On Heightened Alert

Posted on April 22, 2014 by ajummama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for heightened alert at the playground. Be well.

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

(True) Love Handles

Posted on April 10, 2014 by ajummama

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

I owe them,

or they now have something to lord over me,

or that I’ve burdened them.

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

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

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

Charles E. Quest

Posted on March 26, 2014 by ajummama

What’s the opposite of a Bucket List?

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

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

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

I have never had a nosebleed.

I have never seen any of the Star Wars movies.

I have never had a coffee or soda habit.

I have never been to a Chuck E. Cheese.

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

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

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

“We going to Charles E. Quest.”

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

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

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

Wow. Just wow.

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

Teeming with too many children and too many weary parents.

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

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

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

Commotion everywhere.

Kids taller than me were running around. Fast.

More lights and sounds than Times Square.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magic – Check, Reality – Check

Posted on March 19, 2014 by ajummama

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

Again.

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

My scrolling expedition yielded this article by Ruth Graham.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Too Cool For School syndrome.

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

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

Is nothing sacred?

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

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

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

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

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

“NO!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magic – check. Reality – check.

what time is Daddy getting home again?

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

It Is What It Is

Posted on March 13, 2014 by ajummama

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

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

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

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

not being truly HEARD,

or getting terribly misunderstood,

or feeling judged,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe she had trauma as a fetus.”

“Maybe she should get exorcised.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3.12.14 a parent at rest

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

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

Lonestar, Lone Yellow Face, Getting Schooled

Posted on January 31, 2014 by ajummama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to do right by them…

Cause “Baby I’m amazed by you-u-u…”

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

The Hunchback of Polar Vortex: BYODY (Bring Your Own “Dahm-Yo”)

Posted on January 10, 2014 by ajummama

Hi, Micah and Ellis, my beloved favorite children,

I am daring myself to write AND publish this now that you’ve both stopped cracking up in your room and succumbed to a late afternoon nap. I would love for your dad to give this a glance before publishing for my seven readers to see, but by the time that happens, I will be itching to write a different post, your fingernails will need to be clipped again, dinner dished out then put away, and a backlog of pictures and videos of you guys finally uploaded onto our laptop.

There’s always something that needs to be done so the time is NOW.

Ellis recently moved into Hyung’s little room. It’s been heartwarming to see you guys enjoy each other in your shared room, talking in your secret language (Micah imitating Ellis’ babbles).

There is no sweeter sound in this world than your hysterical laughter and brotherly conversation.

Thank you so much for infusing cuteness into our humble abode this extra cold January week.

What a week.

In some ways, the usual. Ellis and Mommy bonding while Brother is off to school most mornings. Skyping with Grandma Lee so that she can openly adore Ellis without noonchee-bahing Micah. Ellis catching a cold this past slushy Sunday, when all four of us carefully teeter-tottered to church like penguins and to a dear friend’s belated third birthday bash in the (literally) freezing rain.

Ellis, you became uncharacteristically clingy, hanging onto me for comfort, making me wonder again, just how affectionate Micah was at this same age. I don’t quite recall Micah hugging INTO me, like a koala bear, though you also wanted this Mommy lots. Ellis has remained clingy even though you seem to be 100% recovered.

It saddens me when I’m not able to recall moments and characteristics. But life is moving so fast and even with my stalker-like, wicked awesome memory, I can’t recall all your little mannerisms from the recent past. All I see is the 15 month old and 3 year old before me.

Other than when I absolutely must fetch something from the kitchen or use the bathroom, I am relishing Ellis the Cling-On’s new habit because I know you will soon be Mr. “*I* do it, *I* do it, By Myself, By Myself.” I adore your loud nose-breathing in your sleep, the way you wrinkle your nose to smile, the way you MUST booty-shake to any beat, even far off in the cluttered living room, while I am talking to your bro.

Tuesday of this very ordinary week was the height of the Polar Vortex. High of 10 degrees but with a Feels Like of 10 below zero. The Feels Like always cracks me up as that is the only piece of info we care about. Lead with that please.

It was a rude cold. Wasabi spicy cold. Sinus-clearing cold. Dangerously cold for any skin to be exposed. Dangerously cold especially for babies and senior citizens. Granted, I’m reporting this without actually having been out that day. Only from having opened the window for a few seconds at a time so we can “ooh and ahh” from our toasty apartment. I normally have to experience whatever is hyped up but this was not worth it, especially with Ellis fighting his cold. No matter how bundled up, we were going to be exposed.

We did visit the freeze by standing in our building’s foyer and opening the door so that we can receive the Polar Bear’s Text. Alls it said was, “Brrrr…! Your mama left California for this!”

I don’t think folks could wrap their minds around a whole ‘nutha level of cold that was being hyped up over the weekend but once it arrived, it was a cold many of us had never experienced. I kept you home, Micah, when I realized just how bad it was upon waking that morning.

The next day, January 8th, Wednesday, was still cold but the day prior had made us appreciate anything even a tad less cold. So we were actually relieved that the temps had creeped UP into the low 20s, while CA friends clowned us with status updates like, “High of 81 but be careful out there, wind chill of 79.”

The weather channel seemed to be doing PR, talking about, “ABUNDANT SUNSHINE. (High of 22).” Reminded me of someone trying to set up a blind date for her girlfriend: “AWESOME PERSONALITY. (He weighs far less than you).”

Picking up Micah Hyung the other day was comical. Forced you to sit down in our cheap Toys R Us umbrella stroller so that the walk home from our parking space wouldn’t turn into our usual stop n go adventure. Not in that cold.

Micah asking me about snacks I had forgotten at home while grabbing you guys’ winter gear. Just so much stuff, including my long sleeping bag of a puffy mom coat. I didn’t have the luxury of throwing it all onto the extremely lightweight stroller but I wasn’t about to lift the heavier stroller in and out of our car in those temps.

My car keys falling onto a lonely patch of snow and Micah repeatedly alerting me to them.

“Mommy, your keys, your keys.”

My hands freezing while trying to keep Micah’s gloves on a few times. “I know Micah. Mommy leaving those keys there because I need to get you bundled up first!”

Throwing on ski pants on top of Baby’s NorthFace fleece pants for added warmth to brave the walk home. Baby’s bundled up self arching your back while I wear you. Didn’t have the patience for your useless gloves that keep coming off. I stretch out your jacket sleeves more and tuck your velvety little hands under my armpits for true mammalian warmth.

But impossible to keep them there.

I straight brought a baby dahm-yo (Korean furry blanket) to throw onto whichever son ended up strolling home, since this light stroller doesn’t have a Bundle Me option.

So I was a sight to behold as I tried on a hunchbacked posture to balance the stroller with a bundled up Micah and a big furry blanket about to fall off each step we took, and baby arching his back to do an upside-down peekaboo while I tried to contain his hands under my pits.

“Micah, you are being so patient and quiet. Sorry, Mommy, forgot to bring your snacks. You must be so hungry.”

Of course, you are never that quiet when you’re with us. The dahm-yo was so furry that you had konked out during the walk, without eating a thing. Mommy transferred you onto my big bed, the bed Daddy gets to sleep in only when you don’t scream awake in the middle of the night, “DADDY! DADDYYY! Where’s my Daddy!”

Despite the cold, I was sweating by the time we got home.

I can already feel 2014 zipping along, though we just rang in the new year. Birthday parties, doctor visits, new babies arriving, learning about the NYC public school system, trying to get healthier and more active despite the cold, keeping in touch with close friends and acquaintances mostly through Facebook, being part of our Forest Hills and church community, reading more books and writing.

Speaking of trying to get healthier. Micah, you were fascinated by Daddy and Mommy measuring our waists with a tape measurer in the bathroom last night, while you were in the bath. You heard Mommy ask for a do-over a handful of times. “WHAT!? Oh, uh-uh! Are you sure the tape isn’t loose somewhere? Keep it taut, man! Subtract a half-inch for human error!”

Today you said, “Micah like Mommy/Daddy! Micah waist size is 29. No, 49,” as you insisted on napping with our tape measurer. I tried to take it away from you but you ran out of your room like I had stripped you of your Winnie Pooh and Small Bear.

Oh, before I forget. I’ve been meaning to tell you (guys)…

I may not be the same newbie mama who would take you on two excursions a day, when it was just you and me Micah, and I may have counted down the minutes ’til your dad walked in this week, like the night I thought I could enjoy some Greek yogurt while you two played with each other, until you both came at me like two little puppies begging. I was balancing the yogurt and three spoons (since Ellis was sick), while I bounced newly-clingy Ellis on my lap, when Micah tried to join the party, too. The cold yogurt fell onto Ellis’ head and Mommy’s Uniqlo Heattech long-sleeve shirt which is working overtime at keeping her warm, but also at accentuating the top of her muffin .

When Mommy retreats into her room more than when you were a baby, sighing, or saying, “I just need to be alone…” as soon as your dad walks in, please understand that it’s a mental health thang, nothing personal against you guys. Sometimes I just need to recover from the comedy of errors hour or hours before your dad joins us, a chance to exhale and center myself amid the whirlwind.

Micah, you keep asking me if I love you always, if I’m always proud of you no matter what. I truly hope you are just asking for the sake of asking, just to hear the reassuring, loving affirmation over and over again, and that you are never actually doubting your belovedness.

You two are the most precious gifts I’ve ever received. You couldn’t possibly be more beloved, other than by our Lord Himself.

Just like you guys change everyday, Mommy goes through her phases too. You have to know that whether I’m the bright-eyed bushy-tailed new Mama of November 2010, not yet able to fathom how parents (GASP!) sometimes snap at their toddlers, or the more worn out Polar Bear Texted Mama of January 2014, my love for you both only grows, like the new dreadlocks I’ve somehow acquired this New Year and the weather updates on my Newsfeed.

frozen water left in our car

snuggles before bundling up the layers

waiting in doc office for Ellis’ 15 month visit, Ellis throwin’ up gang signs everywhere we go, Micah thinking this is his chance to hit up the lollipop buffet

precious Koala memories

Subway Snooze Spectacular

Posted on November 27, 2013 by ajummama

So, I survive the afternoon with the Christmas Spectacular Superfan.

We get on the train to return home…sweet home. It’s past Micah’s naptime and he’s had an extra active day: school in the morning, followed by the subway ride, running through Rock Center and all that energy crying through Radio City Music Hall’s Christmas Spectacular.

I’m relishing my cuddle time with him on the train especially after his getting so upset at the show that I hardly worry about what may happen if he falls asleep on the train. He’s so happy, back to his usual self. We admire a cool dude’s bright gold Nikes. Micah puts his little red Nikes next to his, remarking, “WOW!”

Soon, Micah becomes more subdued, putting his head down on my lap. The motion of the train lulls him into the heavy-lidded phase before slumber hits. “Micah, we’re almost there. Just wait a little longer and then you can sleep at home, sweetheart! C’mon, my Micah, don’t fall asleep please!”

It was useless. He fell into a sound sleep at 4:10 pm, when we had just three more subway stops to go.

I hate to wake him from a nap. For so many reasons. Primarily, I want him to get his rest on and be himself when he wakes up, the Micah who is not going to whine and scream and carry on about being carried. When he wakes up prematurely while we are out, he cannot be consoled.

And like I stated in the last post, I HAD DECIDED TO LEAVE MY STROLLER IN THE CAR. I wanted to take a risk and not bother, remember? Frontin’ like I was free as the howling wind outside, not like the mama of a young boy who should be prepared for any combination of scenarios.

Sound familiar? Just like when I hadn’t wanted to “bother” with peeing before my drive from Long Island with the boys.

We exit the train and I try to wake him up gently. “Micah, Micah? We have to walk home now. We’re almost there. We can go see Daddy and Baby. Mommy can’t carry you. Mommy has big AHH-yah from carrying you in and out of the show. I can’t walk home carrying you because Micah’s my big boy.”

Dude slumps down on the cold subway platform to continue sleeping! Even with the loud subway sounds and low temps (30s outside). I scan the premises and realize that there are no benches on this end of the platform. There is only a blue metal contraption, maybe housing some electrical units that the MTA uses?

I hoist myself onto it, with Micah sound asleep in my arms, sharing the space with a young couple gazing into each others’ eyes. It’s about 4:15 pm. I decide that this world rushes too much these days. I’mma sit on this blue steel thingamajiggie and let Micah complete his nap, at least a catnap for the next 30 minutes. He hadn’t asked to come to no show so I will not rob him of his nap.

Plus, if he got woken up right then and started screaming for me to carry him all the way home, I wouldn’t know what to do. I just could not do that again after that last time that hero named Bruce tried to rescue me.

I mean, it was 30 degrees outside, maybe even colder now that it was dark, and the subway was so very loud like multiple car accidents to my supersonic ears, screeching and clanking in and out of the platform every few minutes on both sides since it was peak hours (commuting hour). But hey, I wanted to let my boy sleep.

So I sat there. I asked the couple to take a picture of us before they can start making out. I was using our jackets as blankets for Micah.

I realized I was really cold. My lady bits and butt were actually numb from the cold. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

People watched me. Some were obvious about staring. Some may have wondered if I was hard up. Where was my sign? That thing I was sitting on was NOT for made for sitting so I stood out to onlookers. Cold and uncomfy to sit on so I must be desperate. It became obvious that I was staying for a while. One man watched me, perplexed, trying to figure out why I was just sitting there in a weird spot with my sleeping child.

“You not taking the E OR F trains?” he asked, shaking his head while I let train after train loudly pass by without us on them. (Writing this, I’m wondering what HE was doing there, missing train after train, watching me!)

I couldn’t call Kevin because there was no reception underground, and my phone had died shortly thereafter. I didn’t seriously think about enlisting his help. Maybe because it was really cold out and I didn’t want him and Ellis to get involved when we’d soon be on our merry way. I was the one choosing to let Micah continue to nap.

Also, I felt like I was caving in to too much damsel in distress syndrome lately. So many scenarios where Kevin comes to my assistance because it’s just too hard or overwhelming while he is so capable, able to handle so much more than me. If I can’t fix something around the house, Micah immediately says, “Maybe Daddy will fix for us, Mommy? Ask Daddy!”

Maybe God was trying to teach me to work on cultivating gratitude once again. My rebellious spirit had been having a hard time being TRULY thankful for our NYC co-op this year. While once so thankful for it, I now only see its flaws, lacking the space and amenities I desperately crave, even encroaching upon my emotional health this postpartum year. And yeah yeah, I knew that others have it exponentially worse all around the world but I didn’t care.

But sitting there with my frozen butt and labia, I sure was missing home. Though small, it was toasty and it kept us safe from the elements. Together. Fine, Lord, I repent. Can Micah wake up now?

Forget 30 minutes later. Micah was sleeping a delicious sound sleep, even making sounds like he was enjoying food, it was so yummy. So deep he was grinding his teeth. I was staring at him and giving him butterfly kisses all over his face. A handsome Latino Yankee fan tried to help me. He may have been the only one to ask if I need help.

“So uh, where’s your person? Do you have uh, your person you should be able to call up for help? How can I help? You want me to carry him for you?”

(I couldn’t take him up on his offer because he was going to miss his train and Micah would wake up if I transported him into someone else’s arms. What would I do then after this man left?)

“Do you need to borrow my phone to call anyone? How far do you live?”

And later, after I told him that Micah should be waking up any minute now and thanks: “Are you from the Philippines? It’s crazy what happened out there.”

Approximately 75 minutes later, I flag down a woman exiting the train and ask her if she can send my husband a message. She let me type it out on her iPhone and assured me she would send it once she got above ground. It was just to let him know that we had arrived at 4:15 but had been on the platform so that Micah would continue sleeping.

So after a grand total of 90 minutes, I start to stir Micah awake. At this rate, he may have been able to do a record three-hour nap and I was really too cold without wearing my jacket I was using as his blanket. I hoped he was well-rested enough to not get upset…which was THE WHOLE POINT OF MY LETTING HIM NAP!

But of course, he got upset because he was still sleepy. “Waaaahhhhhh! Mommmyyyy, Mommmyyyy, carry up, carry up!” Inconsolable. My waiting out his nap was all for naught.

I ended up carrying him up the stairs while a kind older woman insisted on carrying my bags up the stairs for me. I went into the pizzeria right next to the subway stop and asked to borrow their phone. Called Kevin to come out and help me.

Soon, Kevin and Ellis came with the doublestroller to help us. I felt a little better that even with Kevin and the cozy doublestroller awaiting him like a horse and carriage, Micah demanded to be carried all the way home. I strolled Ellis while Kevin carried Micah.

Later, Kevin pointed out that I should have called him er, 90 minutes earlier from the pizza place to avoid that crazy cold waiting period.

Apparently, my brain had frozen too. I could have spared myself this 90 minutes on the ice tundra. If I had accepted that man’s offer to help, I could have made it up the stairs then called from the pizzeria! I had lamely thought that I had to get him ALL the way home – the pizzeria idea only hatched when I realized there was no way I’d make it home. D’oh! I really wasn’t thinking straight that night.

My recent battle against envy, namely house/space/amenities envy, is ongoing and sometimes very acute, but I was extra thankful that particular night for my cozy couch, warm food, and heat in our apartment.

…Even with Kevin shaking his head at me over and over again, laughing, muttering, “I can’t believe you sometimes! The things you put yourself through!”

P.S. The lady’s text message came through about an hour after we were all snug at home. “Hello, this is the lady from the subway. My phone had a malfunction and I was not able to get this message to you until now. Your wife and son are down at the subway platform. Sorry for the delay.”

Christmas Spectacular Superfan

Posted on November 26, 2013 by ajummama

“Listen to your gut!” was warring against “Don’t overthink it. Just live a little!”

I was on a Facecbook thread with a group of local mamas who were going to take Micah’s little buddies to NYC’s iconic Radio City Music Hall show, “Christmas Spectacular.” I hadn’t even thought about it since Micah wasn’t turning three until the end of November.

Gut feeling: He still too young. There will be many more opportunities for him to attend shows when he’s a bit older. Also, not exactly holding weight in the decision-making process but I can’t stomach musicals. They make me wanna yell, “Oh, UH-UH! C’mon now! Singing dialogue?! Just no!”

Live a little: I could arrange to take him alone so that I can have rare one-on-one time with him while Daddy and Ellis bond at home. A special date. It would be one special memory. He would love a musical. The theater would be so cool. And going on the subway is always a big treat for him. And you never know…maybe we won’t even be here next year so we should go while we can.

After going back and forth, I purchased the tickets. None of us mamas could work out our schedules to go together so we were each going separately on one-on-one dates with our firstborns.

I told Micah about it the week prior to attending to get the anticipation going. After all, sometimes anticipation is more exciting than the real thing.

Our day arrived.

“Mommy, we going to Christmas Show on train NOW!?”

“No, not yet. When I pick you up from school today! Mommy will park the car and then Micah and Mommy go on train to see the sho-o-o-w!”

“Oh, THAT’s riggghhhht!” (One of his current favorite sayings)

After collecting him from school, I wonder if I should take the stroller into Manhattan. Hmmm…great for emergencies like if he insists I carry him but such a pain. Direct ride into Rockefeller Center, minimal walking.

Will take a risk and leave the stroller in the car. What could go wrong? (mmhmm…famous last words)

Big Boy Micah and I walk to the subway in the howling wind. While waiting on the platform, Micah and I sing and dance until I say, “Wait, Micah, let’s not get too wild. We have to stand in the middle, far away from the train tracks, OK? Let’s not dance while waiting for the train. I don’t want you to get too excited and go near those yellow lines.”

But then I would forget and we would sing and dance again (in the middle of the platform) until he said, “Mommy, ‘member? Stop singing. No dancing. We waiting for train. No yellow lines. Mommyyyyy – you forgot?”

As always, he enjoyed the ride so much. Pointing out people’s shoes, “I like that one Mommy! We have that one at ho-ome!” Looking all around and telling stories. Hugging me, strumming my side fatty fats with his little hands, and laughing with his hand over his mouth like a cartoon critter.

Once we got off?

He enjoyed himself TOO much at the underground concourse level of Rock Center. He would not hold my hand as he ran around among the bustling lunch crowd. Oh, Lord, help me. He was so small in the crowd but he did not have a care in the world while I feared losing him.

“MICAH! You HAVE to hold my hand!” I was carrying a mess of bags as usual, all our winter gear, sippy cup, and snacks.

He would smirk and leap forward and run away while I chased him down. “MICAH! You have to listen to Mommy!”

He slowed down when he looked like he had seen the pearly gates of heaven. It was a store called GameStop. He pressed his face and hands against the store window, completely mesmerized, “Mommy, I want to go in there. I want to play that one,” about the huge video game display.

“Micah, we have to go to show now, remember? That’s why we took the train? To come see the show. Maybe after the show, I can bring you here?”

We get through a very short line. We look around the gorgeous lobby. He refuses to go near Santa who is awaiting little boys and girls on the floor below. He would like to visit the candy bins instead.

I wasn’t planning to buy him any overpriced candy but hey, it’s a special occasion and he looks really excited so I let him scoop out some gummy candies and end up paying $10.98 for a handful in a cellophane bag. $10.98.

We squeeze ourselves onto an elevator to get to our seats. One lady in the back yells, “Hey, you, the person who just got on. Get off!” I want to shout back at her some choice expletives, including a lecture on entitlement but then I remember I am on a date with my boy, so I play the part of a mature adult and declare, “Sorry, I am with my toddler and we need a few minutes to settle in before the show so we needed to squeeze in.” It wasn’t even as crowded as some NYC elevators get. I think I was too nice (why did I apologize?) to that spoiled lady but I digress.

We get seated. I’m relieved that I can still see everything clearly from my seats even with my eye issues which made me have to wear glasses all month. I look over at his little face sitting in the theater. This was really special to be on a real date with my firstborn. Look at that little face, entranced by this beautiful theater. What a memory.

In fact, hmm…his face looks downright frozen with anticipation.

Theater turns pitch black.

Show starts. Booming intro music. Aww yeah, great acoustics.

Sound of a baby wailing hysterically. Not a baby but maybe a toddler.

MY toddler!

I turn to see Micah horrified and bawling uncontrollably.

“waaahhhhhhhh! MOMMYYYYYY! I want to go home. I want to go home now!”

I scoop him up and run out the theater. I sit down on the floor right outside the theater, rocking him back and forth.

“Micah! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were scared! You’ve been to the circus before and planetarium too with your friend A! Was it too dark? Was it too loud?”

“Mommmyyyyyyy! Too dark! Too loud. I want to go on train and go to my home!” He is still bawling.

Some tourists are getting escorted to their seats and look over at me consoling Micah.

“Micah, it will not be so dark if we stay in there a bit longer! Remember how much you loved the circus with Daddy, Mommy and Ellis? It was dark there too but it was so fun! We came on train to watch this show. Mommy bought candy to eat during the show. Your candy is still in the theater!”

“Daddy? I want Dadddyyyyy!”

One of the ushers is trying to help us out.

“Excuse me, where can I go to get my refund? There is no way he will sit through this. It is too much for him. He was NOT having it as soon as the show started. Too loud, too dark.”

“Oh, there are usually no refunds. Who did you purchase through?”

“Ticketmaster.”

“We wouldn’t even be able to issue you a refund then. You would have to work it out with them.”

NO REFUNDS? Micah, sorry bro, we staying.

“Micah, do you want to try sitting in the way back where there are some lights in the theater? And special chairs? Let’s try that. If you don’t like it, we can run back out again, ok?”

The usher takes us into the nosebleediest corner back seats of the entire theater with some dim lights on the ceiling. “Micah, how’s this? See there are some lights up here?” Few seconds pause.

Booming sounds. Theater gets darker again.

“Mommmyyyyy! I want to go home! Let’s go home. Daddyyyyyy!”

We rush back out of the theater. Micah is still crying. I’m thinking about joining him.

“Micah, Mommy can’t go home right now because when Micah was crying, Mommy left all our stuff on our seats so I have to grab them first, OK?”

Another usher tries to help. “Hey Michael. You wanna stay with me so your Mommy can get her stuff?”

He starts crying more. “Mommyyyy!”

“Micah, if you stay here with Mr. _____, I will go grab our coats and bags, okay?”

The usher held him in his arms like a long lost son while I went back in to retrieve our things.

Micah was starting to calm down. We sat on the floor outside the theater and made a call to Daddy. “Daddy?! I was crying so much!”

Another usher came and explained that the other parts of the show won’t be as dark. “Mommy, I have to pee pee.”

We go into the restroom and Micah is back to himself. “Mommy, here is not loud and dark.” I mutter under my breath, “I’m not about to pay good money to stay in the women’s lounge, boy.”

“Yes, Micah, if we stay in the theater without leaving so much, it won’t be as dark in there, too.”

“Mommy!? Remember when I was crying so much?” Is this guy for real? Yes, I remember! BECAUSE IT HAPPENED 0.8 minutes ago, son!

We make another attempt to go back into the theater with the usher’s guidance. We see multiple Santas dancing (creepy, I have to admit) in the pitch black theater with small spotlights on them and Micah starts crying again so I immediately run out, carrying him, perhaps for the fifth time.

I feel like crying too. From weariness. From beating myself up for not listening to my gut. My glasses fog up. It was such a cold day and he was already a handful to chase even before the show had started. I had NO IDEA he would get scared at the theater since he’s been to puppet shows and other shows in dark theaters!

“Micah, please try to be brave. I know you’re scared. But Mommy is with you, holding you tight. GOD is with you always, too. You don’t have to be scared. It’s all for fun. Remember we wanted to watch the Christmas show together. You don’t have to stay if you are really scared but we can at least try to watch some parts of the show. Mommy’s stuff is in there again so we can’t go home.”

“Mommy, you need to get our stuff? I weel stay with that ahjushee who carried me befo’!”

It went on like that for a few more segments. In and out, in and out. A nice young usher helped us out a lot by telling us which segments may be less scary. He even gave Micah a “Superfan” pin to pin on his sweater. Ohhhh, the irony. Superfan!? I thanked him profusely and took a picture of him and Micah after the show since we were practically family after that ordeal.

Micah the “Superfan” and Mr. Jeremy, our kind usher

Micah was able to enjoy the nativity scene. “Mommy, camel!” and some of the fake snow.

When we were leaving, Micah was back to himself, even stopping to dance and ham it up. I was taking deep breaths but relieved that we caught more than 60% of the show, and that Micah was able to be persuaded to give scary things a chance.

I had forgotten how small and young he still is. Because he’s become so Little Man-like with the things he says these days, I was treating him like I was at a movie with a peer, practically asking him how he’s liking the latest developments on “Scandal.” Just when I treat him like he’s grown, he reminds me again that he is still a young tender who needs his Mommy.

On our elevator ride down, a tour guide asks me how he’s doing. She is guiding a group of tourists and explains to them, “Yes, remember we saw this little guy having a hard time before?” and something about, “All kids are different. Some little ones can handle it.”

Apparently, we had become one of the attractions on the behind-the-scenes Radio City Music Hall tours.

Of course, I feel all defensive and want to explain, “He’s been to the circus and planetarium before and he was fine, I swear. It was a total surprise he got so scared,” but I have some sense.

I’m sure the senior citizens from Nebraska weren’t interested in hearing about his developmental phases.

Before we got on the subway, Micah pauses and says, “Mommy! You said you gon’ take me to video store to play game after the show!”

I lie and say, “Yes, Micah. I tried to but the store was closed. We try again next time, maybe with Daddy?”

On the subway, Micah says, “Mommy, the game store? Sometimes, it’s open, Mommy. I know.”

P.S. The hardest (and coldest) part of that day hadn’t happened yet. Remember how I left that stroller in the car? I hope to continue in another post but it may have surpassed my public urination day in suckiness, though I suppose it could be a toss up.

Christmas Spectacular. Special memories, indeedy.

Just Relax!

Posted on November 14, 2013 by ajummama

I now have to go to physical therapy after that car struck me on Monday, November 4th. It is a whole new world for me. Physical therapists and chiropractors may have two of the most directly rewarding jobs. Healing people with focused, physical touch. Connecting with them as they help restore. Teaching them how to use their bodies. So much better than being chained to a cubicle.

One of my physical therapists told me to lie down and let my neck fall into his hands.

“Relax. Let go.”

“I’m still resisting? Am I holding my neck up on my own?”

“Yes, you’re not letting your neck fall all the way. You’re using your own strength.”

I’ve been wanting to write about the effects of remaining in a state of perpetual UNrest and boom, the perfect metaphor falls into my, er, neck. I haven’t been able to fully exhale for what feels like all of 2013, though I’m sure I’ve stolen moments, even half-days, here and there. But now, there is such a deficit that even when I score me some time thanks to my co-parent, it doesn’t feel like enough. Just a drop in the bucket.

I’m sure there is a cost to not relaxing.

When I was pregnant with my first, I was given a heads up only about the newborn stage: the sleep deprivation, the poop, and the nursing. Countless “your life will never be the same’s,” but very few details from the trenches. Perhaps it didn’t make sense to warn about stages to come because it would be too premature (and too scary) when I hadn’t popped the baby out yet. So subconsciously, I may have thought that after a steep learning curve IN THE BEGINNING, order would be restored once they were out of the new puppy stage.

In some ways, it’s true. I feel like a pro raising my second baby boy into toddlerhood. I feel an out-of-body experience when I watch and hear myself share my experiences with pregnant women who ask me what it’s all like. I’m able to drop a deuce while the nearly-three-year-old and one year old watch “Little Einsteins” in harmony.

But I’m also finding that each stage gives way to a different set of needs. You can’t be on cruise control just because you’re out of the urgent newborn stage.

Preparing pureed baby food is replaced with disciplining and learning what triggers tantrums.

Packing the diaper bag with extra diapers and emergency outfits is replaced with repeatedly reassuring toddler that there is nothing scary about pooping in the potty and begging him to let Mommy/Daddy pick out his outfits without passionate protest.

Changing diapers ’round the clock soon evolves into changing diapers every now and then but replaced with vigilantly watching to make sure little dude doesn’t climb the lamp and daredevil himself off the desk.

Baby gets old enough to sit in a highchair at a restaurant but also gets nimble enough to Houdini off the tablecloth right from under the plates and table settings.

I am so tired. That is why I am so in awe of single parents and families of five or more. Not ALL large families, mind you, but large families who do it well, maintaining a solid marriage and mental/emotional health. Mommies who are able to care for their families while still keeping their own dreams alive.

I had another first after my first experience with physical therapy.

Ellis cried awake next to me in his crib at 6 am. I brought him into our bed and allowed him to nurse while I tried to sleep a little bit more. We are in the process of weaning but due to his getting sick and my craving rest, I allow him to nurse whenever, though it is turning out to be mostly mornings and ungodly hours. No rush to wean at all.

Kevin had already been summoned onto the wooden floor of Micah’s tiny closet-room earlier when he screamed awake, calling for Daddy in the middle of the night (a habit we are too tired to break since he started doing this scream-wake in August).

Thunderous crash. A baby wailing.

Where am I? Who am I? Omigod, I had drifted. Reality check: I’m not only in my 30s but creeping towards the big 4-0 (GASP!) and that baby is MY baby crying!

Ellis had crashed headfirst onto our wooden floor after doing his bed acrobatics. Before this, I had always been able “sleep” with one eye sensing my child, like a ninja, sleeping a light, nasty, unrestful sleep while catching baby by the ankle whenever he tried to be a daredevil.

Today, my baby fell off the bed because I had relaxed into a real slumber for a few minutes, even dreaming that I was meeting my friend’s boyfriend while we were in our 20s (both of us married with a kid or two in real life).

This has NEVER happened before.

Reminds me of how people talk about self-care and how the Earth won’t stop rotating just because you relax and take pause. (What is that actual phrase? Anyone?)

The Earth will continue to go about its business but your baby will come crashing down onto the floor.