Category Archives: musings

Wisdom from “The Bachelor” aka “I Just Know My Wife Is In This Room”

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Happy New Year! 2013. Year of the Sssnake. Hard to follow the dopest year around, Year of the Dragon, but perhaps this is the year, the snake can redeem hisself from the Garden of Eden associations.

Since I may not be able to write a more thought-out post until later, I’ll just get something down to get into the practice of posting more often. I had so many deep thoughts during the holidays but sho’ ’nuff, since I didn’t jot them down, they may be lost for good.

Whether I’m five years old or 36, I have to tattle when I witness bad or unbelievable behavior. It is a compulsion. I was a precocious kid, not a cool one.

When Micah was around five months old, our little family was roaming around Roosevelt Field Mall. A mama of twin infants started chatting with me and said, “Wow, another one on the way already,” pointing to my “bump” (upper stomach fatty fats).

I was not even a little bit pregnant. She was embarrassed so I actually made her feel better by saying, “Yeah, I guess my stomach can give off a pregnant look” but I just had to vent immediately to someone who would be just as indignant as I was at this woman’s comment. I nearly ran into one of my favorite baby stores, Janie and Jack, and vented to an employee there while Kevin strolled off with Micah to change his diaper.

Homegirl said, “Wait, I’m confused. You’re NOT pregnant?”

Double Ouch!

Kevin walked in on my asking her, “Wait, so you thought I was pregnant too!?” He said, “Jihee-yah! I knew it. I knew you were gonna go off and tattle so you can get a satisfactory response from someone out there. That’s what you get for tattling and fishing for compliments.”

I was mortified and wanted to hide myself in the clearance rack, under the basket of miscellaneous items (hats, ties, socks) but my stomach would probably protrude and a customer might congratulate me on the twins I was carrying. But I have to confess…STILL tempted to find someone else to tattle to. Someone who might say, “Clearly, you don’t look pregnant.” But even I have a little bit of shame. Not much but a seed-sized amount of shame.

Today, I wanted to tattle on a woman I’ve interacted with at least 16 times with our toddlers yet she NEVER says hullo or even looks at my boy or his mama like we human, while I’ve tried so hard to continue to be my warm and gushing, kid-loving self.

Sure, this must be my own deeper issue, something about how not greeting or even acknowledging my walking into a room makes me feel invisible or small or unworthy (oh, starting to remember some of my deep thoughts at the end of 2012 now…some fetal position profundity), but I think non-greeting is SUCH a huge pet peeve of mine, I treat it as a form of immorality.

Extremists will be out there picketing abortion clinics with me across the street with a sign painted, “SAY HULLO!”

Kevin came home to my tale of No Greeting at 17th meeting with Nongreeter:

K: “Jihee-yah, do you know what today is?”

Me: “Of course. Season Premiere of The Bachelor.”

K: “Have you not learned a thing from your faithful viewing of all previous seasons?”

Me: “Of course I have. But remind me in your own words.”

K: “The girl who tattles and causes unnecessary drama? It NEVER works out for them. That girl never gets picked!”

Who would’ve thought that this vapid show would be teeming with such rich life lessons? Life lessons that I cannot apply overnight but life lessons, nonetheless, to guide me throughout this new year.

And I will not hoard them. I will share them with you. (“The Bachelor” also scoffs at greed, those who already had a one-on-one date AND secured a rose should NOT hoard quality time.)

Hit Me Baby One More Time?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for letting me process out loud any time I want,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Election Day 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our First Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6.19.12 Open Door Policy

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I wanted to do a Father’s Day post but the weekend has already slipped on by. Plus I have to learn how to upload pictures more easily onto this blog without dreading it. Also, how do I set up a side panel with links to my previous posts as this blog is getting downright cluttered like my home?

I want to do a tell-all report on the chivalry I have or have not experienced as a pregnant woman with toddler in tow. Perhaps chivalry based on race, since that’s easy to categorize and one of my favorite topics, though my husband may Fahrenheit 451 those findings. Those who know me KNOW that I do not expect the world to bow down to me just because the belly is burgeoning once again. I ain’t no princess and despise that word (and all baby girl clothes labeled “princess”). As far as I know, all gals with gongjoo byung (“princess disease” in Korean, where you expect to be pampered and think you are the sh*t) are not nearly as hot as they delusionally think they are.

Anyways, while I do not expect to be treated like royalty just because I am expecting, I do get so disappointed in humankind when I have my hands full but end up opening the doors for both men and women who enjoy sashaying through after I have the door propped up against my one available hip, while shoving the packed stroller, trying not to crash the stroller handle directly into my belly, making sure my sunglasses didn’t slide off my head, with my sweat mustache turning into a full-on beard. (I always knew about my sweatiness but didn’t know that I would start sweating profusely from the undereye/upper cheekbone area, steaming up my sunglasses).

I think you can tell a lot about folks through their Open Door Policy. A handful of years ago, I was getting chummy with a gal in NYC when I started realizing her spoiled sashay habit. I would always end up holding the door open for her, be it elevator or glass door. She would walk through with her arms crossed, continuing our conversation, while I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on what the hell she was gabbing about because I was too busy wondering when I had signed up to be her man. On the other hand, the people I appreciate in my life are the types to naturally hold doors open FOR EACH OTHER – “go ahead”/”no, you go ahead.” Such a trifling issue but it reveals some heart v. lack of heart/entitlement (another fave topic of mine).

Other globally-impacting topics on my mind:
1. comically secretive people who love to ask about MY business without hesitation, while they won’t even reveal what they had for dinner last night.
2. people who don’t bat an eye while grossly (mis)calculating the bill at meals to their advantage and the awkward-feeling cowards who don’t realize what’s happening (me).
3. people who don’t reciprocate in general (not in general, as I’m hardly ever general, but I’ve yapped too much already).

Hope y’all had a beautiful Father’s Day.

Color Me Beautiful

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Raising my boy has been like watching my own National Geographic channel. I am fascinated to witness my previously scrawny six-pound newborn develop real emotions fit for the bonafide little human that he is. No one taught him to collapse on the ground when he is frustrated and not able to articulate why. Today, Micah threw a real tantrum. He woke up from his nap and could not be consoled. I tried to hold him but he would writhe out of my grasp to cry louder. So I tried to give him his space but he ran towards me to please pay him attention and at least attempt to comfort him. Similarly, no one taught him to point and weep when mama holds another baby, or to climb onto mama’s lap so that she is forced to return the baby to his mama. At our church nursery one Sunday, a younger toddler was wailing for his mama so I tried to go over and hold him to calm him down and M put his hand on my back, tenderly but firm, like he was saying, “Pay him no mind, woman. Mind your own business and just focus on me, YOUR baby.”

This past weekend, we were picking up our friends, A and N, to visit another friend’s new home. As soon as Auntie N stepped into the backseat, M freaked out. He could not even glance in her direction and even used my forearm to shield his eyes so that he could not see her in his peripheral vision! I tried to let go of my arm once he drifted off into his nap, but he would burst out crying so I let him hang onto my arm for security. Sure, he’s had SEPARATION anxiety, but NEVER this type of “stranger” anxiety. N noted that perhaps M associates her with the weekend I was sent to LA for my surprise Mother’s Day gift. That weekend, he saw Auntie N two days in a row. She had become the lady substitute for mama and maybe, just maybe, upon seeing her again for the first time since that weekend, he thought mama was going to go away again. True, it sounds farfetched because it is very advanced psychology for an 18-month old but it also makes so much sense. (Later, he was playful and friendly with her as we ALL played together and he saw that I wasn’t going anywhere.)

I’ve always been fascinated by the topic of Nature v. Nurture. M loves Korean food, particularly rice and meeyukgook and gheem. I thought that was just the way he was born but then I realized, he ate that stuff, at least occasionally while he was in utero, so he may have developed a taste for it. But then there are other things like personality. Ever since I was a toddler, I was not shy. I was a daredevil, asking to go high atop a Ferris wheel or on stage at church or at Czech gymnastics to tell stories. My husband, on the other hand, was so shy, he would hide behind his mama and be silent in public (not as painfully shy now though). For now, M is a bit like how his daddy was, though maybe not as extreme. He does not talk much in public and takes a while to warm up, though he babbles loudly at home. He loves being in the presence of people but loves to take it all in before engaging.

Seeing M freak out like he did with N for the first time made me think of how so many things shape us. Babies are amazing because they are blank canvases. They are born with their natural temperaments like easygoing or fiery. Then thrown onto that are painful life events, like neglect, or parents who are constantly fighting or eventually divorce. Or positive circumstances like a nurturing, joyful family, great friends, or a wonderful school you thrive in. Even inevitable milestones like the arrival of a sibling or transitioning to daycare after being home with mama could affect one’s original essence. Imagine if I had never come back that weekend. Would Auntie N always remind him of my absence? Or even women who look like Auntie N? And how would my abandonment have affected this young morsel? Would it have muted his naturally gentle and jubilant spirit? Maybe made him generally more irritable or aggressive? Or would it not have even registered as it happened at such a young age, too early to recall as one of his first memories?

Many years ago, my girlfriends and I were having brunch and somehow got on the topic of those early childhood photos we took in school. I told them that when I see those photos of young kids, even myself, especially the progression from year to year, I almost feel like weeping because these blank canvases do not know what’s ahead – dysfunctional families, heartbreak, insecurities, feeling unsafe in this crazy world. One of my friends pointed out that she loves baby/childhood pictures even when she knows what they will go through by the time they are adults, because she views it more as what they were able to overcome and grow from.

I know what she means but as a mama to this still-pretty-blank canvas, I will try my best to decorate it with vibrant splashes of paint more than marring it with ugly stains.

factoid intolerance

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When friends back home in CA view my many Facebook photos of Micah on his playdates and outings with his adorable little friends, they remark on how different it is from what they are used to. They are talking about how I made these friends “from scratch” – just by virtue of being new mamas living in the same city. I had never even met these women before having a baby. I think the common, more expected course is having long-time girlfriends and having those friendships only deepen by raising your kids together. But as a transplant in NYC from LA, I didn’t have the luxury of raising my kid with the girlfriends I had already known.

After choosing to stay at home with my kid for at least the first year (and now indefinitely?), I actively sought out other mamas as being isolated would lead to very, very bad things, especially for me, an extrovert with an acute need to externally process almost everything. At first, just being around other new mamas was enough. “You’re a new mama, I’m a new mama! You can come over. My cross streets are…” I’d meet mamas at the library, at the park and through mama meet-ups. I never had a problem striking up a conversation with strangers but it was extra easy to start talking to mamas because of our obvious commonality.

But just like it was in law school, at first, everyone is “friends” with everyone. As the weeks progress, you find out who you feel safe with, more yourself with. Coming out of law school, I ended up with many acquaintances but only a few friends. That was fine. Quality, not quantity. Actually, that was preferred. As we get older with our busy lives and responsibilities, who wants to make time for a sea of acquaintances?

I realize that for me, making friends at my age, based almost purely on my life stage, is both a necessity and a challenge. Meeting potential mama friends is the easy part. Progressing to the “next level” of enjoying each other beyond our babies playing together because they’re around the same age is trickier. Much like a dating relationship. First few dates are easy to score – but let’s see where this takes us.

I found out that I have an acute case of factoid intolerance. Perhaps due to there being SO many baby products out there, new mamas tend to talk a LOT about strollers, diapers, toys, sales, deals, sunscreen, food, and more. WITH A LOT OF DETAIL. All of which is so very helpful to know, along with baby’s feeding and sleeping habits, but if the conversation and subsequent dealings, only end up discussing more FACTS, my factoid intolerance kicks in. My lack of pokerface also kicks in and my eyes glaze over. Can we talk about something else? What makes you tick? What’s your story? What do you love and why? What do you get hurt by? What are your pet peeves? Who are your closest friends and why? WHO ARE YOU beyond this helpful fact dispenser?

This is coming from a woman who had to get tricked into starting my baby registry. My husband said that we’d only pop in to our local “Babies R Us” in Astoria, just so we can pick up some good sunscreen for my growing, pregnant body. He nearly promised because he knew that the idea of starting a registry was more than intimidating for me. Once we were in the store, he slowly guided me to the registry gun/scanner while I literally started to breathe fast towards an adult tantrum as I did NOT want to be in the vicinity of THAT many baby products and choices. I can hardly choose a cereal or toothpaste these days because there are too many choices.

The mamas I have been attracted to and have progressed a bit more with are those I have other connections with. Be it sense of humor, spirituality, natural flow to conversation, generous hearts – just folks I ENJOY. This makes sense as other stay-at-homes are like your co-workers at the office. You prefer some but not others.

So for new mamas: Don’t isolate yourself! Like one of my dearest friends said, motherhood can be a wilderness, so seek out some support. Factoid intolerance may hit when trying to make new friends, but you just remind yourself that you don’t have to progress with each mama you meet!

Cinderella Scholl’s

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After church yesterday, K and M dropped me off at DSW Shoe Warehouse. That name is only mildly better than “Dress Barn.” Nevertheless it seemed like the perfect place for me to roam around in a sea of so many different shoes while being able to be alone with my thoughts. Lately, each weekend has been almost purely family time with no time alone. Actually, K graciously lets me succumb to a nap if we’re at home on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, while he takes M to a playground, though the poor guy could use some breaks himself. But I needed some awake Me Time to just BE. As much as I love our precious family time, when it comes to shopping together as a family, it always feels like an episode of 24 (though I’ve never watched, I have seen and heard the countdowns when K used to watch faithfully). We have to rush before M gets restless or wants to be carried or urgently needs to go dance at the store across the way.

I have so many pairs of shoes that I need to retire as I just can’t wear them any more. I have always had sensitive feet but now I seem to have only two go-to shoes because they are easy to slip on for rushing out of the house and the most comfortable for walking to farther playdates and playgrounds. I know they aren’t cute by any means but they are so effortless to wear. So much more inviting than the others. But sometimes, in pictures, I want to hide my shoes. So this time, I set out to be less about utility and a little more about cute because lately, I have become ALL about function and utility. Clean clothes I can grab quickly, shirts just long enough to cover my growing belly, even whichever bra that kinda fits.

When my friend visited me when I was a very new mom, she was surprised by how I had embraced my new life of no make-up, wearing whatever I can find, hair tied up any which way, and zero accessories. She said she remembered how we’d always bonded at work over our love for jewelry, purses, shoes, and Theory yet here I was not missing any of that because of my gurgling baby. Granted, I was never a true fashionista who put together ensembles rather than mere outfits. I do not have the energy for that or the pain tolerance for such shoes. But it’s true. During maybe even the entire first year of M’s life, I didn’t care about Bringing Cute Back but I now realize that it helps. I do believe that the smallest things, while staying at home instead of going into the office, can help me feel more ooomph in my (well-supported) step. Now I try to wear some make-up, or at least curl my eyelashes, though I always feel like I can’t even do that because I am so rushed and disorganized as I sweatily leave the house, hoping I packed enough snacks, wipes, bibs, and drinks for my little man.

So I went shoe-shopping to reclaim some style. I KNOW what good style is. I recognize it. Sample sales during a long work week gave me something to look forward to. Some of my girlfriends from college are always looking very well put together and impeccably accessorized. I went into the store thinking something along the lines of a nude Tahari flat. Maybe some patent leather? Maybe an edgier sporty Puma flat? I just knew it had to have some cushion, no laces, no velcro, no need for my hands to help put them on in any way BUT this time, with some cuteness or edge. I tried to convince myself that the cuter flats were somewhat comfortable, but I just knew they couldn’t carry me around solidly. My head and heart pleaded for cute; my feet answered with Dr. Scholl’s. How could other flats even feign comfort when the pair that ended up wooing me literally hugged my feet when I tried them on? I tried to look around at more stylish options but these Dr. Scholl’s and I were just meant to be. I wore them out of the store (true commitment = no refunds) and they bearhugged my feet as I waited for the train back home to my napping boys.

I see so many stylish mamas in my community. They inspired me to go searching for a bit of style once again, just for myself. But I also gotta be true to my ajummama spirit and embrace the uncute, if the uncute is oh-so-necessary.

So perhaps this is not yet the time for Bringing Cute Back. I still think I will strive for small changes that put some pep in my step, maybe in the form of some lipstick or brushing my hair, but I’ve also evolved into someone who looks at other women’s hideous shoes to think, “Deaaaamn, that looks comfortable!”

Ball don’t lie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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