Do You?

Posted on March 30, 2014 by ajummama

“Hi! Wow, the last time I saw you, you were pregnant with him,” I said, pointing to the baby she was wearing in her carrier.

She looks utterly confused. She has no idea who I am.

Jihee, please, girl, just keep it vague and say you seen her around at the park. AND KEEP IT MOVING.

Oh, I kept it moving. Kept my mouth moving.

“Yeah, we were stuck in a storm together at _________ Park last summer. It was a crazy downpour. One of those torrential downpours, remember? We had to stand under the train tracks together for a good long while since it was coming down so hard. You were just about to give birth. Time flies, huh?”

She looks downright bewildered the more I talked.

Self, stop talking now since she is NOT going to remember that one random day in July.

But I kept thinking if I broke it dee-own for her, it would click! She may recall those moments that were playing so vividly in my head when I saw her at our mutual friends’ kiddie birthday party.

“You had to take out a potette for your little girl right before the storm hit and we had to wait it out together?” I was feeling like Chris Farley in the “Re-re-remember when…?” sketches on SNL.

Now at this point, even *I* knew that I had to leave it be. I could have gone on to say that she and some other mamas were making jokes about how “potette” is a funny word for portable potty, how she was telling us that you can totally use plastic bags from the market instead of buying the expensive refills for those things, and other details that kept gushing forth in the movie reel playing in my head. Images of her being way pregnant.

I’ve always been like this, remembering stuff that other people couldn’t care less about, not just now because I am at home with the kids, swimming in the mundane rather than speeding along on the “fast track,” whatever that means.

She smiled, still a bit uncomfortable, and found her way towards her friends, the people she actually knows.

Naturally, we end up bumping into each other again because her baby was playing near the rest of my family in a different part of the museum. Kevin starts saying, “Aww, how old is the little guy?” about her baby and AGAIN, I hear myself say, “awww, and he wasn’t even born when I ran into them last.”

She looks thrown off AGAIN and mumbles softly, “Yeahh…..I guess.”

AUGH! This was such a painful little interaction. And I had invited it.

On the rainy drive home, I told Kevin, “Yo, I feel like a doofus. I think I just gotta shut the hell up! I get so excited and happy to see familiar faces even when they are TOTAL strangers who only wanna talk to THEIR people. It doesn’t sink in for me that these people are not interested in a ‘remember when’ moment. Why do I embarrass myself? And did you see me hug up on that other mama just cuz I hadn’t seen her in months? She didn’t see that coming but I’m such a hugger! I just have too much jung for people, it gushes out before I can stop it, like an excited puppy!”

Kevin was firm. “No. You don’t have to shut the hell up. You just keep doing you. If they don’t remember you at all, don’t be embarrassed. That’s them and you’re you. If you get excited and want to bring up meeting them, go ahead. Still do you.”

“Really!? I feel so stupid that I bust out hugs or remember stuff in SUCH detail. I just gotta act like I don’t remember and that I’m not as excitable as I really am. I should learn to just not mention it. I just get so dang bang-gah-wuh.” (Happy to see someone.)

“No, I say Keep Doing You.”

We had arrived at home so I took the sleeping second son into our home while Kevin temporarily parked on the street, watching March Madness in peace, on his phone, as Micah snoozed.

Once I got home, I iMessaged him from our bedroom: “Hey, you know my crazy infallible memory? Remembering every detail about being stuck in the storm with that lady I scared off today? I got the wrong woman. She had bounced before the storm hit and I was actually stuck under the subway tracks with another mama, her girlfriend.” (To which he replied: HAHAHAHA)

I do love the message that Kevin had for me, but maybe I need to be more refined as I creep towards my 40s? Not busting out with bearhugs on the subway platform when I run into a mere acquaintance, or saying, “heyyyyy, remember when….?” to a stranger (especially when I got the wrong person!?).

But then again, some of the friendships I’m now blessed with have sprouted from the most random of initial interactions.

Do You? or Do You, But Less Doofus’d, More Refined?

Do I even wanna be more refined, though? photo by Jodee Debes

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

50 Degrees of Separation

Posted on February 27, 2014 by ajummama

I’m not doing well. Burrowing in a deep dark pit, like a small rodent taking a dustbath. Squirming.

On the morning of February 13th, we fled to LA in the midst of Snowstorm Pax. I used to be really into storm names but I can hardly keep up with them now that we’ve had storm-after-storm-after-storm, sometimes within the span of a week. Have to admit that for all the anxiety that Pax caused us prior to flying out, I did like the name.

When I called the Korean cab company the night before for 5 am pick-up to JFK, they said they would not be able to reserve a car for us due to the impending storm. We’d all just have to wait and see as this storm was predicted to be a doozy. I called them back at 4 am and they said they’d send someone.

My heart was beating wildly as we loaded up the freshly awoken, footed-pajammied little ones into the cab. The snow was falling down steadily and our surroundings were already white.

We still did not know if our flight would be cancelled but it seemed highly likely according to the forecasts predicting about a foot of snow, starting 4 am through 9 am. Our flight was scheduled for 6:55 am, smack dab in the middle of Pax, but Kevin had not received a text from the airline regarding any cancellations or delays.

Kevin was somber and reminded me to manage my expectations: The flight could get cancelled after we arrived at the airport. It could get postponed by a few days since many of us would have to book a new flight. To please not get my hopes up until we actually made it off the runway.

Even after a minor delay of about an hour to de-ice the plane, we touched down at LAX on time! I still can’t believe how lucky we were. I arrived to emails from friends assuming we hadn’t made it out.

“Mommy, you dunno if we can fly out? But the plane is right there!”

We were on the only flight that made it out of the storm that morning. If it had been cancelled, we would have lost about three days of our trip before the next available flight.

During the whole flight, I wanted to raise my hands in Halleluyer! We had made it! These morsels didn’t know how much I worried about being able to flee. They just knew that there was a small tv in front of them.

And now, after shaving my legs upon touching down at LAX, to rock glorious short shorts and flip flops in a land that was at least 50 degrees warmer, we are back.

The thing is…while here in NYC, I thought I was holdin’ it down relatively fine. After all, I’m going on nine years this October. What choice do I have but to live life yul-shee-mee (“diligently”)?

The only place I’ve ever experienced being someone’s wife, someone’s attorney, and someone’s mama is here in NYC.

But this winter has definitely been siphoning my mojo from me. I didn’t even know about the robbing of the mojo until faced with the possibility of being stuck here for days longer if our flight were cancelled, then actually experiencing healing and calm just by spending time in my hometown, with the sun literally warming my body and soul. Sun + Family + Friends + Being able to walk out the door without winter gear = Life-giving visit.

Reminds me of that movie, “The Bridges of Madison County,” where Meryl Streep was married to a nice but dull man. She remained devoted to him and was a dutiful wife and mother, holdin’ it down at home as best as she could in the only life she knew, until Clint Eastwood comes into town and shows her what she’s been missing.

LA was my Clint Eastwood.

Nibbling on Cara Cara oranges in the sun,

slurping down oysters at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market,

swinging by the local playground in shorts and flip-flops at 6 pm IN FEBRUARY,

getting photographed in Malibu with the sand between our toes,

subsisting on authentic Mexican food including homemade tortillas, spicy chilaquiles, and too many nacho platters in the name of “vacation,”

talking unabashedly with girlfriends who’ve known me for at least a decade,

watching my sons, especially the playground deprived newbie frolic about on beautifully plump, bare toddler feet, feeding ducks, hiking mountain trails, and riding ponies – ALL THINGS YOU CAN DO IN THE OUTDOORS when it is not a frozen tundra framed with weeks-old snow.

This winter has been the most brutal yet. The lowest temps (first time I heard of “Polar Vortex”) and the most snow. According to our doorman, it has been the worst winter since 1983 or 1984.

I remember the winter of 2010-2011 producing at least seven snowstorms before we fled to LA with our 11 week-old firstborn.

When Cali friends would often comment, “How do you handle living out there with the two little ones?”

The answer was simple.

“Because I have to. Because this is all I know.” You mean, there is an alternate universe where I wouldn’t have to carry my child over a snowbank, while the other smaller child waits patiently in his stroller for his turn to be carried over the same snowbank?

Or where I won’t be slippin’ and slidin’ when the bigger child refuses to cross the street in the middle of a traffic jam?

(Yes. See Clint Eastwood above).

This trip to LA was especially painful due to how tough things have been emotionally and on the homefront. Reminds me of the movie “Sliding Doors” with a drab-lookin’ Gwyneth Paltrow back in the day. This trip was like watching what my life would have been like had I walked through a different door, raising my boys with my tribe, in the sun, dealing with traffic and smog instead.

(I know there is no benefit in regretting or thinking “what if” but that is where I’m at now, a bit of wallowing before I climb out of my pit.)

I realized, through this trip, that our values and must-haves are ever-evolving.

For instance, I now know that I NEEEEEED sun the way I NEEEEEEED exercise. It is healing. It provides energy that I didn’t know I was missing until I noticed how alive folks were in SoCal while many people here seem to just DEALING with life during these harsh winter months.

When we hiked Coldwater Canyon, I wanted to jump into so many of the conversations that women were having with one another as hiking in and of itself lends itself to quality gabbing. And again, the sun energy was so potent. People would shower Micah and Ellis with so much affection and open adoration in a way that was markedly different from NYC. They didn’t hesitate to step to us just because we were strangers.

Everyone’s energy was on and poppin’ because they weren’t spending it clearing snow off the roof of their cars, shoveling their cars out to go food-shopping and considering that a victorious afternoon, or stuck running with active toddlers in the basement hallways to burn off their energy since outdoors is almost never an option these days.

I tried not to overschedule during this visit. I usually try to meet at least one friend per day while I’m there and while that sounds so doable, it’s stressful to arrange. The few girlfriends I did reconnect with made me have another Sliding Doors moment.

Imagine the revolutionary concept of being friends since junior high, high school, or college, then becoming mamas and raising our kids together instead of the way I did it. “You’re a mom, I’m a mom, we live in walking distance, so let’s at least try to be friends.” Don’t get me wrong. The local mama friends that I’ve been blessed to do life with are gifts. They kept me from going at this all alone and will always hold a special place in my heart when I look back on my boys’ early years, especially the raw first year.

Also blessed to have my spiritual communities through church and small groups.

I’m just talking about the organic way of being friends for years first and then naturally navigating through motherhood together.

So we’re back and I’m taking it pretty hard. Prior to the day we flew back home to NYC, I called the airline a few times to brainstorm about how I can stay back for at least another week. But I was jerked back to reality when Micah took a big fall smack onto his nose on parking lot asphalt.

We all boarded the plane as planned. Suddenly, I was on the plane again, being transported to my colder life in NYC and already in Mom-on-Plane mode, like grabbing a sippy cup in the nick of time when Micah just HAD to pee as the plane took off the runway. And humiliating myself by asking Amy Poehler for a picture at THE WORST POSSIBLE TIME.

So while I can do it and I have done it, I no longer want to do life in this way, where good weather days are treated like holidays. I do agree that there is no place like NYC even though I’m tempted to fight with (annoying) NYC enthusiasts who will cut you if you won’t bow down to it being the Be All End All and dare compliment another city. It just ain’t for me at this mature age and life stage.

Being a sensitive soul prone to intense emotions, I neeeeeeeed my sun. I need my tribe. I need my mojo back.

And when I miss the novelty of frigid temps or humid summers, I can always visit.

2.27.14 back to running laps in the basement hallway. even if mama bothered to bundle them back up after naps to go outside for fresh air, too cold to stay out for long.

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!”

New ‘Do, New View

Posted on January 22, 2014 by ajummama

I won “Best Hair” in my high school class of 683 students. My hair was like the little girl’s on “The Incredibles,” one cartoon that I willingly watched. Like a flat sheet of black silk was sewn into my scalp. People often accused me of getting a straight perm on the ‘low when I didn’t even own a blowdryer. I didn’t think I deserved the title because what Asian girl doesn’t have stick straight, slippery seaweed herr. Typical! Bo-ring.

I wanted to win the more meaningful category I was up for, Best Sense of Humor, something I must earn. I think I subconsciously campaigned by being more “on” the week we cast our ballots for Senior Superlatives. I bet many of the candidates were campaigning in some way, trying to sound extra smart or run extra fast that week.

I ended up losing to a white girl named Megan or Meghan and I was a gracious loser, not even thinking about demanding a recount. And it’s not like the loss was the first thing I ever mentioned to the then-stranger, now babies’ daddy, nearly a decade later. (It just happened to come up in the first email, that’s all).

After the ballots were counted, someone said they didn’t know I was funny because I didn’t look it. Megan or Meghan, on the other hand, was loud, super sarcastic, and sported crispy, tight dirty blonde spiral curls. I think it also helped that she was in the Performing Arts Magnet, not in the unfunny Math/Science Magnet.

Come to think of it, my second o.b. was also surprised by how funny I was. Maybe folks really don’t expect it from an Asian gal? Que lastima.

Moving on…

I had heard that your hair starts to fall out after giving birth, at the same time your baby’s does. I braced myself for it and even asked my doctor when it might happen because I became nervous to look down at the drain each time I took a shower. He said, “If it hasn’t happened yet, Jihee, it ain’t happening!” Sure enough, I never shed after both my sons were born. My sons didn’t either. I was extra blessed that THAT was hereditary while my mom’s extremely difficult pregnancies were not.

Around the holidays last month, I got dreadlocks. No, I didn’t go get them done in Brooklyn – they just appeared. Not even dreadlock extensions which would have been cool but at the roots. A few bird’s nests that I couldn’t brush out when I bothered to brush my hair. Then some more at the nape of my neck where I tie my unstylish, purely functional ponytail.

I couldn’t stand it any more and went for a chop.

My hair guy told me that he did the best he could but that even after the long overdue haircut, I have new growth: some major ggohp-sul-muh-ree (“wavy/kinky hair” in Korean) right at the part I was always ponytailing. He prescibed, as predicted, the ubiquitous Magic Straight Perm that ironically, my straight-haired people love to subject themselves to – for straightER hair. No thanks.

My once comically straight hair, something I always took for granted, was working itself into dreadlocks and getting called kinky. The way Koreans treat “kinky,” I thought he was going to stick a “Do Not Resuscitate” sign onto my neck. They gasp when handling Kevin’s atypical Korean ‘fro.

I told my hair guy that it was probably due to aging and also that the birth of my second kid resulted in additional hormonal changes. He shared that his colleague went through hair transformation after hair transformation after the birth of each of her three kids. She was styling another client next to us, looking as lovely as ever with her hairdo of celeb proportions. “She only has a fraction of her hair left, though,” he told me.

The idea of my New Dreads reminded me of when I was talking to Micah’s teacher after school.

“Miss B, you would think that I’d have accepted the fact that of course, my boy at age three can’t be compared to the sweet, gentle, shy, angel baby he was as an infant. But Miss B, when Micah gets so mischievous and doesn’t listen to me, I can’t believe how much my baby boy has changed.”

“Yes, I understand. But you have to look at him with New Eyes. He is growing up.”

New Eyes. I liked that.

In fact, I need to look at lots of things with New Eyes.

My relationship with Facebook. Definitely can be a way to connect with folks but also deserves a big fat demotion in how much time it can suck up, even when I think I’mma just check real quick. My friend Jisun was agreeing with me last week via email: How we were just SO OVER a lot of things we used to be into. She said that with Facebook, her new style is “just random flyovers, dusting the back 40 acres.” Such a perfect way to put it. No need to constantly check because I don’t want to think about something I have to do for the kids or because I just have to read each article on my Newsfeed to escape the mundanity of these holed up winter days, while my kids lose me to that evil little screen I hold in my hands.

My marriage. Of course, it can’t be the marriage of our honeymoon period, Double Income No Kids years, or even when we had just the one son. It’s been tough and it doesn’t help to compare now to how it used to be.

My friendships. Even though I love and cherish my ride-or-die chicks, talking on the phone has become nearly extinct or at least to the level of “endangered” these days and at first, that saddened me – that thumbtyping to your loved ones had become the norm, but frankly, even this chatterbox just wants to exhale and unwind when I have a block of uninterrupted time. Even uninterrupted time will surely get interrupted these days by a certain bedtime resister.

My priorities/dreams/values. I can’t beat myself up for not being the same type of “ambitious” I was when I was in sixth grade, with my yearbook page stating, “Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court” under “future goals.” Or even more recently when I thought I had no choice but to practice law or just be at home. Still trying to figure things out.

My kids. I do grieve the ending of their delectable babyhoods. I can only look at pictures and video clips and try to recall every facial expression and mannerism when they were so new. When they were more like new puppies than humans. When they would peer into my eyes, clenched fist around my finger, as I nursed their warm bodies.

But they’re also going to be delectable in some form at each new stage, except maybe as deep-voiced, facial hair sprouting, hormonal teenagers, oh Lord help me…

But like now…no longer babies but still as juicy as ever, in a different way. Like when the 15 month-old runs full force into my arms for a hug, ever since he learned to run 25 hours ago, but ackin’ like he been born running. And when my three year-old, on his 17th excuse for not going to bed at a decent toddler-like hour, yells, “Yes, I know Mommy, I can’t leave my bed but I have to tell you something. I love you, my Mommy, OK? That’s right.”

My hair. I actually don’t care about my hair despite devoting most of this post to it, but I just wanted to bring it back full circle, to tie up the loose ends. In a dreadlocked-ponytail.

Fish ‘n Chips Reminder

Posted on January 4, 2014 by ajummama

‘Twas the day after Christmas and Kevin was home from work. He was taking a vacation day to hang out with us some more. (I get grossed out by “staycation” and “vacay,” along with other words/phrases from a recent-but-not-quite era of, “Wanna come with?” or hanging out with the “‘rents” instead of “parents.” But more recent than “fabu.”).

The whole family went for a late lunch before visiting more Christmas houses in Dyker Heights, Brooklyn.

I was excited to take a bite of Kevin’s fish ‘n chips. They were extra golden and piping hot, just the way I like ’em.

After the first bite, though, I craved a rough and warm washcloth to wash my tongue out. I knew they were beer-battered but they tasted extra bitter, like the beer had been replaced with nail polish remover during a kitchen prank.

I asked Kevin if he tasted anything foul so he took a second bite to see what I was talking about. He didn’t really give me his verdict but said he’d ask the waitress for a replacement entree since I clearly could not stomach the nail polish remover batter.

It wasn’t about sending back his entree to do ME a favor.

I just could not believe he couldn’t taste the bitterness. When the waitress came over and we kindly explained that something was wrong with the fish ‘n chips, Kevin finally said, “Oh, okay, I think I’m starting to taste it now” after his THIRD bite. For me, the first bite had made me wanna spit it out and lick the wall as a palate cleanser.

This reminded me of the time when two of our college housemates played an April Fool’s prank on me and the other housemate. They offered us some Rice Krispie treats when we got home late from the library. We each took a bite and I screamed in horror as they grinned and started crackin’ up. They had replaced the sugar with salt. We looked over at the other housemate who was still chewing. “ARE YOU NOT TASTING THIS!?” She said something about how it might have tasted a bit off.

People are SO different. Not some new science I’m trying to drop to ring in the New Year, but something I don’t naturally accept especially when I compare myself to others.

Even during law school, I would get so insecure when I would hear my classmates talkin’ about pulling yet another all-nighter during finals. I couldn’t function without at least seven hours of sleep so I never even TRIED to pull one all-nighter. My brain would shut down.

Oh, Jihee of a decade ago, you so funny. If you only knew what was awaiting you in the sleep department in 2014 – a three-year-old in footed dinosaur pj’s poppin’ out his room every few minutes with a new excuse for why he can’t sleep:

“I have to give you my booger, Mommy. I have one in my hand!” or

“Bless you, Mommy! I heard you sneezing so that’s why I say bless you, okay?!” or secretly trying to climb into his new roommate’s crib to force him awake, laughing hysterically together, for the next hour.

Watching Micah and Ellis in their respective toddlerhoods, I see how even two dudes created in the same womb can be so different. Micah is the food inspector, especially when it comes to food temperature. He lets the food graze his little mouth to see if it is the right temp for him to accept. It makes mealtime EXTRA delightful for his parents. Ellis, on the other hand, will tremble violently with his sweaty little fists bunched up while forcing himself to try to chew too-hot food that Mommy didn’t cool down enough. He will become a heroic firefighter or an unstoppable fat guy.

Hot enough for ya, Ellis?

I have to keep reminding myself that people are different, and for some reason, this fish ‘n chips incident screamed it at me. This reminder may help, in addition to Watching the Road and Naming That Feeling to better navigate through 2014. People are different so you can’t compare yourself.

I’ve always needlessly beat myself up by comparing myself to others: why I share so much, being all vulnerable for no reason (this is why I love Brene Brown), why I even have such a compulsion to blog so that anyone can access my personal thoughts, why I have the tendency to be more vulnerable and naked in a world where people tend to keep the messy stuff to themselves or want to appear to have it all figured out. Or at least only share with a few close friends and not on Facebook/blog.

Are others just more mentally strong, not feeling such a need to share and reveal themselves? Why do I have to vent and tattle when I get really hurt whereas some folks seem to hold it in just fine? In turn, I’ve also judged others for not sharing as much because it seemed unfair, and I would dare myself to stop being so open…to go against my very nature.

Sure, if I can learn from others because they have better ways of doing things, then by all means, I should adopt new habits and improve myself, but if it’s my general constitution, why not learn to just embrace it and stop battling myself so much?

I also realized that one of the MANY reasons I have trouble saying, “I LOVE to write,” or that I want to write more than anything else is that I kept imagining the natural response to be, “Yeah, who doesn’t?,” like everyone in LA working on a screenplay or every other Mommy becoming a blogger. I would try to demote it to saying, “I love telling stories” or the wordy, roundabout version of, “I really like to talk, like connect with others in person, or uh, through writing.”

But seeing that I’d rather write than exhale and eat or watch TV when the kids are asleep, I want to embrace me for how God uniquely created me.

With highly sensitive taste buds, vulnerability for days, and a love for writing.

We enjoy all kinds of food, right Daddy? Bring on the hot, bring on the bitter.

Yes…

more please…

Happy New Year! “You are imperfect & you are wired for struggle; but you are worthy of love & belonging.”

Posted on January 3, 2014 by ajummama

Happy New Year! Call me traditional and predictable but I think that, and “Merry Christmas,” may be my favorite holiday greetings. Both greetings declare new beginnings: one through the blank slate of a new calendar page, the other through the birth of a Savior.

That date 1.1 is so clean and beautiful. We also have a looker comin’ up, date-wise, 1.4.14, the date of my dear friend’s son’s dol and a possible delivery date for another dear friend’s firstborn. My date fetish is alive and kicking in 2014.

I first heard about Brene Brown after her TED talk on vulnerability went viral. (Sorry Ms. Brown, I don’t know how to get that accent over the final “e” in your name). I couldn’t believe millions of people were fascinated by such a touchy-feely topic that I was sure was interesting only to me and maybe seven other females, max. Her online bio states that she has spent the past decade studying vulnerability, courage, worthiness, and shame. I can’t believe she makes a living studying the stuff I’ve been fixated on for most of my life. I have a long list of books I need to read in 2014, and hers are at the top.

inspirational new iPhone case i treated myself to (60% off, of course)

Thank you to The Pioneer Woman for the 25 Best Brene Brown quotes for us to mull over this year, especially those of you in the Northeast like me, as Winterstorm Hercules graces us with 6 to 12 inches of snow overnight:

1. We need to change what we say and what we allow to be said in front of us.
2. There are infinite numbers of do overs for your teen girls.
3. The most powerful teaching moments are the ones where you screw up.
4. Do you light up when your kids are coming in the room or do you become the instant critic?
5. If we own the story then we can write the ending.
6. Every time you watch the Jersey Shore, a book commits suicide.
7. You need at least one friend who will help you move a body. No judgment. There in a second. No explanation.
8. Midlife: when the Universe grabs your shoulders and tells you “I’m not f-ing around, use the gifts you were given.”
9. We have to be women we want our daughters to be.
10. Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.
11. It’s no longer a question of can I do it. It’s a question of: Do I want to do it?
12. There’s nothing more daring than showing up, putting ourselves out there and letting ourselves be seen.
13. In our moments of most intense joy, we realize how vulnerable we are.
14. You either walk inside your story and own it or you stand outside your story & hustle for your worthiness.
15. What would you be glad that you did…. EVEN if you failed?
16. We are sick and tired of being sick and tired.. Definition of courage: Tell your story with all your heart.
17. We cannot give our children what we don’t have.
18. You are imperfect & you are wired for struggle; but you are worthy of love & belonging.
19. Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.
20. Talk about your failures without apologizing.
21. It’s not about “what can I accomplish?” but “what do I want to accomplish?” Paradigm shift.
22. Think about what’s pleasurable, not just what’s possible.
23. Those who have a strong sense of love and belonging have the courage to be imperfect.
24. You can’t dress rehearse the bad moments.
25. Want to be happy? Stop trying to be perfect.

This compilation of quotes were from Kristen Chase’s May 2012 post on The Pioneer Woman blog, so I’m sure there are more recent gems I’ve yet to discover.

God bless you and keep you in 2014!

Watch the Road, Warren G(hee)!: Combating Envy and Its Cousins

Posted on December 27, 2013 by ajummama

I didn’t think I was going to sweat a year-end post because I just don’t have the time or mental capacity to do it in the next few days. Reflect? What’s that? I used to do a lot of that but reflecting and processing seem like a real luxury these days.

I don’t know how I ended up posting a few casual pics of my family on Facebook for Christmas. They weren’t LIES per se as those were moments from my family’s holidays, but emotionally speaking, uh, yeah, they were lies.

I wanted to be part of Social Media’s Christmas, y’all. Even as a believer who believes that Jesus is truly the Reason for the Season, I wanted to throw up a few cute pics and be part of that other merriment that YOU PEOPLE seem to be partaking in. Sure, we also partook but oh, there was some pain, some deep, eviscerating pain.

I didn’t want to write about the pain because I’m still in the thick of it, and maybe I’ve been in the thick of it most of 2013.

So after throwing up some pics and scrolling through my Newsfeed instead of processing what is going on inside me these days, I saw an irate status update from a new acquaintance, someone I would like to go sit down for tea with. It caught my eye in the midst of many junk posts (mostly dominated by Huffington Post articles). It was one of the rarer raw updates I’ve seen, especially during this season of Merry-Merry-Happy-Happy-Shiny-Ornaments-Look-at-My-Family.

She was venting about her relative who was comparing her to her cousins and using each relative as a standard for who she should become.

What a way to build up someone at a Christmas gathering.

And boom, after I wrote to her, I had to grab my laptop and start writing this.

Why do folks feel free to size up someone so easily based on all the drivel on paper? To compare someone to someone else who is making a fat salary or has a spouse and a few kids? So what? You don’t know the full arc of someone’s life. How dare you make someone feel Less Than? Have you ever truly wanted to become someone’s friend based on things On Paper?

If I’m trying to reach anyone in that paragraph, I’m actually yelling at myself. I had to face a lot of demons in 2013. Still trying to exorcise them.

In many ways, it was a disgusting year for me. I dunno how to describe it because I’m still going through it but here’s an attempt: I think my soul became septic from comparing, or envy or something akin to it. I’ve been hard on myself ever since I was a little girl, maybe even a toddler, but it got worse this year.

First, I noticed I started to rebel against gratitude here and there. It was too in my face. Too preachy. So trendy. Too easy. Too Live Your Best Life.

“Count your blessings!” Yeah, I already do, thank you, but May I Please Just Feel? Something other than constant, unwavering gratitude?

Of course I can be grateful…until I couldn’t. And when I took pause on practicing gratitude actively and regularly, I began to choke.

When I was stressing about my Ellis’ Doljanchi (Korean First Birthday Feast), one of my most supportive friends tried to get me to see the big picture as I worried about details that only a mama can tend to. She said something about how I shouldn’t forget that my birthday boy is so healthy and blessed, not sick like so many other kids, and I have this privilege of planning his first birthday, not some somber event. Trying to get me to see the forest, not the trees and leaves that needed raking.

Of course I knew in my head that this was just some minor event planning for such a celebratory occasion but I tend to get overwhelmed because I can’t slow down my mind and I snowball with a dozen other lists I have to check off while wrangling the kids.

I confessed, I was Warren Motherf*cking G(hee) in that moment because I seen plenty of peers just as blessed as me with their own healthy kids…plus amenities…LOTS of amenities.

I want it all; money, healthy kee-ids
Diamond rings, big houses and parking spaces
Shit, every damn thing
I want it all; houses, expenses
My own cleaning lady, a sitter, hmm, and a couple o’ Benz’s
I want it all; brand new socks and drawls
And I’m ballin everytime I stop and talk to y’all
I want it all, all, all, all
I want it all, all, all, all, all

So this year was ugly for me. This whole comparing business – something I’ve always struggled with, but 2013 brought on a bad flare-up. Whether it was in real life or on my Facebook Newsfeed, I started feeling sorry for myself and becoming really bitter that I didn’t have what others took for granted. Not just material things but yes, some material things, too. Major house envy. Major date night envy. Craving beauty and luxury. Wanting a long break from the day-to-day drudgery of raising young ‘uns.

And envy makes you downright ugly. Ain’t no one lookin’ beautiful when eyerolling. A lotta, “I bet she wouldn’t even know what to do if she had to watch her kids on her own all the time,” or, “MUST BE NICE! Free date night every freaking week! Y’all must have a way better marriage than us sad sacks.” Isolating myself because I was judging like a fiend and didn’t feel safe sharing my thoughts even with my closest friends. Only allowing those who have more to deal with than me to speak on being tired or overwhelmed. No one wants to be known as a Debbie Downer.

And I keep feeling like I have to couch everything with, “I KNOW I AM BLESSED with my little family of four, aight!?” I want permission to feel. Without explaining myself.

Back to my acquaintance on Facebook. What is up with this tendency to compare? It was so hurtful to me when my parents did it but I’m already doing it to my kids. “Why don’t you eat well like your brother? You want people to think Ellis is the big brother because he eats so well and will grow so big?” “You don’t see the other kids in the shopping cart trying to jump around!?”

I have someone in my life, by way of marriage, who is especially hurtful to me. She likes to tell me innocent stories of women who get paid, women who are not stay-at-home moms and burdens to their husbands, of relatives who get paid, of relatives who share what they get paid with her. She judges people according to zip codes and salaries and I am always feeling Less Than for my choices.

And it makes me livid.

Like Teresa Giudice Livid where I have to take deep, cleansing breaths.

When my Micah started scootin’ around on his little scooter, he would always look back at me, to see if I’m watching. I would shout, “Watch the road, Micah! Watch the road or else you will fall!”

I have to watch the road in 2014.

Easier said than done. But I have to watch MY road and not look at others’ seemingly better paved roads. And I’m not going to pressure myself to not notice others’ lives at all because I am part of society and I live amongst y’all but I don’t want to allow something evil to take root while I’m gazing at others’ roads.

Kevin also challenged me with a nugget. When this relative struck recently over the holidays and I was reeling from anger, he asked me what I was feeling. He wants me to practice Naming My Feelings. I found out recently that for such a self-aware and emotional person, I don’t know how I actually FEEL beyond the surface emotion of Anger.

I kept saying that I was so hurt and so angry. But why? How does someone else have such influence over my feelings of worth? Hmmm….

So as we start off anew in 2014, I would like to Watch The Road more and better Name That Feeling. And read some more Bible and meaty, smart books about my worth not being dictated by others.

And lay off that Facebook Newsfeed. (But ummmm, feel free to hollaaa if you gots comments on this post, ‘nah mean?)

Christmas Culture Shock: Learning How to Be Merry

Posted on December 6, 2013 by ajummama

It’s not like I set out to feel sorry for myself during the holidays.

It actually didn’t make sense to me, my holiday blues, especially considering that I now have my own little family. Clean slate. Opportunities to create our own traditions.

Perhaps it’s the extra festive holiday decorations here in NYC and the cold winter air as I embark upon my fourth Christmas with a family of my very own that triggers some childhood longings.

Growing up in Los Angeles, the holidays didn’t feel as dramatic. Maybe because we didn’t have a winter and because my parents had to work extra long hours at the store on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

I never doubted their love for me just because they had to work hard and couldn’t be an afterschool TV special. Showering you with “I love you’s” isn’t the only way to express love for your child.

One of the stores they owned while I was a little girl was a Chinese takeout joint called Chop Suey House near Compton, CA (though we 100% Korean). My mom cooked her fried rice and egg foo young on a huge black wok, in a bare bones kitchen with no air conditioning. It was truly hell, that oppressive heat she had to endure for up to 12 hours a day. She sweat so much that she wasted away to 90-something pounds. She interacted with her customers through a small cut-out window big enough to pass cash and food through.

My dad worked the store with her, too, but the most prominent memory is of my mom wearing a red bandana over her hairnet, to soak up her sweat, donning her ubiquitous, grease-stained apron. Some of our customers called my dad “Bruce Lee.” There was a funeral parlor across the street and customers would come order Combination #2 after burying their loved ones, all too often victims of shootings, sometimes young children.

“I’m not doing too good, Bruce Lee, man. I just had to bury my baby.”

This was our reality.

Other than for our presence in the neighborhood, it was 100% Black or it sure was in my memories. My brother and I killed red ants with the neighborhood kids and they taught us about Frito Lays with chili and cheese. Many of their loved ones were killed or incarcerated. We, ironically, were like a TV family to them because we got to spend so much time with our mom and dad after school.

The holidays were a time when we were supposed to be extra merry but for me, it just felt like a time where we didn’t measure up especially when I started to get bussed into a gifted magnet school where many of my classmates were well off, maybe even affluent, with parents working in Hollywood or they themselves taking a stab at becoming child actors.

‘Twas the season to make my parents feel bad. They had to work longer hours around the holidays, whether it was Chop Suey House or the small gift shops they later owned in predominantly Latino spots around Los Angeles.

I remember my mom looking at me apologetically and saying, “Jihee-yah. I’m sorry we didn’t get to give you real presents this year.”

And I didn’t like my mama having to feel sorry. I knew she loved me. Punk ass holidays makin’ my parents feel bad when they had no choice but to work like dogs during this season.

They still managed to put up our small fake tree and tried to make it somewhat merry.

The holidays made me feel so alien. Were other families really gathering around such beautiful scenes I saw only on TV? Did other families not have relatives and friends to gather with, other than their little nuclear family? (We did have second cousins but we were the Other Family among a tight knit bunch).

Big dinner parties, cousins running around, shopping for presents, going to pick out a Christmas tree. Apple cider, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, eggnog? Almost each family scene on the hit series “Parenthood” (don’t get me started on their huge wreath I had to hit “pause” on my DVR for). Really? I wished I could be a fly on the wall in other families’ living rooms to see what went down. Or maybe what I saw would make me feel even worse.

We would try our best to have a Thanksgiving meal together or make Christmas special in our own way, but we seemed to be missing the true spirit of merriment and joy. Different dynamics at play within our family, namely my dad’s own disappointments with his immigrant life and related frustrations. We were winging it, wishing my dad could be happier, and most holiday traditions, like the turkey and the presents, felt like they were something we “should” do because Americans / happy families did it, not necessarily something we truly looked forward to.

I almost felt relief when we turned the page on our calendars that the Korean bank or market handed out each year, and it would be an ordinary day in January, not a holiday where you SHOULD be extra merry.

(I am grateful for the traditions we did keep up, like going to a movie the weekend after Thanksgiving or attending New Year’s Eve candlelight services at church).

So it’s not surprising that the last couple Christmases, I have had to fight a melancholy that washes over me, trying not to succumb to the dark beckoning to go into fetal position in the bedroom I share with my second son. Wanting my family to be truly joyful. To feel the spirit of the season.

That same sense of not knowing how to celebrate and Be Merry. Feeling lonely again. Feeling like an outsider peering into the windows of others’ living rooms when I hear about friends whose parents went crazy for the holidays, even having Christmas trees in every room. Or hearing about decorating the house as soon as the Thanksgiving meal was devoured.

Fancy tablecloths, centerpieces, table runners, holiday cookies, trading wish lists with relatives, and tree skirts.

We are now trying the best that we can. Telling the kids about the birth of Jesus. About Hope. And gratitude. About how much we love them and feel honored to spend the holidays with them.

Customized stockings for each member of our family. A live Christmas tree (turns out I really like the Frasier fir variety we picked up this year). Going to meet Santa. Letting the kids pick out one ornament each year. Driving out to neighborhoods that go all out. Maybe starting a new tradition like new pajamas gifted on Christmas Eve.

My parents did what they can and when in survival mode, celebrating doesn’t quite make it on the priority list.

As for me and my new family, I want celebrating and merriment to be at the TOP on our priority list. It doesn’t come naturally to me because I missed it growing up, but I realize now that I yearned for it SO much as a very emotional little girl and even now as an emotional and wistful adult.

“My mom made the holidays magical for us.” I want that to be part of my legacy for our family.

P.S. Something as simple as the smell of this Frasier fir and someone who covers me with a blanket of love like my babies’ daddy has already healed some of my holiday wounds.

Christmas Eve 2012, Macy’s, NYC

Christmas 2012 – I advocate for the installment of Christmas shellfish as a new tradition.

December 2012 – EZ just over 2 months old in his Christmas pj’s handed down from his not-so-big Big Bro

Our Christmas card in 2012. A tradition I will allow us to take pause in here and there, if it becomes just one more thing we SHOULD do.