Author Archives: ajummama

Hit Me Baby One More Time?

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When I get a severely upset stomach, instead of abstaining from more eats, I think, “Well, I’mma blow it up anyhow so let’s get my grub on.” Kevin thinks this rationale is beyond stupid and warns me that he will not have any sympathy for me when he hears me weeping on the toilet in the middle of the night.

I thought about this today after a very full day. A fully joyful, fully accomplished, fully exhausting day. Grateful to be back to my active self again after the initial postpartum period.

Walked two miles with the boys in their double stroller to and from a home in/near the Gardens. Thankfully, hardly any rain and such a gorgeous walk. Not too cold yet.

MLK stayed in the basement with a few other toddlers and a sitter, after months of not being able to separate from me. We mamas sat around the dining table upstairs, discussing Galatians 4 through a Tim Keller study. I went up and down from the basement to the dining room a few times to either grab stuff that I needed for E.Z. or give M his milk. I changed and nursed E while listening to the discussion. For the most part, he was perfectly calm, sitting in my lap in his white velour tracksuit, one of our favorite hand-me-downs, with his cheeks ever-so-bountiful and comical for his debut among this group.

We rushed home to get M into his crib for his nap, with my telling stories extra loudly as we strolled, so that M can hear me from the front of the long stroller. If you don’t get them in bed during that magic window when a nap befalls them effortlessly, you in for some rough times. He ended up skipping his nap ALTOGETHER today, my solid, faithful napper. THIS NEVER HAPPENS. I won’t go into this any further as it is too scary for me to discuss.

Second half of the day, we speedwalked for 20 minutes to Gymboree as the ominous rain clouds turned into actual rain. I didn’t want to bother with our new, huge double-stroller raincover so I practically ran towards the end.

The most memorable moment from today started when my e-z E finally started to fuss a bit after patiently sitting in his infant carseat so that his hyung could participate in art class. M was coloring shapes when he looked around from his table and couldn’t see me because I was sitting below everyone, nursing E on the floor, against the mirrored wall for some back support and also lest I break the small kiddie chair that everyone else was seated on. I saw his eyes get huge as he started wailing for me.

I called out from below, “Micah, Umma-yah! Umma here!”

He came running towards me on the floor and flung himself into my right armpit. I was holding both kids tightly, E suckling on my left, M wailing on my right.

His teacher said that M had actually held his breath for a minute, completely stunned, when he thought I had snuck out on him. When I held him tight, he started soothing himself by singing softly through his huge tears, “la la la, la la la.” I swear, these kids do new things daily – I don’t know what this “la la la” is about. By this time, my shirt had wet spots from my nursing pads shifting, milk leaking through.

A young Russian mama who has never spoken a word to the others in class for the last few months finally spoke today. She said to me, “It looks so hard.” We chatted a bit and she said, “I thought I would want another kid but when I see how hard it looks, I do not.” I assured her that while it can be hard, it is all very natural and it will flow. And that the joy is more than double.

I still had to pack up M’s icebox, diaper bag, lift the impossibly heavy infant carseat onto the top of the double stroller, put on M’s jacket, winter hat, shoes, and strap him in, grab his sippycup and E’s burp cloth strewn about the room, grab my jacket and shoes, all in order to just make it upstairs in the elevator for some more play at open gym time. I had to keep my eye on both M and E while M went up and down the apparatus and E was still in his infant carseat smack dab in the middle of the play area with toddlers peering at him, tempted to touch him. I resorted to keeping him there because as of now, he does not like being in the Ergo and my back can’t handle wearing him for too long anyhow.

M’s diaper was about to leak so I asked a teacher at the front desk to watch E for a few minutes while I changed M. He tried to jump off the changing area, of course, asking for more juice. My head was throbbing from having stayed up too late the night before, banking on M’s naptime to squeeze in a small nap myself.

When Kevin met us there after work, I was WIPED OUT. My back was pulsating from either carrying E or his carseat around the play area. I had to remind myself that the man was coming from work himself, not from playing beach volleyball at Hedonism. We all walked home together.

As spent as I was from such a full day, I could already imagine looking back on moments like these when I’m older and greyer, fondly recalling how needed I was and how blessed I was to be able to mother these two morsels at the height of their innocence and cuteness. How our little family was such a tight little unit, eager to reunite with daddy at the end of the day.

So why did today make me think about how I handle upset stomachs? When I get an upset stomach, I know that I’mma have a long appointment with the porcelain throne that night, whether I do the B.R.A.T. diet that doctors prescribe for such bouts or whether I put away some Singapore Mei Fun. Along those same lines, why not have another baby soon-ish, since it’s already so hard (some days more than others), to juggle raising two kids, working on being a better spouse, not burying your personal aspirations beyond being a mama, and carving out time for yourself.

Also, today, I met another mama at Gymboree whose toddlers were only 11 months apart. 11 months! She must have stories.

It is most definitely gonna be harder than juggling two but the joy and reward of sleeping next to a 12+ pound baby, with half that weight in his cheeks, is immeasureable. Kevin is a big baby-lover, too, practically bawling when I told him not to dress two-year old M in onesies anymore.

Then again, pigging out when your stomach is already upset means hella worse diarrhea.

And practically speaking, it’s insane. We really can’t afford another one as kids are SO expensive especially in 2012, in NYC, and because I’ve chosen to stay home. We are getting closer to 40 than 30, so tired, and most significantly, we would be outnumbered.

It may be my strange way of responding to the 12.14.12 massacre of 20 children in Newtown, CT, but my reaction to this draining day was how quickly it will pass. Life is so fleeting.

Don’t have to commit to anything now but the heart wants what the heart wants.

I have to crash now after eating some broken cookies from the bottom of our stroller basket. Hope this post made sense as I wrote it in a semi-conscious state.

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I’m surprised to say this but I really appreciate you, Facebook. In fact, I am grateful for you, especially now, the night after the 12.14.12 massacre of the 20 beloved, precious children and six adults from Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT.

Facebook, I’ve talked trash about you, how you are so fake, how everyone only SEEMS to be connected through you but only talking about surface level crap like which fancy restaurant someone checked into, which YouTube video you just have to watch, which gadget your classmate from junior high deems worthy of a “Like,” or “Hey, look at the 434th picture of my kid” (that last one is me).

Maybe I’m hard on Facebook because I invented it like Al Gore invented the Internet. More than a decade ago when I was emailing with my girlfriends from my second job out of graduate school, I told them, “If only there was something along the lines of an emailing ‘service’ or website where folks who aren’t necessarily close friends can just pop in and shoot the breeze about what they are thinking at the moment, from the mundane to the profound, the happy and the sad and the in-between, as they go about their day-to-day work. I can’t just email YOU guys all the time.” It truly was a different time then. All I could do to take breaks at work, especially at workplaces that restricted personal email access, was to open up Microsoft Word and try to write, which ironically, professional writers pay for these days (to go somewhere without distractions like the Internet).

I’ve hated on Facebook for being a sham. So many on Facebook seem to be leading blemish-free lives because we only showcase the pretty stuff like the engagements, weddings, vacations and babies but very few of us talk about the difficult stuff. Sometimes wisely so, since Facebook is not the proper vehicle as only your close friends should be privy to the unsafe stuff. And maybe because we don’t take pictures of our fights with our spouses or the tears that we shed?

As a stay-at-home mama, there are at least a couple days a week where it’s just me and my kids. We try to keep active with playdates and activities but naturally, we are just At Home sometimes, especially in colder weather. I look to Facebook to be my watercooler talk since I am no longer part of office culture. But I also look to Facebook to connect with folks beyond current events and mutual love for trash tv shows. It allows me to share joys or vent, wonder out loud, run something by folks, and learn from others. It also lets me see what makes others tick.

While I still don’t care for everything on my Newsfeed and don’t like to be Facebook-friended prematurely (I’m not that kind of gal), I’ve started to see that more Facebook friends are sharing TRUE status updates as to how they are doing, for better or for worse. I think it’s helping people mourn in the aftermath of this massacre or even in their own personal family tragedies. We’ve become a community and while it can never replace real life face-to-face friendships, it reminds me once again that people need people.

So, Facebook…even though you will still annoy me, overtaking society and family life by ousting “How was your day, honey?” and replacing it with, “Did you see on Facebook today…?” tonight I thank you, Facebook,

for letting me process out loud any time I want,

for letting us have a place to talk about devastation that makes no sense at all,

for helping my friends grieve their loved one’s unexpected death,

for giving us a shared space to share Likes and disLikes,

for making us a part of something bigger than ourselves when we feel isolated and lonely,

and most importantly, for letting me share the 435th picture of my kids (which I really should get around to posting before bed). Did you see the one where Micah…

Goodnight, Facebook friends. God bless you and keep you.

I Miss You, Me

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The guy next to me at the smoovie store at my gym is supposedly 7’3″ but he seems more like 8 feet tall because I looked like a toddler by his side at the cash register. So, that sentence was my way of casually sliding in the fact that I finally went to the gym today after a long hiatus. So long that it was mimicking a retirement. I haven’t been since…well, the point is I went tonight.

I had even purposely let the membership expire because I didn’t want to pay up if I wasn’t going to go regularly during my second pregnancy. But I just HAD to go tonight to check in. To see wassup out in the world away from my living room, away from my double stroller. I had fire in my eyes so I knew I was gonna go no matter what. Usually, to just get out the door, into the building’s hallway, past our doorman and neighbors coming home from work, through the other side of Queens Blvd just a handful of blocks away, especially in the winter, triggers all kinds of psychological obstacles but there was no stopping me tonight.

I have been feeling down lately. To be more accurate, both up and down, then down and up. Probably exacerbated by postpartum hormones but also the very natural ebb-and-flow as an at-home mama.

Moments of, “I am the most fulfilled, blessed woman on the planet as I now have TWO morsels to nibble on. This is better than ANY meaningless office job as a lawyer that I had to struggle through each day. Thank you Jesus,” but interspersed with, “I feel like crap. Who am I other than mamamamamama? I am an all-you-can-eat-buffet for my new bundle of joy when not engaging my toddler. Even during my ‘down’ time at night when the kiddies are sleep, it’s more mama duty follow-up on the laptop like arranging playdates, researching stepstools and preschools, or email-consulting with my fashion-forward girlfriends back home about different shades of red for a perfect winter jacket for my Micah.”

Though it is natural to feel like all I am is mama especially as I am currently in the thick of it all (newborn plus toddler plus winter gloom plus hating on my post-baby body), I wanted to do something about feeling cranky and lost at times. Though I am FAR from being a Martha Stewart mama, I am still so SPENT from doing only mama duties. Started feeling really imbalanced as a human being. Craved using the other side of my brain. Everything I lived and breathed was mama-related. Of course when I mention that to my own mama from another generation and culture, she be like, “AND? Of course, you are mama, mama, mama. As you should be. You blessed.”

In some ways, I can’t help but agree with her as I am old school in many ways, but I don’t want to feel guilty about admitting that while mamahood is beyond amazing and rewarding, I just want to carve out a little nugget for myself. To recharge and regroup. I may not be able to figure out a five-year plan or ten-year plan for incorporating a livelihood into my full-time mama life but I can carve out more me time, to invest that into being a better mama and wifey at home.

So after a Monday full of:

fingerpainting (to curb his requests for tv and computer),

battling Micah to please wash his hands after fingerpainting,

battling him once again as he ran away smirking with his diaper full of grown-man poo,

feeding Ellis any time he fussed,

finally getting to eat my breakfast for lunch while wearing Ellis in an Ergo because he realized that being stuck on mama was the way to go at ten weeks old,

vacuuming Micah’s tiny Play-Doh and lunch crumbs scattered about the playmats,

picking up after toys strewn all over the living room so that I won’t trip over them as I walked around with Ellis still stuck on my now sweaty chest,

enjoying a playdate full of toddler noises (x 3) when our beloved little twin friends came over to help our afternoon go by faster…

I sat on the couch to nurse once again. I started caressing Ellis’ explosively fat cheeks when Micah came to join us, snuggling on my right side. A picture of love and tranquility…

until my usually too-gentle-with-his-friends little rascal started to pull out my hair from my half-ponytail. Pulling it HARD, strand after strand, while beaming at me and beaming even brighter when I pleaded with him to stop. He thought it was hilarious. Then Ellis started strumming my tri-rolls, the fatty fats on my torso as he nursed, like he was saying, “Oh, mama! We have the same body! Tri-rolls rule! I love you, you squishy thang!”

Once Kevin walked in the door, I was ready to bounce in my fingerpainted pajama/lounging/workout/going out elastic-waisted pants and a very unforgiving t-shirt perfect for showcasing my tri-rolls.

Sure, when I got to the gym, I realized I was too hungry after nursing to do a full workout, but at least I got there. I read my US Weekly on the elliptical machine and only 20 minutes later, I was in line buying a chocolate shake for dinner. I belatedly realized that “Performance Shake” was probably meant for bodybuilders who wanted to gain mass (doh!) but some natural peanut butter and whey protein wasn’t gonna kill me. And so what if I got hungry after my meal REPLACEMENT drink and had to eat a gang of cheese on Fire-Roasted Tomato Triscuits?

What I’m gonna take with me tonight is that instead of giving into the nightly temptation to NOT step away and do something, anything, just for me, myself and I, even if it means walking around the block to talk to a girlfriend on the phone or going across the street to CVS to look at nail polish colors or Christmas wreaths or fill an overpriced antibiotics prescription, the key is to be ALL BY MYSELF. To step away. To unwind. To exhale the stale living room air and inhale some wintermint air. To remember that the world does not stop just because mama duties call, that this is just a season in my life.

Once these seasons pass, it would be beneficial to remember who I am since the boys won’t need me as much (sniff, sniff) and I can’t hover over them forever. I need these little “me” moments to balance me out and even revamp myself once the time comes.

If I do step away just a little bit, say every other day once Kevin walks through the door, I think I’d have more energy and peace for my daily duties. For playing hide-and-go-seek 11 times in a row with a toddler who never even bothers to hide and refuses to let me use the computer during the day. For switching sides every few hours as I sleep for a newborn who has started snacking on me throughout the night.

Champagne wishes and caviar dreams have been replaced with longing to go buy milk and grapes all by myself please.

Starting with Stockings

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Growing up, I felt acute loneliness during the holidays as our nuclear family of four was on our own in the States, with all of our relatives back in the mothaland. We had second cousins but they were all first cousins with each other so I often felt like we were the outsiders when they were kind enough to include us in their family gatherings. The holidays also meant my parents had to work extra long hours at whichever small business they were running at the time. I remember my mama literally collapsing when she came home from the store. Though my exhausted parents managed to put up a tree each year and we attended Christmas and New Year’s church services, a melancholy would wash over me as it felt like I was missing out on something magical that other families, like those on tv, as well as those I went to school with, would be partaking in from Thanksgiving through the New Year.

The beauty of having my own little family now is that we can create our own magic and wonder during the holiday season. I want my boys to be in awe of this time, to associate it with lots of time doting on each other and truly being merry. So many traditions to choose from! Or we can create our own (like lobsters for Christmas perhaps and doing an Advent study together each night).

While still deliberating on what type of tree to bring home, Kevin and I decided late last night that we were going to order our very first personalized family Christmas stockings. We figured it would take about 15 minutes before we went to bed, but this is how it went down:

K: Okay, Jihee-yah. Choose yours. (handing me the laptop)

J: This should be fast, uh, cuz I’m trying to watch Parenthood. Lotta them are already sold out so fewer choices to go over. Since I’m the only girl, I should get the ballerina or doll stocking. I did do gymnastics but no ballet so I’mma go with doll. Yes, I like that. I am the DOLL among you mens.”

K: Okay. You gotta choose light-skinned or dark-skinned doll, Jihee-yah.

J: Come on now. Do you even have to ask? Do you KNOW me?

K: Yes, poseur, but the dark-skinned doll is DARK. Sorry to say but you look more like the light-skinned.

J: Yes, Connecticut, I see what you mean, but the SPIRIT is dark-skinned so put the dark one in our cart. No further discussion needed.

K: Wait, you sure you wanna go with Doll because now I see that there is an Angel and you always going on about your chunsah birthday.” (My birthday is 10.04 and if you say 1004 in Korean, it is the same word for angel – “chunsah”.)

J: This is true – and there is a light-skin, dark-skin option for Angel, too. But what if I choose Angel and then that choice makes me die early and y’all be crying saying she should’ve gone Doll, not Angel that one Christmas?

(Kevin does not dignify with a response.)

K: I’m thinking reindeer stocking for Micah.

J: But the reindeer is a baby so let’s go reindeer for Ellis.

K: I was thinking snowman for Ellis because he fat. Tri-rolls like Ellis. They got same body – look!

J: True again! And the reindeer look real sweet like Micah and resembling him in the eyes. You sure you don’t wanna go with Train for Micah though? He loves choo-choo!

K: But what’s train got to do with Christmas for real though?

J: True true true. You on a roll!

K: I’m choosing the Santa for myself because I am the head of the family.

J: Right, obvious choice. What color should our names be on the stockings? You know Koreans say writing your name in red is imminent death.

K: Screw that. We’re going with red because the green looks stupid.

J: Should my stocking say Mommy, Mama or Umma? Micah or MLK? Ellis or E.Z.?

More deliberating and yawning. WA-A-A-Y MORE THAN 15 MINUTES LATER:

J: Cool, so when are they arriving?

K: Never.

J: Why?! Noooo! Did they get sold out while we were deliberating?

K: I read the reviews. All recent customers said poor quality. They suck.

So back to the drawing board tonight. Gotta get some traditions going ASAP. Already December 5th!

Election Day 2012

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Typing with my warm new baby sprawled out, snoozing on my lap. He loves my body heat or “skinship” as Korean FOBS like to say. If I put him back in his bassinet, he will fuss so I will let him be, while also getting in some “me” typing time.

October has already come and gone. Ellis Zachary Kim, our beloved boy #2, E.Z. Kim with his huge, intense eyes and full head of lush McDreamy hair, arrived on the first of the month, just as CA Gramma arrived to take care of his older brother so that mama can get to the hospital to push (and pull) him out. Couldn’t have timed it more perfectly. He graciously even allowed time for me to “train” Gramma on Micah 101 through my contractions. Since we didn’t know if he’d be a “he,” we decided on his full name while driving to the hospital, on that bright and sunny October evening while I bit into a chicken parmesan sandwich between contractions. Though not adhering to the family five-letter naming rule, the too fresh “Z” initial of Zachary nor the meaning (Hebrew for “remembered by God”), could be passed up.

“Ellis” is an homage to immigrants, as in Ellis Island, though discovered when Daddy was reading Sports Illustrated almost immediately after we found out we were expecting baby #2. He was attracted to the name Ellis Valentine, some baseball player of yesteryear. And naturally, Mama was sold instantly because of the immigrant connection. After checking the meaning (“My God is the Lord”), we knew our baby girl OR boy would be ELLIS. Now we got an MLK and Ellis. Already nudging them to be passionate about civil rights and the immigrant plight.

Too many memories from October to type out right now (nervously typing out my choked thoughts because the boys will wake up in 3…2…1…). Also some unexpected life lessons like: Don’t choose the sushi bar to sit at if you are going to squeeze in a hearty, postpartum fight with your spouse. It’s not just about you getting much-missed raw grub into your tummy. The sushi bar is an experience for you AND the sushi chef/owner. He wants to have some fun with you to fill in his boredom from a slower night and will NOT hook you up with extra fish if you are too busy arguing, not allowing him to lecture you on the history of Okinawa. Then, the gushing Japanese waitress will gingerly place her hand on your back and ask if you are pregnant in the same tone as if she were asking you, “Are you a celebrity?”

As always, I digress. Today is Election Day. Day Two of being on my own with my two babies now that CA Gramma has flown back home, after showering my boys with so much love and care. Having never made it outside yesterday and with an impending nor’easter on its way tomorrow (I still can’t get used to that word – it seems like only old white men who say, “Is it cold enough for ya?!” should be saying “nor’easter”), we three made it out this morning for a brisk walk. Ellis hasn’t been out more than a handful of times and dude needed some Vitamin D.

Daddy had told us that we will vote together as a family tonight but when we saw blue and white signs all over our co-op to VOTE HERE (VOTE AQUI), I decided to head to the polling site “just to see.” Our double stroller is not quite here yet (long story) so I was strolling E.Z. in a twice-handed-me-down snap n go while Micah was running around.

We ended up in the basement polling site. I got nervous as I realized that Ellis was in an unventilated, enclosed space with many people, probably many of whom are sniffly like me in this colder weather. I left him in the hallway with one eye on him. I contemplated actually voting since I was already there and it wouldn’t take too long with the late morning crowd being sparse. I spotted a Korean neighbor in the voting booth. I wanted to yell across the room and ask her, “Eeeeyyy, can you watch Ellis parked in the hallway for a few minutes while I vote?” We always speak Korean to each other and I paranoidly thought that the poll workers may think I’m trying to influence her vote in our own language so when Micah ran outside, I followed. Without voting.

Micah started exclaiming, “Abu? Abu?” while peering into my eyes. What the? Just as I was about to kneel down, nose to nose, to whisper, “WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?” (too much passionate viewing of “Homeland”) and shield him from the poll site bouncer who may radio in this Asian toddler Nicholas Brody, Micah finished his phrase: “Abu Joosssss, Abu Joosss.”

So we walked around the block one more time, doing what we were supposed to be doing anyhow, naming the colors of all the parked cars, and went home to some Abu Joossss (apple juice). We will be back tonight for family voting time.

Tantrum Tuesday = Bargain Movie Night

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“Look, Jihee-yah. We’re just gonna leave and let you eat dinner in peace. Exhale. TAKE YOUR TIME. Don’t worry, we will find something to eat at home.”

Don’t have to tell me twice. I did not protest. Raise up, boys. Let me exhale after Micah’s Tantrum Tuesday. If mama could, she would even order some wine with her Polish platter.

Second time this month my boys left me at a restaurant during dinner. But honestly, I welcomed the ditching. Eating with a happy toddler still takes some patience and wrangling but an unhappy one? Oy.

This time, it was even before ordering. M had been throwing a few tantrums, wanting to look at my P-H-O-N-E so that he can watch videos of himself. He had gotten better the last couple months but regressed a bit lately maybe because I’ve been on it more. I can’t leave all emails and online business for nighttime especially these next few weeks.

We met Daddy at a nearby restaurant after Gymboree (where a public tantrum went down). Packed on a Tuesday night for Yom Kippur. We may have been the only Gentiles. Upset customers due to slow service. M is also upset because he wants more diluted apple juice which we ran out of. I could tell it’s only going to get worse so I say, “Let’s just go. I don’t have it in me to sit through this after today.” When Kevin told me to stay and unwind, he tried to place M in the stroller but M was so upset, he used it as a slide and came right out.

A handful of senior citizens watched shamelessly as if we were the dinner show. Almost beaming that they got a free show to add some fun to their uneventful meal, having nothing to talk about other than the slow service. One lady even said, “This is SO funny!” while Kevin huffed and puffed to calm him down and get them on their way. Glad we could amuse her. The boys left and a party of six sat by me. They had a toddler who (happily) threw his toys throughout their entire dinner.

Last time this happened, it was after our food had arrived at an Italian place in our neighborhood. The boys went home to leave me at peace, and also to look like such the stereotype for Very Pregnant Lady with a seafood linguine, fried calamari, and pizza for One. Sure, we hadn’t come with ANY toys or distractions for M as we wanted to be carefree and just walk across the street for a family dinner for once. How smart of us.

After our separate dinners and M’s bath, our friends came over to sit at our place while M snoozed away. They wanted us to treat ourselves to a final(?) date night before we become a Family of Four. What a weeknight treat thanks to Uncle AO and Auntie NK. I was so frenzied from Tantrum Tuesday that I didn’t even get to look up the movie choices the way I usually do. I actually let Kevin narrow it down on his own. Something I never do because I am so damn picky and difficult about what I’d watch. It was between a Cop Movie (action, suspense, mystery, humor?) or a Clint Eastwood-Amy Adams father-daughter flick which would also interest me because I love family dynamics (but not as critically acclaimed).

We went for the Cop movie.

Kevin is usually overprotective about what I am “allowed” to watch during my pregnancy. Koreans say that women should only watch lovely things during their pregnancy. Nothing scary or emotionally jarring. So he had banned me from many movies, including the Final Destination series that always seems to pop up on our HBO channel when I’m in my final few weeks before due date.

So why did he take me to the movie that included oh, let’s see (SPOILER ALERT for “End of Watch”):

babies wrapped up with duct tape, human trafficking, blood and gore, gang violence, babies nearly catching on fire, rotting dead bodies, knife in the eye, beat-up-to-a-pulp unrecognizable face…

I actually LOVED the movie because it took place in South Central LA (where my folks used to run a Chinese takeout joint when I was a little girl, which gave me the street cred I still carry proudly to this day, yay, yay.) Also about brotherhood/friendship and racial tensions, again riveting fave topics of mine. But oooh, not now, not after Tantrum Tuesday and while THIS pregnant. I had to cover my eyes especially in the couple scenes with the babies.

Kevin was sheepish. He looked to me and said, “Feel free to cover your eyes whenever,” as I was already covering my eyes and ears. Because it was Bargain Tuesday, some parents had brought the whole family! I heard little kids’ voices behind me saying, “Cover your eyes, Lupe!” when a striptease came on the screen. Though their ears and eyes were exposed to everything else. Again, it was a GREAT, memorable movie but just the wacky timing. The Koreans would’ve steered me towards the Eastwood-Adams flick though this was my usual style.

As we drove home to relieve our friends, K was carsick because the camerawork in the movie had triggered his motion sickness. We were laughing at our comical choice for final movie night. Drove by a car accident that again reminded us of the movie as we prayed for those involved.

Found out after the movie that while I surprisingly didn’t go into labor from the medley of jarring scenes, a Due Date friend of mine had given birth to his second baby exactly at 38 weeks along yesterday. It really struck me that I got next.

Okay, no editing for this post but starving and M may wake up soon.

Our First Time

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I didn’t think that our first time hiring professional cleaning services (thanks to LivingSocial) would include a moment in our tiny kitchen with my consoling and nearly hugging M, the cleaning lady sent to us at 9 a.m., as she broke out in tears. I knew this day would come. The state of our kitchen made someone cry. I’ve been close myself.

When she arrived promptly at 9 a.m., I thanked her for her punctuality and offered her a bottle of water. I told her which three-to-four rooms we needed cleaned during the three-hour time slot. I showed her the supplies her boss had asked us to provide. She said she wouldn’t even need the mop we had bought for the occasion since she gets down on her hands and knees for a good old fashioned scrubbing. I was feeling so blessed and grateful to have this timely service before Baby arrives.

She started in the kitchen at 9:05 a.m. Micah and I were reading books and playing in the living room. I had to corral him a few times as he became curious about what was going on in the kitchen. After all, we hadn’t ever had a guest come over solely for the purpose of cleaning for us (unless you count CA Grandma). I noticed that it was 10:40 a.m. and she hadn’t moved onto any other room. I popped my head into the kitchen to say, “Hi, M. Are you going to have enough time to move onto the bathroom and living room soon? I just noticed the time since we only paid for three hours.” She said something about how I should’ve paid for more time because she couldn’t leave it the way it was. I said well, this is just our first time to check out the services and I will call the company owner to ask about paying for additional hour(s).

When I called her boss lady, another M, she said this has never happened in all her years of running this service. That this M was new and a perfectionist but should’ve called her early on to say she was going to need more time. She was a savvy businesswoman as she explained very charmingly in her French(?) accent that this happened because M wanted to do such an excellent job for me. And thank you for being SO understanding, unlike some other clients.

I said that everything was fine and that I understand she probably ended up doing a deep cleaning of the kitchen, rather than the basic cleaning that we paid for. I said I am fine with paying for additional time as long as she can get to the bathroom and living room while she was here. We worked out the fees and all was well…

Until M broke out in tears saying, “I do my best. I cannot leave it undone and now my boss is mad at me. But if I had left it the way it was, you would have complained.” I had even heard her tell her boss that she had moved onto the bathroom when she hadn’t yet. I knew she was scared to be reprimanded or even fired. The sweat on her face was mixing with her fresh, new tears. Then I got verklempt because I could imagine so many other immigrant women having to work such a labor-intensive job just to live, while also fearing the loss of these dirty jobs, their only livelihood.

“Nooo, M, no one’s in any kind of trouble! I just had to pay for additional time. Your boss knows you’ve been working hard, not resting. I told her twice that you’ve just been doing a VERY thorough job in our kitchen. She is not upset. No one is upset. She just wanted you to call her as soon as you noticed that it was going to take longer than what I paid for.” I put my arm around her and patted her on the back. Micah peeks in and starts to play with the debris and cleaning supplies. I tell him, “NO TOUCH!” and he thinks HE’s in trouble so HE starts crying. I am consoling the both of them. Oh, Lawd.

I told her not to worry about the rest of the kitchen. I can do the dishes. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT A THING! No need to put the stepstool away. I can do it later.

After the original three hours, she moves onto the bathroom. When her boss calls me to check in, I make sure to say AGAIN she is doing so well so that M does not fret. I had to pop in to use the bathroom again after checking that she was done. “Sorry I have to pee so much!” She tells me she knows all about that. I ask her how many times she’s gone thru it. Three kids, though one passed away at age four. Okay, now I’m about to cry. I just say, “That must’ve changed you forever.” “Yes, deep shock.” Why I gotta ask about her kids? But that is how I am wired!

After paying double the amount we originally paid, not including the handsome tip I have to give her, after seeing her sweat all morning and through lunch, all with a sprained right ankle. Maybe because it was my first time, but I don’t think I feel comfy with this role of lady of “leisure” (blogging while she cleans and my boy naps) v. The Help. It feels so blatantly classist even though it was a much-needed service at a steal of a price.

I keep offering her more water but she said she is fine. She must be hungry. I sure am. But our kitchen is so spotless that I am afraid to step in. We have half an hour more to go. What a surprising half-day it has been.

King Kim

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A storm is on its way here in NYC. Outside my window as of now, only gusty winds and gloominess, the perfect backdrop for someone to write a page-turning murder mystery. I should be nursing my mild headache by lying down during Micah’s nap, but I was itching to jot down some thoughts, with a little Mozart on for dear Belly Baby who isn’t getting his/her share of music while in the womb.

Sorry, #2. It ain’t that kinda pregnancy this time ’round. My o.b. told me that second and subsequent children suffer from benign neglect while in utero. She herself had kept thinking, “OK, Belly Baby, I will pause and think about you now,” as she approached the delivery of her second and third children but bam!, it came time for their delivery. She assured me that it is normal and natural. Completely benign.

Last night, after 1 am, we heard Micah wailing through our baby monitor. Very unusual as he sleeps soundly through the night and even if he does wake up once, it’s usually to regroup for a moment and kiss and cuddle with his animal friends. But last night, he wailed so sorrowfully and persistently, like he had had a nightmare he just couldn’t shake.

Kevin and I lie there wondering what we should do. On the one hand, we really should leave him be as he ain’t gon’ be able to creep once newborn becomes our roommate indefinitely. Two’s company, three’s a crowd – is that the saying? Then four will be a zoo. But on the other hand, let’s give the man some love since his world as he knows it is about to be turned upside down.

When daddy went to spring him, he refused to be held and ran into our room squealing, shouting, “Daddy, Ahppah/Ummah!” like it was a Saturday afternoon, not past 1 am on a worknight. He still likes to call me “Ahppah” (“daddy”) as a term of endearment though now he is switching off with both “Ahppah” and “Ummah.” I tried to lie very still and whispered to K, “Do not engage. Just close your eyes or else he’s gonna think it’s party time,” to which K responded, “Shutta the mind, and shutta the mouth,” (his simple advice for my recent bouts of insomnia).

M was babbling with bright, alert eyes and trying to get me to respond. He had brought his animal friends along for the sleepover. It was quiet for a few moments so I peeked with one eye and gasped. He had brought his little face nearly nose-to-nose, forehead-to-forehead with mine in the dark, grinning so cheesily, proud that he had surprised me with the face-off. He looked like a mischievous kindergardener, not my baby. I woke up in the morning, completely forgetting we had a visitor in our bed, when I maneuvered my massive body to the other side, and saw this little dude with a grown-out buzzcut, cuddling with my Snoogle, completely konked out. He slept in a bit longer than usual, nestled in between his two favorite warm bodies. And a hidden third in mama’s belly.

As I got my bearings, I heard the boys in the kitchen. Daddy was washing some dishes and M was crying. “What’s going on you guys? Where’s Micah and why he crying?” Micah walked out from the kitchen in his footed pajamas and wiped his tears when he saw me approaching. Daddy explained, “He’s crying because I wasn’t paying him attention while I washed the dishes.”

It hit me all over again. Li’l Kim, his Majesty, had never been ignored until now. As typical first-time parents of today, we have been so very doting, responding to every sound he’s ever made. If he says, “hi, hi, hiiiii” 23 times from his carseat, I match each “hi” with my own. With enthusiasm. If he babbles nonsensically to me about his animal friends, I always let him know that I understood each sound coming out from his little mouth, though I had no idea what he said and why he continues to call a penguin “babo.” So today, when Daddy was so exhausted that he didn’t engage his boy while doing a few dishes, M got so hurt.

He is in for a rude awakening.

I am so curious as to how he will react to his little sibling. I know whatever jealousy he will experience is so natural and even good for him, to realize early on that he cannot be the center of everyone’s universe. But it is so fascinating to think about the changes he will face, the emotions he will go through while not being able to articulate them.

His world right now consists of stopping in the middle of Costco to ask us to bring it in, bring it in, to surround him in his shopping cart seat, and shower him with multiple double hugs and kisses on each cheek. He loves to hold both of our hands while walking in the middle, pausing to peer up at both Daddy and Ahppah. Those hands will soon be full with another bundle and we can’t respond to every laugh or whimper. I know. Parents with three or more children are laughing at me right now for my scrub status in parenting.

Waiting for the Click

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“Whitaker! Declan! Deschel!” These are some of the oh-so-2012 names I heard a mama calling out at the playground last month. The search for our baby’s name is once again one of my favorite to do’s in this journey from conception to birth. The Nameberry website is full of name aficionados who weigh in very thoroughly on different names and even have complete names picked out for future offspring.

After Micah was born, we were handed the paperwork for his birth certificate. Though we had a first and middle name in mind for a while, it was too final. We possessed too much power as his parents. Once we wrote down “Micah Logan Kim” in black ink, we would be presenting him to the government and to the world as none other than Micah Logan Kim, though yes, I know he can go off to college and have folks call him “Jeremy” or just a symbol.

One general “rule” for coming across the perfect name is that it must click for us as a family. Who WE are. Our general essence. This has largely been a process of elimination and sometimes knocks out solid names:

We are not hippies. (Poppy.)

We are not first-generation Chinese. (Harrison).

We are not Southern. (Rhett. Wyatt. Graham.)

Nor do we have an inheritance. (Preston. Greyson.)

We are not strippers.

We are not WASPs.

We are not actually Black though one of us claims so much flava to save yo neighba’. (Denzel. Oprah. Le’Jihee.)

We are not hipsters or even hip. (Chance. Jazz.)

We are not truly Jewish no matter how much we love Hebrew names (Nevaeh. Noam.)

We are not as Korean as I think. (rejecting almost all Korean names just based on sound and strict Kim family naming rules).

No, Kevin, we cannot name baby after a Met, a Celtic, one William Joel, one Kemba Walker, or someone else with the middle name Walker!

It must not clash with the family surname. (Faye. Shea. Cam.)

Watch out for bad initials.

Some names we do not even consider as fine as they are because they have just become way too popular in recent years.

We love Biblical names but meaning matters so much. Example: I love “Abel” but I believe he was the first murder victim in the Bible. At the hands of his brother. I cannot overlook that.

Meaning of the name in general is key. “Griffin” is a cute name but it means “hooked nose.” Another name we still like means “raider” or “fighter.” “Russell” is “little red.” “Drake” can mean dragon (cool!) but also duck. Occupational names like Mason or Jagger are also cute but can influence their fate. (I had a librarian named Mrs. Read. My friend’s doctor is named Dr. Wells.)

We would love the name(s) to consist of five letters to match the three of us. We think we’ve committed to a first name for either boy or girl but are still brainstorming for the middle names. Looking for that elusive click.

There is still some time. We would love to hear some suggestions. Goodnight!

35

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When I was around 35 weeks along with Micah, I stopped working. I ended up having less than four weeks before he arrived and that in-between time was such a blessing. I had been able to commute on the subway and work full-time because I thought, “That’s what you do. Work! There ain’t no baby just yet.” But once I let go of this rule I had imposed on myself, I realized I was able to do it only because I was on auto-pilot – it was something I just did because of course I should keep working as long as I was physically able. But there was no intentionality behind it, just a (natural) drive to receive a few more paychecks to cover increasing baby-related expenses. I ended up trading in money for time.

When I stopped working, my body started exhaling, melting into the bed and basking in rest, like a turtle sunning on a rock. I was able to invest in quality rest everyday. Something not readily valued in today’s society, especially in rush rush rush NYC, but oh-so-necessary and healing. I’m pretty sure I moaned in my sleep a few times. The rest was so delicious, the kind where you sleep with a small hand towel under your face as you cuddle with your Snoogle because the drool will flow.

I would wake up whenever my body told me to. If I had had insomnia during the night, I could catch up by sleeping in. I didn’t have to run errands on my short lunch break. For the most part, I would find myself with only one item on my to-do list for the whole day like, “Try making scones,” “Meet Anna for lunch on Austin St,” and of course, “Daydream about baby.” Enjoyable, short to-do lists. I could take walks. Or not. I was wealthy with time. I also tried to learn to be kinder to myself for once. I didn’t have to DO anything if I didn’t want to, other than hydrate, eat well, and think pleasant thoughts for baby. I didn’t have to feel accomplished by checking off a long to-do list. Very unnatural for this child of immigrants who is naturally hard on herself.

This time around, I am not as wealthy with time or rest. I do crave some more of each before we are in the thick of it again, the sleep deprivation and exhaustion. Two other life-improving features I find myself craving: a parking spot preferably in the driveway of an actual house and a washer/dryer unit within that house (our co-op will not allow it). I should be content with our present home as it is a blessing that we prayed for in 2010, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

Instead, I am wealthy with cuteness via my toddler who toddles around all day with his bright eyes and smooth dolphin skin. Yesterday, we started the rainy morning off with a load of laundry in the basement. The load consisted of all of his stuffed animals and some of his drooly bibs. Such a small task requires much more energy with a toddler because he will turn it into an adventure. We have to wash his friends often because they are overkissed daily.

Once we get into the elevator, he immediately finds all the slivers of reflective surfaces so that he can give himself loud kisses. “Mmmuahh! Mmmmuahhh! Mmmmuuahhhhhhh!” I also have to cover the panel of alarm buttons that is perfectly within his reach. We walk down a long underground hallway to get to the laundry room. While walking, he feels very affectionate towards me and hugs my leg. He stops to look up at me with pleading eyes like the Puss in Boots Antonio Banderas cat in the Shrek movies. “Up? Up? Up?” He would like to be in my arms. Down the looong hallway. I hate to refuse but I do. I would love to always cuddle with my morsel, too, but I need him to get used to my not being able to pick him up for a while.

I try to distract him from the rejection by making it into a chase. He squeals. He just has to stop at the boiler room to check out what the workers are doing in there. I wrangle him away. We finally get to the washing machine. I’m worried he may be shocked to see his friends, Bear, Elephant, Mr. Mets, Lion, and many more, get dumped into a machine that will spin them silly, drowning them in suds, looking like a scene from Titanic. “Micah, it’s bathtime for them, okay?” He actually helps me by placing them in there one by one, solemnly, like we are performing a ritual.

Still carrying a bottle of detergent, I decide to let him walk outside in the courtyard for a little bit before the rain returns and we are forced back home to wait for the wash to be done. But he refuses to come back into the building as he checks out every gutter, dead leaf, bush and puddle. No matter how many times I pretend to walk back into the lobby without him, he doesn’t care. He wants to roam free. No separation anxiety since he knows I won’t really leave him. Dude is confident. I hide behind a tree so he will come looking for me and we can get home so I can sit for a spell but he is not falling for it.

He’s had it with my fakeouts. When I walk farther away, acting like I don’t have my eye on him at all, he throws himself on the ground. Lately, he wants a LOT of attention from me, almost like the baby has already arrived. And why not? He has always received 100% of my attention. We are always together. He is in for a rude awakening come October.

I am panting and sweating. I just want to sit down. I’m still holding the damn detergent. He wants to stay out. Finally, he hears one of the groundskeepers’ walkie talkie go off loudly with static so he runs over to me, about to cry. I soothe him and explain it is like a phone, that it was loud but not scary (“No ah-yah, Micah!”). We get home after more elevator kisses to his reflections and my pleading with him not to climb stairs once we got to our floor. After just a few minutes, we have to go back down to transfer his friends into the inferno, the dryer.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the elevator. Grey roots, sweat beads on the upper lip and lower eye regions, disheveled low ponytail in 80s leopard-print scrunchy, no bra, in the most comfy rainbow “dress” I should not wear in public even though it’s still within my building, wishing I could look only half as elegant and accessorized as Mrs. Roper.

That was about one hour of our morning. The rest of the time we play, read, dance to his favorite song, John Mayer’s “Heartbreak Warfare” while I’m making sure he doesn’t fall off our high bed when gets too excited during the chorus. He also climbs my stomach from time to time because it is big and inviting. Oh Lord help me when I do this with a newborn attached to my teat.