.

I was hoping to have a sliver of this fantasy come true on 10.10. I have date fetish.

I like cute dates and I cannot lie.

After getting married on 07.07.07, I was blessed with a baby shower on 10.10.10. On 10.10.11, our little family went to the beach, remembering how Micah was in my belly the year before, being showered with love. Naturally, I was beyond tickled when I found out that my second baby was due on the catchy date of 10.11.12.

So, for 10.10.13, I had something up my sleeve.

Back in August, I ended up casually emailing a very popular blogger, telling her that I don’t get to read as many blogs as I would like, but that I read hers and oh, here is my tiny little blog, with a link to one of my posts. I didn’t expect a reply since she big time, but she replied promptly saying it made her laugh but that she wasn’t accepting “story” type submissions at the moment.

I hadn’t realized that I was actually submitting anything for publication, more like a, “Hey there, please take a peek at me if you have a moment.” But once she said that, I responded with another post that was less story-like. She responded promptly again, saying she’d love to publish it.

Wait, what? It was just THAT easy to have a NY Times bestselling author run my piece on her blog?

It happened so fast and was way too easy. She gets millions of views on her very popular blog and I couldn’t believe that my first and only email to a REAL blogger yielded such an opportunity to be viewed by so many at once.

I wanted to surprise everyone (see fantasy sequence above). I only told two people: I enlisted the help of Kevin and one of my dearest friends to make some edits before I unveiled it (thanks again, guys). It was thrilling to talk about myself in the third person when I sent in a small “bio”(!) to run with the piece. She asked me to choose a publication date among three options.

When I saw that 10.10 was an option, it was a no brainer. It also worked out because Ellis’ doljanchi (big Korean 1st Birthday Party) was going to be done by then and we would be able to schedule our vacation during Ellis’ and my actual birthdays, then come home to my big guest post debut. The blogger told me it would be a good idea to be around for comments.

Everything was finalized late August.

Kevin helped me fix up my very bare bones blog and after some deliberating (“oh, but it’s so cheesy, it’s so self-promoting, I don’t want haters…”), I created a Facebook page for Ajummama. Nights were devoted to reading up on blog stuff: hosting, domains, design, categorizing all my old posts, and more. My blog is still very bare bones but at least I was going forward with this.

While on vacation in Punta Cana with my boys and my mama, I needed to be disconnected from the Internet. Be truly present. Practice mindfulness for once instead of scoffing at it. But I was awaiting a couple important emails so we purchased just one hour of Internet usage for the entire week, just to be able to flag important emails without getting sucked in.

On my actual birthday (10.04, less than a week away from the perfect 10.10 publication date), I see an email from the blogger, starting with, ““I feel awful doing this, and have already been sending these out for an hour… but…”

Basically, she stated that after a bit of soul-searching, she decided to make some big changes on her site, scaling it down from what it has become. It had become too big and too overwhelming so she decided to return to writing more herself and involving only her staff instead of so many guest posts.

at the Internet station in Punta Cana, connection as slow as dial-up days

Kevin was more disappointed than I was. I wasn’t as down as he was perhaps because I always wait for the other shoe to drop or because I had obtained it too easily.

I did kick myself for choosing 10.10 instead of the two earlier dates that would have allowed my piece to run right BEFORE her epiphany post she ran on my birthday prior to her email to me. Did my date fetish do me in?

Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to be “seen” by so many strangers. Maybe it meant too much to me in my recent struggling state to carve out something just for myself while I am burnt out, losing perspective as parenting regularly kicks my ass.

What was I doing anyways? Why such a compulsion to keep up with my tiny blog? Why is it so important to me when I ain’t even getting paid?

But I know the answer. Telling stories is all I’ve ever wanted to do (when not starring in a movie, of course). If I don’t write, I am not fully ME. Even if it don’t translate into scrill, I need to do this. Especially now after motherhood claimed so much of me.

I have always struggled with not feeling good enough. And lemme tell you, it is a tough tough way to be. Not quite sure why but I rationalize away affirmations and compliments. I never knew that being funny or telling a good story could be considered “talent.” Don’t get me wrong; when people tell me I’m funny, I absolutely agree, not because I’ve been affirmed by others, but because at my core, I always knew that about myself and was secure about that ONE trait.

But to be called “talented” makes me have a reflex response of, “Yeah right.” And for some reason, I can’t believe it when it’s from a loved one. “Well, it’s ‘cause you know me and care for me so of course you have to think well of me.” Or as I tell my husband who has seen me at my worst, “You have to say that. You don’t want to confess to having buyer’s remorse about your wifey.”

So when a legit “celeb” blogger, A PERFECT STRANGER who has no obligation or incentive to affirm me, picked up my piece so easily, I took a risk and allowed myself to START believing in myself for once. She thought I was good enough and she is a bonafide writer.

But you know what? Even without my fantasy scene coming true on this 10.10, I WILL write more.

And, F*CK YOU, FEARS! I am so tired of y’all.

By not getting published on this fwine date of 10.10, it has lead me to do a bit of soul-searching, too. To pray that I may truly KNOW my value simply by being a human being, whether my blog is enjoyed by my loyal tens of readers or whether I go viral. And believe me, I don’t expect to go viral as I am still sifting through how much I want to share, what I would like my blog identity to be and what my true voice is.

Going further, I yearn to know my worth as a beloved child of God, whether I am a stay-at-home mama and nothing more, a practicing or lapsed lawyer, a wildly successful or wildly unsuccessful writer, the heaviest I’ve ever weighed without having a baby inside of me, an imperfect parent, or a raging, wounded little girl in a quite mature body.

Sure, I will fail time and time again as I am my own worst critic and I often compare myself to more successful peers and that damn Bethenny Frankel, who cranked out a best-selling book as she walked down the aisle, birthed a baby and also made hundreds of millions of dollars off a smart mouth and a cocktail.

So 10.10, you done flipped the script on me this year by being less-than-perfect, but maybe that was the point all along.

Conversation Crushers

Posted on September 27, 2013 by ajummama

I have been having a hard time this past year, maybe acutely so the past few months, not just because I am so very tired but because I have forgotten how to allow myself the right to feel feelings. AND NOT JUDGE MYSELF FOR THEM.

I imagined the reactions of Others, to the point that I would actually have two-sided conversations in my head. It wasn’t purely my active imagination. I had been receiving messages from strangers and acquaintances alike that my feelings were not valid. More on conversation-crushers later.

October 1, 2012. The night before, on Chu-seok (Korean Thanksgiving), the husband and I had finished watching the season premiere of our favorite show, “Homeland.” After being thoroughly riveted by Claire Danes and Mandy Patinkin, I went to pee and noticed some brown spotting on my undies, like a very light period.

So this is how it was gonna go down. My body was going to give my second baby a nearly identical birth story as big bro, even down to the Thanksgiving arrival (first one was on American Thanksgiving). Down to the day – ten days before their respective due dates. Big bro had arrived within 24 hours after the spotting. So I knew that once there was blood, baby was a ‘comin’ despite doctors shaking their heads, schooling me about spotting not necessarily meaning imminent birth.

Please. I knew my body.

After hours of fitful sleep with lots of cramping, knowing that baby was going to show up that day, the contractions intensified and became more frequent at dawn. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect as my mama was supposed to touch down at JFK from LAX to take care of my firstborn that very morning, while I go birth her second grandchild. We ended up sending her a Korean cab in our stead because it was Go Time. We threw a few essentials into the hospital bag, wrote a quick note to Belly Baby about how we felt as we were hours away from meeting him/her, and were about to drive on over to the hospital.

Until we didn’t.

My mama was dropped off at our place and immediately, my contractions slowed down. I even told Kevin to go to work that day so that we wouldn’t waste one of his precious vacation days. Just like when I went into labor for big bro on the eve of Thanksgiving 2010.

Apparently, I had been watching too much “Parenthood” (another one of my fave shows) because I pictured my mama coming through the door to the rescue, with some great background music to beautify an already beautiful moment. Offering me my final moments of tranquility and soothing affirmations as she swooped in to take care of my 22 month-old so I can labor with dignity in our dark bedroom. I even pictured our bed enveloped by a gossamer canopy while I breathed through the pain. How poetic. Cue cool, alternative music. Circle of life. My mama arriving to taking care of her child while I got ready to birth my own.

But of course, my life is the opposite of critically-acclaimed dramas on NBC. My mama touched down, sho’ ‘nuff but it got more chaotic than ever. She was so excited to arrive and wanted to tend to All Things Micah that I got sucked into her Tasmanian Devil flurry. I was wincing from my contractions as I showed her where everything was. Micah’s diapers and wipes and other necessities. Explaining how to care for him.

I was doubled over in pain at times, completely hunched over and she would ask, “Where is the sesame oil, Jihee-yah? I have to make Micah some lunch.” Not because she is heartless but perhaps because I wasn’t making a big deal about my contractions and she was really diving into her role as Micah’s caretaker.

I didn’t feel like I could rest. Or pause to tell her that what I needed at that time was a “Parenthood” moment with the imaginary gossamer-canopied bed symbolizing much needed rest and mental space and a perfectly scripted Mother-Daughter chat as new background music started for my visit to the hospital.

It was already near the end of Kevin’s workday when I nonchalantly called him to say, “Hey, it’s Game Time. I haven’t eaten all day. My mama got distracted and so did I, so can you please bring me enough food from near your office? You know I am NOT trying to give birth on an empty stomach.”

Kevin brought home a buffalo chicken wrap. My mama was so whupped on her first (and only) grandchild that she started tearing off pieces of MY final meal to harvest for her beloved Micah.

I tell you this story to say that since then, ALMOST EXACTLY A YEAR AGO, I have been SO. VERY. TIRED. Shouldn’t come as a surprise because looking back, even as I labored to bring my second child into this world, I couldn’t get NO REST!

This state of constant unrest, day and night, sleep deprived and recovering from tantrums and spills and failed disciplining and mealtime battles and other soul-wearying scenes, with breaks that only the husband gives me since we have no REGULAR village, has wreaked havoc onto my mental and emotional health.

And marriage.

me and the husband in 2009, well-rested as a mofo, ringing in my birthday in mykonos, greece, when our children weren't even glimmers in our eyes

me and the husband in 2009, well-rested punks, ringing in my birthday in mykonos, greece, when our children weren’t even glimmers in our eyes, photo-edit credit to Jason Kim

I realize that I mention lacking a Village all too often yet I cannot stop. “Village” as in at least one set of grandparents, other relatives or family-like friends who will say, “I GOT YOU.” Not just watching as I take care of them, alerting me to their soiled diaper but to really GOT ME so I can leave. Not even for something as luxurious as mama hitting the spa but just so we can run an errand that is not conducive to the entire family rollin’ or to declutter the home without tripping over a toddler or infant, only to get completely distracted by their noises and needs. I get pissed all over again when I hear others call in their Village People to give them REGULAR, healthy breaks from child-rearing, offering mental health breaks as often as weekly. So heads up: I will keep mentioning this until I get to a healthier space.

While more joyful than I ever imagined when I nibble on my kids, I also find myself feeling so very angry that I have to do motherhood in this particular way. Simultaneous joy and anger ARE possible.

All made worse because I haven’t been able express myself adequately after experiencing conversation-crushers like:

“Billions of women do the motherhood thang so I figure, how hard can it really be?” (Actually, this one was an innocuous comment one of my best friends made before she had her first child. After her first few months with her newborn, she ate her words).

“Oh, but you know you have to ENJOY EVERY MOMENT! It goes by SO fast.”

“But you are so blessed! Some people can’t have kids and here you have two beautiful, healthy kids.”

“My friend’s child is special needs and she never complains. My other friend has four kids and she is always keeping it positive. I try to do the same.”

“Oh please. Not everyone has a Village.”

“At least ________________.”

And most recently, when I was sighing during dinner as another harried scene unfolded, my mother-in-law chided, “C’mon, you have to admit that it’s all better than NOT having kids, right?” At least she seems to have retired her favorite: “I had it MUCH harder than you,” after I asked her to please stop saying that to me.

With all those conversation-crushers, how can I feel safe enough to say, “While I realize I am SO BLESSED, this is SO VERY HARD, in ways that I could never have imagined, not just for one reason or because of ONE bad moment but an accumulation of so many moments and factors at play…”

TO BE CONTINUED…or at least I plan to continue in some future post…

And shout out to a new season of “Parenthood” airing tonight on NBC.

Morning at Jericho: “I’m good, Ma!”

Posted on September 12, 2013 by ajummama

Two Chinese nannies, three Japanese mamas, one Chinese daddy, and Ellis and me reppin’ Korea waiting on a dingy couch and a couple chairs.

No, not the premise of a joke that racists relished telling when I was growing up, but the scene right outside Micah’s classroom this morning.

Today was the first OFFICIAL day of school after Orientation Week. Micah would be off on his own for nearly three hours.

I wasn’t sure if he was going to need me to stay. I had prepped him all summer with pick-up lines for snagging friends. Short and sweet: “Hi, I’m Micah. You wanna play?” He repeated it to me, trying to be a comedian. “Hi, Mommy, I’m Micah! You want to play weeth me?” while giggling uncontrollably.

It was Game Time. He plopped himself down on the carpet where some cute little kiddies were already engrossed in play. He beamed at a green bunny and took it to them. “I have at home. I have deess one at home!” Here I had been feeding him lines when he went with what he knew. Atta boy!

He was ready. My little birdie was ready to fly.

“Micah, Mommy wants to give you space to make friends and play on your own today at school. You’re gonna have so much fun. I promise I will be right outside if you need me, okay? Ellis and Mommy come pick you up later, OK? I promise I will be right outside.”

He barely acknowledged me as he moved on to play in different areas.

I wore Ellis and parked our doublestroller on the patch of dry grass out front, and walked around his school a countless number of times, like it was Jericho (though I wasn’t wishing that the walls came tumbling down, down, down, dooby dooby down).

Every now and then a child would run out looking for their adult. When a child came running out, either wailing or crying softly while trying to be brave, another child or two would follow like little ducklings, looking for their caretaker in the waiting area. In one case, one little girl was in such hysterics that the teacher went for a walk with her.

One older Chinese nanny was too cute. Her child came running out when she least expected it and she didn’t want to be seen so she tried to hide behind her friend, the other older Chinese nanny. They were both completely in plain view but in her desperation, she tried to act like a statue, then hide.

Ellis was extra jolly, thriving in my undivided attention and affection. Gurgling away and poking my eyes, booty-shaking and motorboating me. I didn’t mean to wear his growing body on me for the entire time on this sunny day but I wasn’t thinking straight as I thought I might have to run into the classroom at any moment. Ellis gladly took his morning nap on me, in deep, angelic slumber.

I lusted after a cold beverage, but I didn’t have my wallet on me and I wasn’t about to borrow money from new classmates’ mamas. It didn’t matter as I had no plans to leave the school’s general vicinity. Not on the first real day. After all, I had given Micah my word that I would be right outside. I was preoccupied, thinking the teacher would call my cell at any moment while I was walking ’round and ’round the block.

I kept thinking that when they were off to their next activity, Micah would cry. I wasn’t being entirely paranoid as this dude would NOT separate from me for months as a younger toddler when I tried to attend a weekly women’s Bible Study. Even after he turned two, it took months and months for him to attend Sunday School on his own. Now he practically runs to Sunday School, eager to see his favorite teachers.

Playground time was the finale today. I made sure I couldn’t be seen when the kids all walked together from the classroom.

Ellis and I hid behind a toolshed next to the school, near a dirt pile, to catch a glimpse of Son/Brother. (Please note: if you see a suspicious adult creeping around any given playground, before you call the popo, take pause and consider first that she may just be an anxious parent on her son’s first day).

I didn’t see him at first among a batch of kiddies, so I inched over a bit while still hidden, and there he was, chasing after a ball and looking like he was having so much fun. We later saw him riding on a red trike, looking like Christmas Day. He looked so happy! Like he ain’t never cried hysterically for mama before.

Ten more minutes ’til dismissal. I nursed Ellis while sitting on some cement steps in the blazing sun. My body will be aching come tomorrow morning. The Chinese nanny had returned and we just kept smiling at each other as her English was as good as my Cantonese.

When I entered the classroom to pick up my dude, he squealed with glee, “Mommy! Mommy! Wook!” as he showed me his art project. A mama who ended up having to accompany her little girl today, reported back to me that Micah had fully participated in each activity and had a blast.

I know he will have needy days and independent days but today was as perfect as they come.

Thanks for the precious memories, dear week of 09.09. Reminded me that while these are some of the most hair-pulling times, these are also some of the sweetest times of my life.

Plus, First son/Big Bro being off at school in the mornings couldn’t have come at a better time. Mr. EZ is knocking on the door of toddlerhood, protesting the stroller and highchair, spitting out foods that he doesn’t like, always needing to be on Mama, and nursing like he’s going to be cut off soon. Stage Five Clinger had to be carried on my back after Micah’s school today, all the way home while I strolled big bro in the half-empty double.

But don’t worry, my dude, I find separation anxiety the ultimate form of flattery and I will be right outside the nearest toolshed when it’s YOUR first week.

First Day of School is For the Birds

Posted on September 10, 2013 by ajummama

Dear Micah,

As September hit and the weather cooled, back-to-school season was upon us. For our family, it was not BACK-to-school but the START of your first school ever.

You will get to know this about me soon: I am needlessly rebellious. Too much of anything and I run the other way. I try to act macho during movies, for instance, while the entire theater is bawling, or worse yet, I ask my girlfriends or your daddy if they cryin’.

So, as 09.09 approached, and I heard more buzz about school, school, school and so many First Day of School pictures all over Facebook, I may have started to rebel, without fully realizing it. Of course I filled out your many school forms ahead of time and prepared a shoebox full of items that your school requested but other than that, I wanted to go against the grain and make a smaller deal about you going off to your very first school ever, after hanging with Mommy nearly everyday since you arrived on Thanksgiving Day 2010.

We went on another trip this weekend to Miss J’s wedding. You were excited because you now have a taste for hotels, hotel pools, eating at restaurants for every meal, and sleeping with your entire family within touching distance. Our family partied hard at that very special wedding, your first taste of dancing on a dark dance floor with crazy adults who like to get down. Daddy and I changed you and Ellis into your pajamas for the long drive home, the night before your first day.

Upon returning late at night, I felt cool for not making this First Day thang too big. We weren’t at home marinating in it all weekend.

I didn’t even decide what you were going to wear until minutes before we left the house. I put you in a Montel Williams-looking Nehru-collared sky blue shirt with grey jeans and used one of your markers to make a “First Day of School” sign for pictures.

And we were off. Mama started strolling you (just you today, no Ellis). With the shoebox full of a change of clothes, tissues, underwear and a snapshot of you. (I apologize if anyone thinks your name is Anne Klein. It’s not like your friends can read anyhow.)

To get to your school, we started on the same 17-minute stroll we had done a countless number of times to get to the library, your friend K’s apartment, and your playground.

I had been talking to you about school for months now. How your friend, A, is already there and how you’re going to have so much fun and how Mommy and Ellis will pick you up just in time for lunch. Maybe this wasn’t the big deal others were making it out to be?

But during this very ordinary walk, Mama started feeling an extraordinary welling up inside. Like a volcano’s rumble. Or a bloodstain growing larger and larger on white cloth.

I tried to get real macho, real fast.

As I strolled you, I looked down at you with your skinny neck and spiky hair, sitting there with your clear, wide eyes, observing the world as you always do, acting like you ain’t never been a no-necked, rolly baby. You asked about the ongoing construction and the men doing the work. “Mommy, they working today? They fixing street again?” Our usual topics of conversation.

And then a bunch of sparrows flew around us and sat down in a row on the porch of a building we always pass by.

Oh, Micah, those birds. They just about did Mommy in. Mommy wanted to sit down in the middle of the street and do the Korean drama wail, wrapping a white cloth around my head like a proper wailing Korean mama.

Do you know why those birds are so special to us?

Mommy’s Mommy, your grandma, used to walk Mommy to school, telling me how the chahm-sehs (sparrows) were flying and chirping just for me, Nature’s perfect escorts to kindergarden.

Fast forward to now, and this gang of sparrows was also chirping just for you as you went off to school with YOUR Mommy.

They had watched us walk this very walk when you were just a few months old and we had already endured about eight major snowstorms. Mommy was nervous about taking you out on the slippery sidewalks that weren’t paved completely but when she did, she was so happy to stroll you around, getting both of us fresh air into our lungs. Feeling so accomplished. Feeling like maybe she can do this motherhood thang even with the mood-crushing weather and no family around.

Mommy had asked her friends what I should do for you, other than nap you and feed you and change your many diapers. They told her to just show you around and talk to you. So Mommy would tell you what she saw on the walk, including the snowed in sidewalks and the birds who wanted to see Micah in his stroller.

Mommy had been rebellious up until this very morning because you going to school WAS a huge deal and I didn’t trust the floodgates to come crashing down. I find myself doing that these days, Micah, not being able to cry because there might be too much in there.

Whether I made a big deal of it or not, here we were. So many moments flashing before my eyes. All the sweet “i wuv you, Mommy” moments, not the moments where Mommy has a pool of urine and chicken broth in her Crocs from an eventful afternoon.

I love you so much that if I pause to think about just how much, I feel like my heart will stop. I still cup your smooth face in my little hands, just like I did when you arrived brand new. I just can’t believe you were the little blueberry in my womb.

And I have to admit, it’s been REALLY HARD as you are not a baby any more and you want to do things your way.

You drive me crazy some days, when you don’t listen, and I have gotten so frustrated after how many spills and how many times you ask me for something after I tell you “No!” But you will always be my scrawny newborn who ballooned into a big-cheeked Gloworm, then became a sweet big brother at 22 months old. My firstborn. My baby.

Always remember that birds chirped just for you today as I took you to your first school, though sometimes, they sure did sound like they were chirping, “You ain’t hward, you ain’t hward!” in Mommy’s direction. Mommy got too verklempt to point it out during the walk, so here it is in print.

I still haven’t been able to cry but maybe your Mommy is growing up, too. Or the volcano will erupt next week when Orientation week is over.

P.S. I forgive you for asking if there was a baby in Mommy’s belly last week. I hope you can forgive me for greater offenses, like yelling at you and saying I want to be back at the office because you won’t listen. God bless you while you are at school. You’re all mine again after a few hours each morning. I love you to the moon and back.

my li’l Montel: don’t blow up my spot, ma!

“Grown Ups” Meets “Joy Luck Club” Meets Horse and Buggy: Our trip to Lancaster, PA

Posted on September 4, 2013 by ajummama

On Sunday, we returned from our first mini-vacation with three other families in Lancaster, PA. Having similarly-aged kiddies, a total of six boys and one girl, made for too many precious moments to list, but here are some of our freshly pressed memories from our extended Labor Day weekend:

1. The precious kiddos.

As if we didn’t exclaim “awww” every other moment with our own kids? You should have seen us practically combust when we saw our kids holding hands with each other, as they excitedly ran from ride to ride at Dutch Wonderland.

Watching this next generation of little guys (and gal) form their earliest friendships, squealing with delight because everything was more fun with their friends? Priceless. (…though it stung when my not-yet-three-year-old would reject Mommy’s hand in front of his friends!)

When we got back to our hotel that first night, we caught Micah “calling” his buddy on the huge fossilized landline at least three times, his drooly mouth pressed against the mouthpiece, asking his friend if he wants to sleep over, and saying, “Hold on. You coming NOW? Oh, okay. I’m heaah,” to the No One on the other end of the phone call. And imitating his friend’s robot dance moves.

Our Ellis: the youngest of the bunch right after his big bro, but the only infant among the kiddies, turned 11 months old during the trip, cruising on his little padded feet toward toddlerhood. Waiting in the doublestroller or on Mommy’s torso for most of the rides.

Plus, the combination of Asian + social media generation + parents of little ones = most camera crazed bunch ever.

2. It was just SO EASY.

Like breathing. We didn’t have to explain anything since we are basically leading parallel lives thanks to the life stage we’re in. We didn’t have to do the usual, “Oh, sorry, he just gets excited sometimes. It’s also past his bedtime.” In fact, ALL the kiddies were chasing each other around the table by the end of our first Amish dinner. We were all in the same boat.

We understood when our Girls’ Night Out or Girls By the Pool didn’t happen because during dinner, we were pretty much calculating the bathtime and bedtime routines that had to happen before we could MAYBE catch some sleep that first night, before a FULL day at the amusement park the next day. It was refreshing, not having to ‘splain or apologize for the mundane but necessary parental duties that make us crave rest more than a night out.

No need to explain what you meant for fear that you are making your usually gentle child sound like a terror when you send a group message that reads, “Hey, we were tortured from about 5:20 am to 7 am so we are trying to get in a nap before breakfast. See you when the park opens.”

Or when a few of the kids were taking turns being cranky from being woken up prematurely before dinner, it didn’t faze us. Just another meal with toddlers. Of course someone is gon’ be upset. Such a breath of fresh air for parents of little ones, not having to feel guilty for ruining the meal for fellow dinner companions.

We were just happy to be out eating something other than the kids’ rejected leftovers. Over the din of the upset kid of the hour, we just continued with the convo, while soothing a kid or three: “Dude, you really are NOT ashamed to watch ‘Glee,’ huh? You PROUD!”

3. A change of pace from the usual suspects.

As much as we love spending quality family time with just our Li’l Kims, “the more, the merrier” rang true as we laughed and chatted in line at the park, while wrangling the kids, under sprinklers at the waterpark, and at meals.

It also showed the kids how important friendships and community are. Just as no man is an island, no family should be one either.

We even ran into some more familiar faces at the park, including folks who live in our building, as well as a large family from our church.

The laid-back, youthful, fun dad of five kids(!) came up to our entirely Asian-American crew and pretended to call us out, “Hey, guys! Wassup? Thought we were supposed to be a multi-ethnic church, huh?”

“Yup, that’s why we mixed it up. We the Koreans among the Chinese!” I responded.

“Naah, hahahaa, we came here with only other Koreans ourselves.”

The girls and I ended up playing a bit of “Chinese or Korean?” without having to explain. (The name “Lilian?” Definitely Chinese. The name “Roseanne or Rose Anything?” We couldn’t come to a consensus).

4. Lessons learned.

I am hoping that Kevin will add to this with a post of his own, as he sacrificed himself, suffering the brunt of the early morning interrogation, but one lesson learned: Don’t reveal even a broad itinerary to a 33 month-old boy with a relentless memory. After our full day at Dutch Wonderland, we stupidly mentioned that the next day, we were going to see our friends again and play at the Farm together. Micah was so excited about that piece of info, he woke up around 5:20 am and proceeded to ask us, “We going to Farm NOW? Please let’s go to Farm NOW?” in 58 different inflections. The torture ended around 7 am when he succumbed to a “nap.”

You bess belee I ain’t telling dude about our roadtrip to a wedding next week.

5. Memories of our little family.

…having the hotel pool all to ourselves before we checked out. I will never forget the faces of our little morsels looking so elated as we swam them towards each other over and over again.

6. Journeying together.

Watching all of us just tryna do right by our kids, even as these kids were clearly the bosses, leading us from ride to ride, it felt… “dundunheh” (Korean for “solid”) to know that we are not doing this on a deserted island by the sheer talents and will of just the two of us. We all strugglin’, rejoicin’, learnin’, jackin’ up, learnin’ some more, pullin’ out our rapidly greying herr, repeatin’ mistakes and not learnin’, and lovin’ HARD.

7. Body hair.

When the hubs eagerly volunteers to run down to the front desk late at night to ask for a razor on your behalf, after you had just proclaimed that you “cool” about heading to the waterpark the next day without shaving, you can’t help but wonder if he comin’ from a place of thoughtfulness or a place of shame.

[How was y’all’s long weekends? Happy birthday to you Labor Day babies out there, young and old! Happy Start of School Season, too!]

Be. Yourself. (Sometimes?)

Posted on August 21, 2013 by ajummama

I have a theory I wanted to put to the test after a recent dentist appointment:

People who keep it all business, tend to get treated better.

By nature, I am relational. Almost to a fault. Even in customer service dealings and other non-friendship exchanges, I can’t help but be relational (unless I am really not feeling you).

When we were co-op shopping while I was pregnant with my Micah in 2010, Kevin had to warn me before meeting different brokers:

“Remember, Jihee-yah. For these visits, what did I tell you?”

“Don’t be myself. Don’t be relational. I especially do not want to bond with the seller. Got it.”

My husband is, by nature, the opposite. He is private and keeps dental visits limited to information exchanges about cavities and flossing.

[Sorry, I fell asleep right quick just thinking about fact-only exchanges.]

I don’t think I can do that, even on a dare.

But I started envying how folks respond to him and other Keep It All Business people. People tend to try harder with those who Keep It All Business.

My dentist seems to enjoy my personality when I drop by once in a while with my weak teeth. In fact, she and her staff actually seem eager for me to get my gab on because they have to be more formal with their other patients. Frankly, they seem like they exhale when they realize it’s “just” me walking through the door. They’ve even turned on politically incorrect stand-up comedy on TV when it’s just me in their office.

On the one hand, I am glad that they feel comfy with me because of our chats over the years I’ve been going to her but on the other, I have to double-check that I am receiving the same manner of care and respect doled out to other patients.

When it comes time to handle business, and I ask her to please go over different treatment plans, she doesn’t like to break it down for me. Last time, I felt rushed when she didn’t go over my different options as thoroughly as she should have for me to make my informed consent.

She practically jumped when she saw a Suit waiting in her waiting area as her next patient, while she was wrapping up with me. I was quickly led to her receptionist to make my payment. I requested more information but the dentist and receptionist were short with me. It didn’t sit well with me so I called her after the visit, just letting her know that I felt rushed and uninformed.

I have an acute fear of being a pushover or being disrespected.

So I dared myself to return for the next visit more like my husband, and less like myself, in order to get more respectful and formal treatment. She saw me in the waiting area and of course, didn’t jump to make a timely appointment like she did with Suit.

She called me in after gabbing with her receptionist about some mumbo jumbo and asked, “How are you?”

“Um, I’m good. Thanks.” (KEEP IT MOVING JIHEE. The seemingly innocuous “HOW ARE YOU’s” are sure to get you. And don’t even THINK about telling her how her first, middle, and last name on her plaque all look so beautiful in script!)

“And awww, how are the BABIES!? You couldn’t bring them with you?”

So…yeah.

I failed my own dare within a record milli-second. The dare actually spurred me to be more relational than ever.

I kid you not, I even danced the (low) Limbo at one point (complete with caveman sound effects), to demonstrate an interaction with my Micah. So much for All Business. Sure, we were all laughing, but I proved once again, even on a dare, my true self will bust through. (I still made sure she explain dental details to me.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about those two loaded words: “Be Yourself.” Or “Do You.”

I seem to deal with “opposite” issues compared to those I know.

Sometimes, I feel alien because I cannot relate to what others struggle with within their God-given temperaments. People generally work on being more vulnerable, opening up more, whereas I have to dare myself to be more closed off and guarded.

My pastor talks about how we all have icebergs, deep deep icebergs of hidden emotions, beneath our seemingly serene still waters. He explained in his book, “Emotionally Healthy Spirituality,” that most people strive to keep these icebergs hidden and walk around wearing masks of serene still waters.

I used to joke that my iceberg always be hangin’ out, melting all over the place, while others only reveal their still waters.

And sure, it’s wise and discerning to only share your iceberg with your “safe” people but for some folks, even their closest loved ones don’t REALLY know their deepest fears and pain.

While most people I know would like to appear to be happy and “together,” why do I have this compulsion to confess my ugly bits? I NEVER want to appear like I have it all together. Why? What does that do for people? You rarely convince anyone of it anyhow.

It sounds like a humble-brag but truly, I just can’t relate and sometimes I feel disconnected and lonely as I find myself muttering, “REALLY?,” after yet another exchange where I can’t help but go beyond small talk and/or fact-exchange and the other person is tight-lipped or desperately trying to keep it light and “LOL.”

So what are y’all’s default settings? (If you’re private, message me – haha.) If your iceberg hangs out, too, then let it flow next to my puddle, by posting a comment or three.