Learning to Listen: Consolations and Desolations (Part 1)

Posted on July 13, 2015 by ajummama

I woke up on Sunday morning, wondering if I should skip church. I usually look forward to church but I was also on the brink of developing a twitch from NYC livin’:

The crowds, the heat, the smell of garbage wafting IN the heat, the strategic search for parking while the kids ask for snacks and car radio DJ duties, crazy congestion while driving in my ‘hood (all those one-way streets!).

As much as I enjoy church, it is a big church so I wouldn’t be able to avoid crowds.

If I hung back while the boys went to church, I would be able to relish the rare occurrence of being Home Alone.

Silence.

Space.

Solitude.

But I ended up joining them after all. As much as I craved solitude to hear myself think, especially after being out with them for most of Saturday, I also craved a good sermon in real life, not online.

Pastor Pete’s sermon was called “Listen.” Very timely as the boys seem to be listening-challenged this summer, especially while playing hward.

Also timely because I often refuse to listen to Kevin. Ever logical, he asked me how I can demand more communication from him yet refuse to listen once he starts talking. My reasoning that only makes sense to me is that once I hear him start talking, I know it’s not going in the specific direction I need it to go. Yeah, I know: wack.

So, I had a hard time listening to the “Listen” sermon. My firstborn started a new phase where he refuses to join Sunday School and wants to sit with me at adult service. I wasn’t going to force him to go nor was I going to sit with him in his class. So the deal was that he sit QUIETLY next to me throughout the whole service. Old school quiet with no i-anythings or even a crayon.

Kevin warned me not to reward him with hugs and cuddles. Oops. But he was being so good, making motions of zipping up his lips and throwing away the key. Kevin also had to serve time by staying with E in his Sunday School class, although he managed to get released in time for some of the sermon.

The point is, I was distracted, making sure M wasn’t sliding off his chair, “whispering,” kicking the lady next to me or otherwise disturbing the peace.

Towards the end of the sermon, Pastor Pete passed out this handout so that we could spend a few moments doing a listening exercise together as a church body, using Consolations and Desolations as a tool:

In case that handout is hard to read, here it is, directly quoted (minus my handwritten notes):

Introduction: One of the ways God speaks to us is through our deepest feelings and yearnings, what Ignatius of Loyola (1491-1556) called “consolation” and “desolation.” Consolations are those experiences that fill us with joy, life, energy and peace. Desolations are those that drain us and feel like death. Consolations connect us with ourselves, others and God. Desolations disconnect us. The questions below are one simple way of discovering the interior movements of God through which He is speaking and leading.

Take about a few moments for silence, becoming aware of God’s presence. As you consider the activities of your day, ask yourself these two questions:

1. Where am I experiencing feelings of joy and peace? Where am I sensing connection with God (consolation)?

2. Where am I experiencing sadness, apathy, and a sense of life draining out of me? Where am I sensing disconnection from God (desolation)?

End with prayer for grace to be more aware of God’s presence and leadings.

Pastor Pete directed us to look back on the past two days for this exercise.

Here is my list:

Consolations:

1. Being outdoors in warm weather, preferably by the water. Brooklyn Bridge sprinklers on Saturday, jumping the waves at Jones Beach on Sunday. Watermelon, figs, olives, Korean pork jerky and cheese pizza only added to the joy and energy.

2. Family time with all four of us present.

3. Connecting in person with people I enjoy, not people I “should” hang out with. It’s always a treat when we can see friends in person rather than on a screen.

4. Taking in gorgeous scenery without rushing to next event.

5. A good book.

6. Writing.

7. Holding babies.

8. Swimming, yoga, hiking, walking, jogging. I would love to be outdoors for all of this.

This is turning out to be long so I will have to save my desolations for another post.

I also see how my consolations and desolations can collide or overlap, how too much of a consolation can end up becoming a desolation. More on that another time, I hope.

I just wanted to start a conversation for now.

Dear Sizzler (and Facebook): Sharing is Caring

Posted on July 9, 2015 by ajummama

On the eve of our 07.07.07 wedding anniversary, I happened to be left alone with a sliver of quiet and my big iPhone while Kevin bathed the boys.

As usual, I looked at the many photos on my phone.

I noticed our recent family selfie from our evening drive to the beach.

We were all smiles and for once, I was IN the picture instead of behind the camera(phone). I wanted to share it but I also couldn’t stomach plopping another perfect photo into the sea of perfect moments on Facebook.

Perfect moment overload these days. Maybe it’s the humidity, but I just needed a break.

The picture tripped me out because we were in one of the worst weeks in our marriage thus far, but there we were, beaming at the beach. Posting the picture without an accompanying “confession” felt incomplete.

This was the picture:

And this was the caption:

[6.25.15 – the story behind this “perfect” family pic is that Kevin and I were doing horribly. At least a week and a half or so was spiritually dark.

We remembered that water is life-giving to me/us so we drove to the beach in the evening, after the workday, following wack GPS directions through alleys as if we were trying to lose the cops, hoping that the backdrop would help, even just a little.

Just felt like sharing that in case people assume that everyone ELSE on their Newsfeeds is living perfect lives that have somehow eluded them. As if there was such a thing. Chile, please.

Tomorrow is our 07.07.07 wedding anniversary. Praying that I can shed some bad habits of explosive anger, criticizing, and blaming. Pray for us when we pop up on your Newsfeed. Thanks!]

I was blown away by the feedback I received. The number of Likes alone was mind-boggling. I had only received that sort of Facebook love for the birth of my sons.

People were actually expending energy in their thumbs to comment and write me personal messages. Facebook friends kept thanking me for being “real” and “honest,” and for “sharing what no one seems willing to.”

I was touched by the feedback but also couldn’t help but think that I hadn’t shared anything too radical. I wondered why Facebook lacks more vulnerability in general since there was a swell of immediate response to it.

I sure didn’t invent it and I sure don’t have a monopoly on it but it felt like I had flipped the script on unspoken social media rules: I had shared a chunk of my interior life instead of the 777,777th photo of my beloved boys in our courtyard.

I wonder why there isn’t more sharing? Isn’t it only natural as we do life together and bother to update regularly? No adult is going to be shocked that *GASP* your life is not perfect. That you are not perfect!

We can still share the gorgeous photos and emoji-filled updates and viral baby dancing videos and 2.5 more parenting articles that will revolutionize the way I raise up my kids but how about a dash of Real Talk here and there?

Just from the response to my photo caption, I sensed that others are also feeling the void of two-dimensional Facebook. Sure, we love to see what our friends are up to, what they are eating, where they are visiting but those updates alone don’t help us to connect on a deeper level and get to know each others’ insides any better.

Many Facebook users, including me, have reported more feelings of depression, isolation, and envy after scrolling through their friends’ highlight reels on their Newsfeeds. This is because we almost never share back stories of our photos or go a little deeper in our status updates. Maybe not full-on confessions like I’m naturally inclined towards but just a little something more?

Sure, there are some topics one should save for a safe, select few. However, there are universal struggles and fears we have all gone through, are going through, or will go through by virtue of being human. And by sharing, you may touch someone else.

This was not meant to be yet another rant against social media for only displaying people’s highlight reels instead of their real lives. Hey, it’s not Facebook’s fault. Facebook is not a living, breathing organism. We, the users, make Facebook what we want it to be and lately, we’ve been keeping it pretty damn surface level.

My happy photos are NOT fake. But they only tell part of the story. And no matter what I may be going through, I am genuinely happy in those moments I hug up on my boys for a photo.

Just like my brother and I scribbled with a shorty #2 library pencil on a comment card at Sizzler, decades ago in response to their “No Sharing” policy at their establishments: Sharing is caring.

Baby, I’m (Still) Amazed by You

Posted on May 20, 2015 by ajummama

The most joyous,

dream-like,

wonderful, literally wonder-FILLED,

time of my life thus far was when I was pregnant with my first. I don’t even need to say “thus far” as nothing will surpass its top billing as the most wondrous time of my life.

All cliches made sense. Growing a tiny human (and penis) in my womb was truly miraculous. Just thinking about it made me want to lift my hands in worship even on the crowded R train during the morning rush (but I couldn’t only because I had to hold onto the pole).

In fact, it was so full of wonder and awe that towards the end of the pregnancy, I worried that when the baby arrived, that Lion King moment would turn out to be almost anti-climactic after 38.5 weeks of the most built-up anticipation.

Yes, a luxurious worry to have during a healthy and smooth pregnancy.

Needless to say, that “worry” was beyond silly as I couldn’t take my eyes off him that first night in the hospital. Just staring and studying him. Falling in love so fast and furious that we were in our own world. Hardly noticed when Kevin said he was leaving for the night (I had insisted – no place to sleep and no point in not investing in rest).

Similar to that silly initial “worry,” I also started wondering more recently, if being a mom to an older child would be less of a heartwarming experience since I can’t stare into his eyes while nursing or while nibbling on him any chance I get.

I even asked mom friends who have kids in their teens, “Is it gross? Your boy’s little girl voice all deepening and them becoming straight up men? Can you even recall them in their morsel-y baby form? What’s it like when they are no longer cuddly and innocent?”

One friend said, “But he’s still him.”

Then I got reminded of just how silly this worry is when my firstborn says the darndest things. He may not be my “baby” baby, but I’m still filled with wonder as I witness him emerging into a Big Boy at 4 1/2 years old, with a new, pointy (single) chin and strong feelings about who should win American Idol.

This list is mostly for me, so I won’t forget these fleeting sound bites.

On current events: “If Optimus Prime was in Nepal, he could have held up the sky with his arms and kept the ground from breaking with his legs and all those people would not be killed in the earthquake.”

On Mommy announcing that she is going to eat a lollipop with a grasshopper lodged in the middle: “Mommy, you are being so silly. Look, I care about you so I don’t want you to eat that stuff, okay?”

On his friend’s dietary habits: “I want you to drink more milk okay so you can be healthy. You can’t just drink water.”

On Gramma telling him to choose one toy at Wal-Mart: “One, huh? This is like American Idol. There can only be one winner. One can go home with me but one has to stay.”

On transportation: “There goes another white bus but that one’s not for the people in jail. Anyone can ride it.”

On theology: “So when Jesus died for people’s sins, who are these people? Do we know their names? Do we know who they are?”

On Mommy and Daddy’s HUGE age difference: “Mommy, you said the younger people should walk in front and the older people should walk in the back so that we don’t wander or get taken or walk into the street. So that means Daddy should walk ahead of you since you’re older, right? When you were five, Daddy wasn’t five! He was only 4 1/2, right? Do you get more tired than Daddy because you’re older?”

On private parts: “Ellis, stop hitting Mommy in her Giovanna.” (He knows the word “vagina” since babyhood, but after a slip-up, now prefers to call it by the more beautiful girl name.)

“Ellis, you’re growing up fast but this weed is still taller than you.”

5.15.12 – You is beloved.

Posted on May 15, 2015 by ajummama

5.15.15 – Flashback Friday: Four Years (F)ago – Feel the (f)alliteration. Gorgeous date alert: Five, One-Five, One-Five.

I can hardly recall just having One Micah now so this helped jog my memory.

Enjoy your weekends!

ajummama

Tuesday. It was going to be a rainy day all day so my nearly 18 month morsel and I skipped our morning constitutional, which usually consists of walking around our green courtyard, admiring the sky and trees, looking for small creatures, then my begging him to go back inside. This morning, I did remember to make sure I affirmed him with the mantra from “The Help,” along with my own additions: “You is kind. You is smart. You is important. You is worthy. You is wanted. You is a child of God. You is beloved.”

Micah didn’t give a crap about these affirmations that his silly mama was repeating and instead asked for some tv by handing me the remote with wide, hopeful eyes, imploring, “mah? mah? mah?” (his favorite word of the week – “MORE!”). “No, Micah, maybe later but no tv in the morning. Morning is story time!”…

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Kombucha Tea and the Amalfi Coast

Posted on April 20, 2015 by ajummama

One huge perk of being an at-home mama is that I don’t have to take the subway five days a week no mo’.

I am reminded of this blessing each time I end up on the train. The delays have gotten much worse. Commuters look like they are suffering from clinical depression. The shiny, happy ones are just visiting from Austin or Cleveland.

I had a couple appointments in deep Manhattan the other day. Unfortunately, I had brought a novel that turned out to be unreadable so I tried to practice mindfulness during this rare occasion for weekday solitude.

Sitting across from me was an older Black lady with her chin slumped down on her chest. She wore dark sunglasses, a hat, about 20 beaded bracelets on each forearm, multiple layers of clothes, including a thick beige wool coat on this fair, sunny day. On her feet were thick white socks and flip-flops. She looked like she was either in deep slumber or closing her eyes to shut out reality. Her big turquoise purse was taking up coveted sitting space on the crowded morning E train.

I noticed her but I didn’t pay her any mind as I let my thoughts wander off.

Suddenly, I heard her screaming.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me, you beater! I will hit you right back, you beater! I bet if I were a man, you wouldn’t have dared touched me! I am so sick of men always poking and touching me! I will fight back you hear me!?”

A man had tapped her to move her purse so he can sit.

She came undone and her rage came spewing forth like hot molten lava. Commuters either looked away, looked past her, or stared while smirking as she continued to shout at the man.

The man took the seat calmly and let her continue with her loud diatribe:

“Drink some kombucha, you bottom belly!”

“Try some fine arts to exercise your left brain, right brain, you pig!”

When the man got off at the next stop, another commuter offered him his condolences and pat him on his back as he wished him a great day. He was smiling and unfazed. He hadn’t let her get to him because she clearly was dealing with a whole lot of pain that had nothing to do with him.

His tap on her shoulder had simply released all that palpable rage hovering at the surface.

When these type of subway incidents occur, I only get surprised that more don’t occur with all of us jammed together, getting sloshed around as if in a snow globe.

I’ve had my share of them, from a visibly deranged White woman calling my genitalia racial slurs to a gay White man growling at me for being “so annoying.” (I was simply sitting and existing, not eating or pushing or singing or playing any music or even breathing stank breath when I noticed him glaring at me like he wanted to hit me. I had to ask him whassup before his eyes popped out of his head and he explained that I was “so annoying.” Let’s just say…we had words.)

This angry lady’s diatribe reminded me once again of how we all have different triggers from different hurts that we carry with us. And God help the stranger on the train or the colleague at work or acquaintance at your child’s school or close friend or spouse who picks the scabs offa those wounds.

Shortly after this angry lady got off the train, another lady got on. This one was White, trying to be blonde, maybe in her early to mid-50s, carrying a bright white Prada bag. She was not pretty but impeccably groomed, her face freshly treated to a facial and who knows what else. Very well-dressed. Her essence exuded a pampered, enviable existence.

She kept checking her reflection against the dark subway windows as she conversed with her subway companion, a young man, young enough to be her son (but just an acquaintance). I couldn’t help but overhear their entire conversation as they stood right in front of me.

I started feeling annoyed by this privileged aging princess who was saying some really conceited sh*t while standing in front of me.

She kept adjusting her expensive clothes and checking out her unlined face. I got the feeling she wanted others to hear her talking.

“…so I’ll be headed to the Amalfi Coast early June. My friends are already there so all I have to do is show up, you know. How easy is that?” she said as she looked around.

My annoyance began to bubble.

“Fuck you and the Amalfi Coast. Why don’t your privileged ass just stay there and DRINK SOME KOMBUCHA, YOU BOTTOM BELLY!”

That’s when I realized that the only thing separating me from the raging lady earlier was that she said her stuff out loud while I shouted on the inside.

What we shared in common was that we took out our “stuff” onto perfect strangers who happened to push our exposed triggers.

I didn’t know this lady at all but suddenly, my wounds regarding the Haves and Have Nots, my family’s struggles and er, their lack of Amalfi Coast vacations even in the sunset of their lives, were easy to lash out against her bright white Prada purse and unnaturally unlined, pampered face.

Suddenly, I wasn’t myself, not the self that I know. I was eyeing my Tory Birch tote bag and Gucci watch, both purchased during our Double Income No Kids days, as if those trifling labels proved my worth before this wealthy lady. I couldn’t believe myself. GROSS!

My lightweight Costco Calvin Klein coat that every other woman in Queens was sporting this winter and my black jeans, also from Costco, suddenly deemed me Less Than!?

I may have to give this kombucha tea a try though. Amalfi Coast, perhaps another time. Who said the subway wasn’t educational?

Unintentional Hurts Still Hurt

Posted on April 14, 2015 by ajummama

“I thought about it and I want a baby sister. Then one day, when Mommy and Daddy are gone, I can have Ellis as my dad and my sister, Sarah, as my mom. Words have power, right? So now that I said that, I might get a baby sister?”

Micah laid that on Kevin when they stepped outside for some fresh air during a lovely Manhattan wedding this past Saturday. I may have schooled him too much on the power of words. For a time, he and Ellis have said they only want each other as siblings because they love each other the most but Micah has amended it here and there. Micah wants two more siblings named Sarah and Ope. No “H.”

He is four so it makes sense that he wants to be mothered and fathered, even setting up provisions so that he can ensure a lifetime of being parented.

At my age, however, it shocks me when I feel an acute need to still be mothered and fathered, almost like physical hunger at times.

Yesterday was Sunday, Bonus Day TWO of Truly Spring-like Weather. Folks in NYC were NOT taking it for granted. In fact, we were treating it like a holiday weekend, just Halleluyerin’ as we soaked up the much needed rays. It was in the 60s and windy at times but for us on the East Coast, it was everything.

I had already left my meeting at church to meet my family in the parking lot. I had beat them to the car for once.

When I spotted the boys walking down the stairs, I beamed and put out my arms for them to run right into. It’s always such a treat to catch their expressions when they first notice me watching them from afar.

We were whoopin’ and hollerin’ like we hadn’t seen in other in months and bear hugging.

I began to beam even more when I heard that Micah had been able to go to the older kids’ class instead of redshirting himself to stay with Ellis in the younger kids’ class. Micah was smiling so big, like Denzel and Matt Damon, proud of his milestone, as he stepped onto a tiny ledge on the side of the building. Right at that moment, I leaned down towards him to pull him into another bear hug.

His skull connected with the bridge of my nose. We couldn’t have synchronized it better.

Everything appeared in slow motion as I winced and rivers of tears began to flow. I was blown away by the pain. I wanted to curse but the pain had rendered me speechless. I had been beaming just seconds ago but now I wanted to get to the car as soon as possible to bawl my eyes out in private without worrying about running into a sea of familiar faces.

I glanced at Micah. His eyes had teared up, too, from some pain but he seemed to be recovering without a peep. It hadn’t hurt him as much since it was his skull hitting my nose.

As we walked to the car, I noticed Ellis walking right behind a car that was going to back up. I yelled out for him and snapped at Kevin, “Really? I can’t even deal with my pain without having to worry that you have your eyes on the kids properly?”

Once I got in the car, I started crying audibly. Straight blubbering.

I couldn’t believe how much it hurt. I became downright mean to Micah. It even surprised me since it was clearly just a mishap, an unfortunate accident and he is my four year old baby, not some clumsy adult who had clocked me.

In that moment, though the pain was legitimately causing me to shut my eyes tight as I continued to cry, I started crying about other things. Things I had been lamenting but not been able to cry about. Deeply personal things.

Kevin noticed that somewhere post blow to the nose, things had gone south and my scolding Micah was out of character. My kids have unintentionally harmed my body parts many a time and I had never reacted like this. Kevin tried to remind me, “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to crash into your nose like that. You’re taking this too far. Something’s going on.”

I suddenly screamed, “UNINTENTIONAL HURTS STILL FREAKING HURT. AND THIS FREAKING HURTS! WHAT BAD TIMING TOO. WE HAD JUST HAD OURSELVES A PERFECT MORNING AT CHURCH!”

Flashback to a fight we had been having the night before. Kevin had said that he NEVER hurts me intentionally. I had said something similar to what I was screaming now. UNINTENTIONAL HURTS HURT JUST THE SAME.

We had fun plans after church but I asked to be dropped off at home. On my own please.

I later apologized to Micah for overreacting. “Micah, Mommy was in a lot of pain when you jumped right into my nose but you didn’t do it on purpose so it was wrong of Mommy to be so mean to you. I don’t know why I was so mean. I think Mommy must have been sad about some other things and when my nose got hit, it just made all my tears and anger pour out. Can you forgive me? I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you Mommy. But I have a question. Why did you stand right there when I was about to jump?” Good point. The dude had flipped the script on me. I had been livid that he jumped right into my nose when I was clearly in his path, but he logically asked the inverse of that. Why did Mommy step into my jump?

Back to the wanting to be mothered and fathered even at my age. I miss the times when I could call up either of them and just pour out my heart, no censoring. What a gift that was.

I went to yoga tonight and at the end, when we were just lying there in corpse pose with our eyes closed, I felt such a warm presence on my forehead that I peeked to see if the teacher had stopped by my face.

It was a warmth I had never experienced before. Perhaps it was the first time I had truly been able to relax in the last couple weeks but it felt like a parent was placing their warm palm onto my forehead, as if checking for fever.

Ladybug’s Landing

Posted on March 24, 2015 by ajummama

It’s been a couple months since I blogged. First, different things came up so I didn’t have the luxury of writing at night. Then we made it back to LA for our annual trip home. Well, MY home.

It’s been hard adjusting back to NYC life, my home of nearly ten years, after getting a taste of what my life could be like in a sunny, palm tree-lined land where I could see my family weekly instead of annually, and where my kids could grow up with my best friends’ kids. I’m sure I said that exact same thing about a year ago. I just feel so done with everything. The weather, the congestion, the potholes created by the snow, the commute to our car, the repeating myself over and over again as I hear the boys going back and forth between lovefest and fighting every few moments.

Even blogging and Facebook make me say, “Eh, why bother?” Life feels “thinner” or less full here away from the different way of life on the West Coast, away from the folks who’ve known me since I was a kid. Or from birth.

Daily tasks are just plain harder to accomplish here where space is at a premium and you don’t know how freezing it will be on any given day. To walk out the door still requires pre-bundling. Don’t even get me started on the huge disparity in customer service in SoCal vs my ‘hood. Folks be asking how it’s going while they SMILE at me, assuring me to take my time, asking if I need help with anything!

Finally, at the risk of sounding REALLY Californian, people’s auras were downright different. People were happy and light as they hiked through the canyons, not pummeled by constant cold weather and rush rush rush. I’ve been sighing too much. I’m still surprised by adult life even at my mature age. It sure takes a lot of energy to maintain a household, a family, a marriage, not to mention friendships, individual needs, wants, and goals.

Then I go through a cycle of guilt when I hear about a young mama passing away suddenly at the age of 30, or yet another unsuspecting soul being stricken with cancer.

In my recent rut, I wake up with my hands outstretched to the heavens, praying that God will give me strength for the day ahead when I don’t FEEL the motivation I used to have. The spring in my steps. The extra boost of mom stremf. My mojo is lost or at least temporarily misplaced.

It’s funny that in my slump, when the last thing I want to do is take care of other humans, my kids end up encouraging me when I least expect it. Just last week, I was probably sighing again as I refilled their drinks and got up to fetch another library book to keep them from asking for TV. While up, I put away a few toys, threatened to throw away Starscream if I stepped on him again, and peeked at the cable box’s clock to see when I can just sit in silence with no one asking me for one more thing.

Ellis climbed right up onto my chest with his huge round eyes. Like a cat. He peered right into my “I’m So Over This” gaze and pointed out solemnly and loudly, “Mommy, you so lucky.”

“Lucky?”

I didn’t feel lucky in that moment. I felt like the kids’ fat maid who needed to get fired.

“Why is Mommy so lucky?” I itched to know. He got even closer to my face, with his wet tulip mouth and no sense of boundaries. He placed his pudgy hand on my forearm.

“Because a ladybug landed on you, Mommy. At the beach, the ladybug landed on YOU. You lucky, Mommy.” He looked very serious like a little preacher.

I remembered. I remembered how we got to play at the beach on Kevin’s birthday during our trip to LA. It was around 85 degrees that day, the day after NYC had yet another snowstorm. So hot that we even got to go in the water. I was able to wear short shorts. And my beloved Crocs.

A light grey ladybug landed on me while we were eating our gas station samiches. I wanted to take a picture because I treasure magical moments. He flew away before I got to memorialize him. We all oohed and ahhed that the ladybug had landed on Mommy of all people!

That memory had stayed with little E. And he had felt the need to mention it now when I felt so very uninspired. The night before Ellis reminded me of this moment, a couple weeks after it had occurred, I had actually Googled “meaning of grey ladybug” while I was supposed to be using the bathroom. Just sniffing around for some magic or meaning as I struggled with the minutiae of life.

My dumpling son is right. I am lucky. Even when I don’t feel it. It sounds so much better coming from his innocent face instead of well-meaning adults.

And even when I couldn’t yield a Google search result explaining that a light grey ladybug landing on you while at the beach can only mean that you will win the lottery that month.

Saturday Night Live

Posted on January 21, 2015 by ajummama

2:30 am Saturday night. More like Sunday crack of dawn. The banging was getting so intense that Kevin poked his head out to ask the police officer, “Hey there, we have little kids so I was wondering if we need to evacuate.”

He apologized for the noise and assured us we didn’t have to evacuate.

The officer was there with about eight other firemen standing in our hallway. 2:30 am! Two firetrucks and an ambulance standing by outside.

Though I am the queen of rubbernecking, Kevin wouldn’t let me poke my head out lest a flying piece of door or wall get me. I couldn’t make out much from our peephole but I did know that the firemen were using an axe to force our neighbor’s door down.

The door that is inches away from ours. So close that when she and I are both unlocking our doors, we are practically touching.

We were shy about asking what was going on because er, they were busy AXING DOWN A DOOR. However, Kevin did manage to find out that our elderly neighbor had called 9-1-1 because she was sick and needed help. She could not come to the door.

Imagine being so sick that firemen have to bust down your door at 2:30 am. The loud banging, the drama, the walkie-talkies, the expense. The shame.

I was only able to think from the vantage point of a healthy, able-bodied thirty-something. I couldn’t fathom someone NOT being able to at least CRAWL to the door to avoid all that, if they were alert enough to call someone. My privileged, healthy ass just could not wrap my brain around it no matter how hard I tried. I would only understand if I ever found myself in her predicament.

Soon we heard her talking to the paramedics. Whew! She was alive.

Around 4 am we heard more commotion. I chose sleep over inquiring about new developments but Kevin, being the head of our household, got up to talk to the police officer in our hallway.

Our neighbor is a hoarder. When we first moved in, we had no idea but other neighbors told us. With disdain and digust.

The police officer told Kevin, “I don’t know how anyone lives like this.” Kevin agreed as he had to help her out during a storm. Kevin came back that day and said, “Let us never speak of this day again. My eyes have seen things I cannot unsee.”

I keep thinking about her as I stroll past her damaged door with the boys. Even as I type this, various workmen are tending to her home. Imagined her slumped over in her filthy apartment, helpless while listening to firemen break down her door to rescue her.

Does that mean she had NO ONE to call?

[Here, I have to confess that I also thought about how she has a three bedroom apartment that she pays below market for since she’s been here for decades, before it went co-op. Kevin and I both confessed that it had crossed our minds – if the co-op insisted that we buy her place for next to nothing, as long as we clean and fix it up. Even as drooled over the fantasy of THREE MORE BEDROOMS and ALL THAT SPACE, we didn’t know if we would take it due to the conditions. Anyways, I digress.]

I wondered what her life had been like before she started hoarding. Before she got so sick that she had to be rescued by police, firefighters, and paramedics. Was she lying there thinking, “How did I get here? How do I have no one? What happened to me? When did it get THIS bad?”

We have all experienced a Before. Before we got jaded. Before we became so resentful. Before we lost our way. Before we lost hope.

Unlike my neighbor, whose mental and physical health issues were on display this past weekend, many of us may LOOK like we are going about our lives, well-packaged and presentable, functioning in society with our own more tucked away demons. Even those of us with the shiny, happy Facebook profile pictures, have something that keeps us up at night.

Habits we have yet to break after years of trying. Addictions. Hopelessness. Anxiety. Insecurities. Emptiness. Feeling like failures in certain areas of our lives.

And not just the obvious addictions like drug, alcohol, gambling, or sex but other seemingly more innocuous “habits” like those who cannot be left alone, always having to avoid sitting with themselves by going on social media to avoid pain under the surface.

WE ALL HAVE SOME BROKENNESS.

So at first, I gasped at the Saturday night scene. And then I felt extra grateful that I have people to call before I call the paramedics (though just to be sure, I’mma have to email a few local friends and ask if they’d be willing to be my Pre-Paramedics phone call). And then I felt guilty for counting my own blessings at the expense of what our neighbor was going through.

And finally, I started praying that upon her return, she can find hope again.

Brotherly

Posted on January 8, 2015 by ajummama

I’ve always been drawn to unexpected things. And moments.

Unexpected things like miniature or giant versions of common, everyday items, still perfectly proportioned in their exaggerated sizes.

My sterling silver miniature abacus charm with moving parts, as big as my thumbnail. The gigantic bright green deck chair at a garden in New Jersey that can easily fit a family of six in one seat, making us mini ourselves.

Unexpected moments like when I walked in on a mother and daughter bickering at the acupuncturist’s waiting area about two decades ago. What’s so unexpected about that?

The mom was well into her 80s and the daughter in her 60s. Unexpected because I often think that certain moments are reserved for certain life stages and ages. Aren’t you then forced to graduate and evolve, having to behave the way grown or elderly folks OUGHT to behave?

I was fascinated. So much so that I can still conjure up a cloudy visual of the daughter getting visibly upset at her octagenarian mama. It also taught me that people are people, no matter what the age. You don’t stop fighting with your parents just because you became a grandmother yourself.

Recently, at my friends’ gorgeous doljanchi (Korean first birthday bash) for their one year-old daughter, I collected another such moment. Even more than the decadent pink and gold decorations, including a candy bar holding perfectly pink rock candy and gold chocolate coins in exquisite apothecary jars, this moment replayed on my mental movie reel.

My friend was holding his beautiful one-year old daughter, the star of the show. He was catching up with a few friends he hadn’t seen in a while, after moving to another state. While he was holding baby girl and chatting, laughing, his eldest brother suddenly swooped down on him with a bright smile and eyes so lively.

He fired off, “Hey, you’ve GOT to try this!” as he deposited a piece of gold-dusted peanut butter and jelly macaron into his “baby” brother’s mouth. Baby brother is now a 30-somethang doctor. Eldest brother, a pharmacist and dad to three. Baby bro opened his mouth wide, completely trusting his Hyung.

Our family drove home in the hail. In just one Saturday afternoon, NYC had provided snow, rain and hail as dramatic backdrop for the party.

As my firstborn played quietly by my feet and the other two boys napped in each others’ arms in our King bed, I kept replaying the brotherly moment in my head, smiling as if I held a juicy secret.

Why was I still savoring this seemingly ordinary moment?

When Eldest Bro swooped down eagerly to feed Baby Bro that delicious morsel, he was no longer this grown man with a receding hairline and fatherly responsibilities. And Baby Bro was no longer this physician, husband, father.

In that moment, they transported me to when my Micah was nearly three and Ellis nearly one. Ellis had just discovered Goldfish and Cheerios and other crunchy REAL snacks and Big Bro was more than delighted and eager to feed his baby bro. It was a whole new world as Baby had never been able to eat those foods before.

I would catch Baby sitting around in his turquoise Bumbo seat, mouth wide open, gurgling, accepting anything his big bro threw into his mouth. Brother could have thrown Legos into his mouth and he would have gladly accepted.

Upon further savoring of my friend’s brotherly exchange, I recalled another moment between my own brother and me when we were in the second and fifth grades. Our school bus transporting us to our gifted magnet school in an affluent area away from our home in Koreatown, Los Angeles was more than two hours late!

We didn’t know what to do. The adults at the bus stop were conferring. My brother was confused and scared. And hungry. I told him to go ahead and eat his packed lunch. He was still hungry.

So I fed him my own lunch. I watched him eat it while my stomach growled. But I felt so fulfilled as if I were eating the sandwich, too. I thought to myself, “This must be what it feels like to be a Mommy.”

I love these seemingly ordinary but magical moments that transport me back in time. So rich and unexpected.

Definitely experienced another Whoosh!

still feeding baby bird, er, bro at ages four and two

One. Five. One Five.

Posted on January 5, 2015 by ajummama

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

That is my favorite greeting of the year. I like to belt it out through the entire month of January though I wouldn’t mind saying it through the first couple weeks of February. Of course I love Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I can say “Happy Thanksgiving” only for the few days leading up to it because Black Friday (and Cyber Monday) take over and “Merry Christmas” is something I can only say once I know the greetee also celebrates, lest I offend anyone.

During this holiday break, Kevin used his vacation days to spend quality time with us. I ended up hanging out with my family for 14 consecutive, activity-filled days with only about 1.5 days of down time, let alone Me Time. So by the time 1.4.15 arrived, I was actually itching to go to the gym, to hear myself think. I made it out despite the rain and Ellis holding my sneakers for hostage.

There were three TVs side-by-side-by-side before me.

First TV: NY1 coverage of Officer Liu’s funeral in Brooklyn, NY.

Second TV: CNN coverage of more bodies found in the wreckage of AirAsia.

Third TV: ESPN tribute to their very own Stuart Scott who passed today at age 49.

Life seems predictable at times in this here First World – you’re born, you’re a cute morsel, you grow up, get some education, get a job, pay them bills. But these news stories reminded me that life is only predictable if you are fortunate enough.

A newly wed 32 year-old cop eating lunch in his patrol car is shot dead, execution style. 162 people board a plane that crashes into the Java Sea. Beloved pioneer sports anchor dies of stomach cancer at the age of 49.

Even with our stressors, triggers, entanglements, failures, insecurities, repeat failures, addictions, and pain, waking up to a new day is a GIFT.

New mercies every morning.

I went to a luncheon at church today to hear more about our friends’ short term mission trip to the Philippines. I heard about how the long term missionaries in Cebu, Philippines, Rick and Jiji Harner, tutor 200+ kids four nights a week, every week, while homeschooling 15 children during the week, including their own two children. Jiji just gave birth to her third baby girl on 1.2.15 and at the time of her birth, was getting ready to host a team of 12 American volunteers(!).

I was touched and inspired by how they just poured out and gave of themselves to their community, standing in as loving, dependable parental figures to some of these children. As a reflex, I was tempted to compare myself to them and how much they do in one day, but I had to catch myself.

We are all given different gifts and strengths. And limitations.

The Harners’ dynamic and countercultural way of life, as well as the stories of the people taken too soon inspired me.

In 2015, Year One-Five, I want to Thrive because I am Alive. To wake up to another day is a big fat gift that I want to gulp down.

Here’s to the New Year!

(And here’s to writing more).

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. ” – T.S. Eliot

“It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.” ― Vita Sackville-West