Author Archives: ajummama

Ball don’t lie

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This week of Linsanity thanks to one Jeremy Lin, currently of the NY Knicks, has infused my already joyful (in the ordinary) life with an added dimension of merriment.  Sure, basketball is strictly a spectator sport for me ever since my brother made fun of my ugly form.  Feeling this amount of gaiety while simply spectating is hard to explain.  Perhaps I will try to at a later time but right now, I’d like to introduce my first guest blogger.  Hint:  Physically, he has been likened to a young Ron Darling and Korean Fred Savage.

Without further adieu, here are my husband’s thoughts surrounding Linsanity:

Around 10 years ago when I was spry and still had a modicum of athleticism, I went out with one of  my friends to find some pickup basketball games in the streets of NYC.  Young black teenagers taunted us with, “Get off the courts, chino.”  Eventually we got onto a court and played some two-on-two.  For the next couple of hours, my friend and I just dominated and never got off the court.  Those same teenagers calling us “chino” were now defending their loss by saying, “Yo, they games is NICE.”  Some of these kids just couldn’t believe they were losing and kept coming back for more, only to have their asses handed to them time and time again.  They left the court shaking their heads and with a minor in East Asian studies.

If I just wanted to write that I am a great basketball player, this would be a dumb post…and a bald-faced lie.  Because I am not.  I am OK and I was definitely better 10 years ago.  But the funny thing is when I said that we were beating teenagers, I mean freshly minted teenagers as in their voices had deepened just that very day – they couldn’t have been more than 13!  So here were these kids playing grown men, thinking they would surely school us.  In three or four years I bet these kids might have been able to beat us, but at that age it’s not a fair physical match up.  It’s really not about just skill, but also about being stronger, faster, and smarter.  There was no way these kids were going to beat us and no way they should have expected to.  But they did expect to win, and were utterly shocked that they were losing.  There is obviously only one reason they thought they were going to win – we were Asian and they were black. 

Obviously, this is not meant to be a shot against black youth.  It’s just a fact that most people don’t view Asian males as paradigms of athleticism unless you’re talking about speedskating.  Hell, I not only agree with that sentiment, I fully embody it – and I can’t even skate worth sh*t.  But there certainly is a lesson to be learned and it is the same one that Jeremy Lin is teaching all of us right now.

The title of this piece comes from the sage mouth of one Rasheed Wallace.  In basketball, it doesn’t matter what you look like or what you say or what the referees call.  In the end, all will be settled on the court and if you can make shots, you can make shots.  Ball. Don’t. Lie.  When it goes through the hoop, it just do.

Jeremy Lin has shown us in this past monumental week that ball don’t lie.  You can look at whatever statistics you want about his points or his PER or what his usage rate and offensive efficiency are.  In the end, if you know basketball, you know what a basketball player looks like.  And he certainly looks like one. And if he is going to continue to be successful and not just a guy having a crazy week, once again, the ball ain’t gon’ lie!  A great story is emerging with an ending yet to be determined.  All the hosannas being thrown at him today will, sadly, be gone tomorrow if he starts sucking or God forbid, gets hurt.  And if he continues to star, then we will have one of the greatest and most inspiring underdog sports stories of this young century.

All of this will be decided by one thing and one thing only – the ball.  And that’s the lesson we all forget sometimes.  We get so scared by appearances and tradition and stereotypes that most of the time we never bother to lace up our sneakers because we believe that there’s no reason to even try.  That’s why the underdog story is so inspiring – the person who so desperately wants something that they chase it headlong without listening to those voices telling them, and often reasonably so, “NO”, is the one we all wish we could be.  Despite all the doubters and the obstacles he has faced (which I won’t bother to list as they have been more than well-chronicled as of late), Mr. Lin kept lacing up his sneakers and allowing the ball to tell him about his basketball career.  Since the ball told me LONG ago that the NBA will never be calling me unless they want to interview a Celtics fan for a small feature story, I only hope I can follow Mr. Lin’s lead in my personal or professional life – to try even in an area I am not forecasted to thrive in.

1.31.12 weddings and culture shock

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When I attend weddings as a married woman, I notice EVERYTHING. Some things are about the wedding itself: “Wow, this food is phenomenal! Our Korean food was good, too.” “I love all the attention to detail.” But those things aren’t what stay with me and spur me to write when I really should be sleeping. The bride and grooms’ family dynamics and cultural nuances fascinate me, specifically in contrast to my experience on my own wedding day. It’s like National Geographic for me – just studying the way different families and cultures do things on this monumental occasion.

It’s interesting to see myself verging on “tattling” on my culture in a blog, as anyone who knows me knows my Korean pride. One of my college roommates brought home a houseguest who stayed with us for a couple weeks. After getting to know me for that short stay, including how I just could not FATHOM why a blonde and blue-eyed classmate was trying to court me, she jokingly answered his phone call with, “Jihee’s not home right now. Her Korean supremacist meeting is tonight.”

My family immigrated to these here States when I was four-going-onto-five, on August 15th, the summer before kindergarden. I was raised in Los Angeles, CA until college. Though I try to act like my Korean is solid, I have to confess that my English is far better. First generation Koreans in Flushing, NY, ask me to please, just speak English to them.

My point is that although I wasn’t born here, I was raised here. So why do I feel like I am from another planet, or a recent immigrant, when I am at non-Korean, or non-Asian, weddings? Many times I have to keep my jaw from falling to the floor when I witness a scene so sharply contrasted from my bridal experience. Though I am American, Korean roots have firmly been planted and nowhere have they surfaced more prominently than in my marriage to a fellow Korean-American.

These are my realizations as to why I feel such culture shock at American weddings. (Disclaimer: I will be speaking in generalizations so please know that I am fully aware that not ALL Americans and Koreans have these experiences.)

1. Mother-in-Laws. My biggest shock. At American weddings, mother-in-laws will gush poetically about their daughter-in-laws, the brides.

“I could not have dreamed and prayed for a better woman for my son!”

“My daughter-in-law planned this whole wedding all the way from the other side of the country and she could not have done a more marvelous job. She is truly amazing.”

“I love you like a daughter and you could not look more beautiful today. Thank you for joining our family.”

(My jaw has to be picked up from off the floor or else I can’t finish my prime rib.)

I have even witnessed mother-in-laws kissing up to their daughter-in-laws to win their favor and friendship, desperately trying to be close to them. My own experience was not quite the same. If you look through my wedding photos, you will notice a lovely woman in her 50s who looks like she had clearly walked into the wrong church. She looked like she was sitting through a funeral, not a wedding. Her face grew more morose as the wedding progressed. During the mother-son dance, she looked like she was going to fall into a big heap in her hanbok so that she can do a proper Korean funeral wail that had been building up in her soul. Now, I can tease her about it while she tries to play it off, but I still have the image of her lugubrious face especially when I’m attending American weddings where the mother of the groom is happily rump-shaking on the dance floor.

2. Emotions. American brides can truly bask in the glory of their superstar day without feeling embarrassed or self-conscious about thoroughly enjoying the spotlight. As they should. Koreans have a mentality that I seem to have subconsciously signed up for. It is very Joy Luck Club, putting yourself down or minimizing your achievements and even your degree of happiness because it all feels too brazen or even too American to self-congratulate.

For instance, I am THE MOST EXCITED (and comfortable) when I hear about OTHERS’ great news, like engagements and babies. I can express my joy more easily whereas for my own milestones, I feel the Koreanness seeping in. “Girl, you are NOT the world’s first bride. You are NOT the first or only woman on Earth to be giving birth! Stop making such a big deal about it, princess!” Needless to say, I may not have been able to soak in everything on my own wedding day, though it was still one of my favorite days. Maybe I wish I could have? Some of my Korean-American friends were able to but some of us can still bond about the behind-the-scenes dynamics. But I could not fully let go.

3. In-law relationships. I am almost always shocked to see in-laws at American weddings joke around irreverently with each other and make plans to hang out again casually (voluntarily!), beyond obligatory formal occasions, and sometimes (gasp!) even spend the holidays together. I know a couple of my Korean-American friends are blessed to find themselves in this category as well but I do not. Koreans GENERALLY tend to keep the in-law relationship a bit distant and formal so that there is no overstepping of “regulations.” I was going to say boundaries but that is not the right word. It is easier in some ways if it is an interracial relationship as regulations and expectations are thrown out the window, but that is a whole other topic. There is so much propriety and duty in what the bride’s side is allowed to do and what the groom’s side is entitled to. Generally, the groom’s side is priority.

Right after my own wedding, my husband’s paternal grandmother from Korea told me and my parents in the parking lot of a Korean restaurant in Los Angeles that it was wrong for them to even join us for lunch, that they are dead to me now that I am married. And my parents just bowed and said, “Neh, neh, gurumyo,” (“Yes, yes, of course”) since they understood the culture and the era she came from. She even told them that they do not know their place by showing up after the wedding to take us to the airport to catch our flight to our Hawaiian honeymoon.

Also, when I was a new wife, my MiL sat me down to make a very traditional Korean speech about how I should shed my Lee ways for the Kim ways that are better, and asked if I can accept the position as first daughter-in-law by consulting her on everything, and that if I do not, I am relinquishing my position. She learned right then that I am VERY American and that I won’t false peacemake by saying Yes, yes. Don’t NO ONE tell me to shed my fami-Lee’s ways as THEIRS are better. (We have come a long way as I have rubbed off on her somewhat – to talk to each other as two individuals with different ideas and backgrounds instead of letting antiquated tradition dictate how she should talk AT me.)

4. General merriment: People are GENERALLY stiffer at Korean/Asian weddings, especially in the presence of the first generation. So I find it fascinating to see folks of all ages really get their boogie on at weddings without any hint of self-consciousness. I think I like that.

Again, much love to my Koreans. We may be set in our traditional ways and not inspire a Nancy Meyers movie, but our actions do also speak louder than our (lack of) words. My mom shared with me a story she read in the Korean newspaper about how a Korean bride wished her parents were more like her expressive, effusive White in-laws but when they were faced with a financial emergency, her parents somehow saved enough money to help her out, even when they poor themselves. Sacrifice. Without a word. I also realize that no matter what kind words people may say at weddings, that does not guarantee that everyone will get along as mother-in-law jokes are as American as apple pie.

But this Korean gal, even as a mama herself now, still finds herself daydreaming at American weddings, wondering what it would feel like to star in a movie more like “Father of the Bride” than “Joy Luck Club.”

mother-son dance on 07.07.07

my parents ain't stiff though

you gotta love my hubby: "yo wifey, less blogging, more backbending pleej!"

1.10.12 behind closed doors

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Please don’t misunderstand my previous post as my hating on my hometown. The dogging on my mama could’ve happened anywhere but I was just taken aback because I expected extra warmth and friendliness from my ‘hood. I’ve now been enjoying LA once again. So many more strangers doting on my Micah here, maybe because the weather is so nice so people have the leisure to just stop and coo over him. I’ve also been floored by the gushing customer service here, whether it’s at Target or at the mall. The employees actually come up to ME and ask if there is any way they can help. I really wanted to hug them. At the neighborhood Key Food that we are forced to shop at from time to time back in NYC, the cashiers will not even look up from texting when ringing me up.

Today, we visited my friend from college in Agoura Hills, CA. Afterwards, I stopped by a nearby store to shop for a dress for one of my best friend’s wedding this Saturday. I didn’t have much time as we have a packed schedule here so I rushed to try on a handful of stuff while Kevin and Micah waited for me. Micah was having a good ol’ time in the shopping cart. As I rushed back into the dressing room to try on my next dress, I briefly caught a glimpse of a white lady in her 60s and her daughter in her 40s making some friendly chitchat to Micah (and Kevin).

Then they came into the dressing room right next to me and started gabbing.

“Mom! You had a sensor on your top! That means you stole that top! You totally did -Admit it right now. HAHAHAAA”

“Oh, stop it! Listen, I had such a hard time with the top because of that sensor. The employee had left it on and I had to go all the way back to tell them to take it off. The manager asked me which employee had rang me up and listen, I was SO genteel about it. You should’ve seen me. I was SO genteel. I just said, ‘The black man.'”

“Right. You couldn’t have said, ‘Look, Buckwheat over there.'”

[Bonding KKK laughter between mother and daughter]

I wondered if I should say something. I usually do but when I do, it is just a spewing forth of explosive emotion. And what could I say? Don’t they have freedom of speech? And I should say something wise and penetrating, instead of, “Shut the hell up you nasty KKK!” So I opted not to say anything.

I wish I could say I was appalled but I wasn’t. Depending on the topic, I can swing from being a bright-eyed idealist to a hard-nosed cynic. When it comes to issues of race, I am a cynic. I expect most people to talk like this behind closed doors. Even seemingly sweet women who dote on my Oriental, china doll, model minority, submissive Bruce Lee baby, can then proceed to go into the “privacy” of their own dressing room to laugh too loudly about their disgusting Buckwheat comment.

Kevin and I discussed this while driving to dinner. Playing devil’s advocate, we imagined what the women would say in their defense. What if the dude looked exactly like Buckwheat? Granted, that could be something of a defense but the tone and tenor of their comments and laughter as white women definitely made my stomach react. And sometimes, all we have is that gut feeling.

1.7.12 welcome to sherman oaks! with (no) love, from the douches

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LA, my hometown. nothing but love for you, especially for this glorious weather in January. “NOW HAVING SAID THAT” (see “Curb Your Enthusiasm” episode about how this phrase negates and contradicts everything you just said before it), sometimes the parody of a place is spot on. characters: a stringy, stuck-up LA/Hollywoody couple, BOTH with strawberry blonde hair and long limbs, who were oh-so-cold to micah while worshipping only THEIR li’l strawberry blonde offspring. giving him unwarranted stern looks, zero smiles when he played around their toddler, minding his own business. eerily quiet other than talking shit with their eyes. can’t stand it when people give each other KNOWING mean looks in front of others because hello, it ain’t your living room. i can see yo eyes. SO OBVIOUS when they gave each other looks about my mama because she was hyper and playing all goofy with her grandbaby, by rocking back and forth, completely engrossed in him, not caring about the haters. i wanted to push them so badly or shit in their diaper bag because DON’T NO ONE TALK MEAN ABOUT MY MAMA, even with YO EYES, douches! but i had to behave myself for the sake of chandler, riker, fiona, clarke, archie and all the other 2010 named babies. the whole scene was just gross, all of us with our trendily named babies, yuppy vibe in the air with everyone only into their own babies, not saying hullo. my dad found someone’s camera lens for them while they stared icily at micah and not even a “thank you.” very surprising because this is not the LA i know but a stereotype i’ve seen in sitcoms. i just notice way too much. wish i were more oblivious or just didn’t give a crap but i always do. now we will go enjoy the day some more despite the douchey morning.

Goodbye 2011!

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You were a beautiful year. We will ALWAYS remember you fondly. Hope to write more in 2012. May your 2012 be amazing and hopeful. [Note: It is the Year of the Dragon so it should be the best year ever, naturally.]

not pictured: bubbles

This toddler needed a mental health break while shopping in Jersey. Luckily, some fish helped us out.

Just a second ago, he was grinning and staring at his feet being measured. Then he saw mama come back in the store and realized he was missing her after all.

Peek-a-Boo

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Like mama, Micah may love exploring new places. He was beaming in his highchair when we went to eat in Williamsburg for a change of scenery on an unseasonably warm November day. This is the dude who usually doesn’t want to be confined to anything, be it highchair, carseat, or stroller. But he must have felt at one with the hipsters as he was ‘fitted in his own little flannel shirt and bib decked out with cassette tapes. He was extra smiley and even swiveled around in his seat to give confident, lingering smiles to all the customers. A bit uncharacteristic of him as he tends to be bashful. He gave extra drooley smiles and his thought balloon appeared to say, “heeeyy, where da white women at?” as the waitresses doted on him.

I didn’t want him to bother any customer for too long since they were there to break bread with their friends and enjoy their meals. I couldn’t help but overhear a man talking about some personal, painful family stuff. As the man poured out his heart to his brunch companion with furrowed brow and intense emotion, Micah turned to him and cheesed. Huge grin, extra drool. Micah then proceeded to do something I hadn’t seen him do before. Micah covered his eyes with his little hands, giggled, and uncovered his eyes. He was playing peek-a-boo with this man, but he was playing the part of the parent. I was going to immediately grab Micah and turn him around so that the man didn’t feel awkward or have his flow messed up as he shared some real pain. But right then, the man paused, his face softened, and he did a fake roar for Micah. Micah squealed in delight. For that second, the man looked about seven. And free.

Why I Don’t Write More

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I want to write more. But I don’t. Then I kick myself for not writing more because I claim it is one of my favorite things to do. It makes me feel more fully me when I do.

Here is why I don’t write/blog more:
1) Confusion – I am not quite sure what this blog is supposed to be. I upload my pictures onto Facebook and post status updates pretty regularly. So what exactly is this blog for? I don’t want it to be a repeat of my Facebook page. I also don’t want it to be just a scrapbook of my baby’s milestones. It is obviously not a photoblog. I just know I love to write and that I am an external processor and I love to tell stories. I suppose I could just elaborate on more of what I say on Facebook but…

2) More Confusion – I carry around this strange notion that if I blog, the entries have to be tied up with a neat bow, like a story that appears in Chicken Soup for the ______ Soul. Not just a small anecdote but an accompanying a-ha moment or “What I Learned From This” finale. That is why I resort to over-long status updates instead because I don’t currently have the blog-savvy or blog-balls to go full throttle with my thoughts.

3) Control – While I am glad that I joined Facebook despite its pitfalls (i.e. wasting time, being too superficially connected, not reading enough books because it’s easier to zone out on Facebook after a long day, and not really having over 400 friends or even 40 friends), I am freaked out by the Internet. If I blog, and don’t password protect my sh*t, then ANYONE can read my thoughts. ANYONE. (But if I password-protect, why not just send my few close friends lengthy emails instead? and not take a risk in sharing with a wider range of people?) Which leads to…

4) Being misunderstood – One of my biggest pet peeves EVER. It triggers many of my issues. Whenever I am in a new small group at church, or cohort in grad school as another example, the most common feedback I receive from folks is, “Wow. You are so honest.” That used to confuse me SO much when I was younger because I wondered, “If people are so amazed by my honesty, is everyone else going around lying? Even at a church small group?” My friends explained to me that no, people aren’t necessarily lying but people aren’t exactly like me – they don’t just say their true feelings because they could be ashamed or they could want to appear differently from how they truly feel. I still can’t really wrap my mind around that. I lack that certain gene or savvy or shield? And sometimes I get really hurt because in that way, I am like a kid and I get sad that others can’t be straight with me in the same way.

Oh, so back to being misunderstood. Because I am an emotional and honest person who is usually pretty expressive about how I’m doing at any given moment, I can’t deal well when I’m misunderstood. When someone says, “I heard you and I think you are this way and I think we are SO similar!” And I think, “Oh, no, lady. We couldn’t be more different!”

So basically, I want to blog but read over the shoulder of anyone who happens to read it so that I can explain myself and control their reaction to what I wrote! (See “Control” above). I think this relates to my caring too much about what others think?

5) Caring too much about what others think

6) Fear of Being Insufferable

7) My Personality – I can’t do small talk so if I blog, I’m sure I will share some personal stuff. That is just my stylo. Not any deep dark secrets but stuff. And if it’s anything interesting, I will offend some people. And I have to be okay with that. Will I regret it?

Well, my throat is sore so I should turn in early. My husband is at a work holiday party so he can’t proofread this before I hit “Publish.” I hope he is having a great time but also gaining some weight, feasting on foods that are no longer available to his overthinking, trying-to-blog wife.

Any comments or specific suggestions on how I can write/blog more despite the above reasons would be greatly appreciated. Goodnight!

reminisce bliss

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Micah, I owe you your official birth story. It is branded in my head and heart but I still need to get it down on paper to preserve it forever. I am sure I emailed myself some snippets, even from the hospital, but I’m talking about a complete, flowing story. As we approach your first birthday, I’ve made the story such a significant assignment that it will have to wait. I also want your dad to chime in so that we don’t forget a single detail. But for now, here is a preview:

I remember how about one year ago, my doctor had told me that you were gonna be a quick and possibly early delivery because you had already descended into my pelvis. He was right. He was also amazed I hadn’t felt any pain and discomfort as I walked around with a bowling ball lying low in my pelvis. I kept emailing my girls back home about the final doctor visits as your arrival drew near. I tried to get folks to place bets on the actual date. Your auntie NK’s guess was the closest, I think.

Your dad the sports nut remembers most things in relation to sports. So this is what he says as we reminisce, reminisce over you (that sounds like Pete Rock and Cl Smooth’s rap): “Dear Micah, On Thanksgiving Eve, UConn was playing Kentucky in the finals of the Maui Invitational. I was excited to see this game and was relieved when your mom went to take a shower so I could watch the game in peace. I thought the contractions were subsiding since she was able to hit the shower. Kemba Walker was on fire and led UConn to a blowout victory. Good thing the second half wasn’t that close because I had to miss it going to the hospital. Uncle Twiggy texted me the final score while I was at the hospital. If I had known that UConn would go on to win the National Championship in April, your name might’ve been Kemba.”

Though we knew you could come early, we never imagined you’d arrive on Thanksgiving morning. It is so fitting now that we’ve gotten to know you. You always make me so grateful to be your mama. Your smooth, cool cheek smushing against mine. How you literally LEAP into my arms because I am your one and only mama, even when I have yet to wash my greasy face or change into a clean shirt. You are our delight, my toothy David Letterman. You make us Jubilant (another name contender to Micah and Kemba though vehemently vetoed by your dad).

Growing up, Thanksgiving was a tough holiday. I felt so lonely because it was usually our immediate family – just the four of us – with a small turkey and a couple sides. Yes, I was counting my blessings to have our family intact and healthy, but I also felt like I was looking over my shoulder to see other families gather with much more oomph in their holiday, with more relatives and more holiday merriment. I wanted it to be a big celebration. Maybe this child of immigrants watched too many Nancy Meyers movies where the holidays were glorious, decor and all, with white folks hugging each other and sipping on holiday beverages in their palatial homes. Cue perfect soundtrack. Ours felt a bit melancholy, as if we were following tradition just because it was what the rest of the country was doing.

Thanks to you, you have made Thanksgiving exponentially more celebratory. We will always reminisce about your arrival and wherever we are or whoever we’re with, we will be gushing with joy because we received you for Thanksgiving. Thank you so much. And yeah, I still owe you your full birth story. (And I hope you will always spend Thanksgiving with us even when you get a girlfriend your junior year in college. No pressure though because I am so understanding and not high maintenance.)

Proactiv(e): not just for pimples

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I’ve been meaning to write more about a topic I barely touched on when Micah was much younger – different types of mamas I’ve met. However, I’ve had to censor myself SO MUCH because I am part of a community and my blog, even with its three loyal readers (one of them being me), is not anonymous. I should’ve gone the anonymous route because boy, have I got stories!

However, I noticed one type I can safely talk about as it is innocuous enough. I was reminded of this type when I ran into a warm and effervescent mama this past weekend, someone I had met once before at a gathering at the park. Though I was in a rush to get to an appointment with my hubs and baby Micah, I couldn’t help saying hello and chatting for just a quick minute as I cannot forget a face.

“Hi! I haven’t seen you since the park months ago! How are you?” I said.

“Hello, yes! You know what!? No one ever called me after that event. So I don’t know anything that’s going on. I gave my phone # to ______ and she never called me.”

“Well, you know how it is these days. Everything is done online, no old fashioned phone calls so you probably have to get in touch via email or Facebook for a quick response.” I also proceeded to tell her step-by-step how to get plugged into our group via Facebook so that she won’t miss out.

This reminded me of a neighbor I ran into months ago. Her baby is at least a couple months older than Micah. We were chatting about baby stuff when I shared with her that a favorite place for us is the local public library. She frowned and said, “Yes, I’ve heard about this library but I can never figure out where exactly it is so I’ve never gone yet. I really should one of these days because I want _____ to meet other babies.” (She said this as she snapped photos of her son with her iPhone. Hmmm…Now if only there was something magical and speedy within that iPhone that would allow her to find out where this library is. FYI, her baby is now a toddler. Ain’t never been to said library. And I don’t coddle folks. She grown. She has an iPhone. She can find her way to a library that is VERY easy to find and mere blocks away.)

I’ve always talked easily to strangers but now with a baby, I talk even more with just about anyone. Babies are perfect conversation-starters, though puppies and alcohol are up there. We were at the beach a couple months ago when a couple stopped me and my husband to talk about, yup, our babies. The mama asked me what activities I do with my baby because she needs some ideas. I told her I go to Gymboree and she said, “Why doesn’t anyone tell me these things?! I’ve heard of this Gymboree but no one ever told me what it is exactly. I’ve even gotten emails!” Again, she used her iPhone as we talked.

I confess that I am on my high horse at times being here in NYC across the country from my best friends and family, trying to raise my baby to the best of my ability. It ain’t easy. I don’t expect people to just drop baby knowledge on me and serve up a community for me on a silver platter. I hustle. I talk to other mamas to find out about stuff my doctors don’t bother to tell me. I initiate playdates. I start conversations. I make sure my boy has places and people to see other than our living room and my mug. I’ve benefitted by making at least a couple good friends, mamas I would hang with even if we weren’t mamas together. We laugh and commiserate and genuinely adore each others’ children. I hope to see more friendships blossom with those I can both trust and have a good time with. So I get peeved when these mamas, all of them with more local family support than I have, with friends they grew up with, claim that no one tells them about stuff. Be PROACTIVE! You can do it!

Back to the lady who said she never showed up to another mama event because she didn’t know about any. After I told her how to easily join our group for regular postings about events, she says, “Oh, thank you so much! Here is my card. Will you please call me about the next event?”

As I rushed off to my appointment, I said, “Honestly, no. I most likely won’t call you. But maybe I will run into you at another gathering.”

10.20.11. boogers: a love story

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When I was a recent college graduate in my second full-time job, I went to a casual work picnic at Griffith Park (in Los Feliz, CA). A day to kick back on the grass, enjoy some good picnic fare complete with watermelon, and hold a couple cute babies birthed by colleagues. One of my younger co-workers already had himself a very serious girlfriend, or was it fiance. I was so fascinated that two 22 year-olds were about to commit to Forever while I was just beginning to realize what I may want in a future spouse many years down the road. Or more like what I really can’t stand after a few getting-to-know-yous here and there.

The younger co-worker introduced me to his future bride. I remember thinking she was genuinely nice. We all chatted a bit when he muttered something to her and quickly made a ninja-like maneuver around her nose, then smoothed her hair away from her face. He was indeed her knight in shining armor. He had discreetly and swiftly removed a conspicuous booger from his beloved’s nose before anyone could spot it and develop an urge to pick their own noses.

That was when I knew that I didn’t know much about love but I wanted a boy who would be able to pick my booger or pimple or eye boogie or boil on the back or ingrown toenail with nothing but a heart full of love. I had never been in true love before so I couldn’t fathom such a thing.

Fast forward to today. I not only pick my baby boy’s nose for him many times a day, I suck out his snot with my own mouth, using a Swedish tubing device called the Nosefrida, which I’ve blogged about before. (Don’t hurl. There is absolutely no way anything gross can even come close to my lips). I am downright elated when I am able to suck out lots of treasures from both nostrils so that he can breathe free and not have a whistling nose. The more snot sucked out, the better. And oh yeah, his daddy would clear a booger for me, too, any day.

10.2.11 - booger-free at the Apple Festival, Queens County Farm