11.12.13

Posted on November 12, 2013 by ajummama

Memorializing life brings me some strange comfort. Ever since I was a little girl, I had a compulsion to write down even the most mundane details of life so that there was proof that it happened if I ever needed to look back.

I didn’t want to lose moments. I sensed how fleeting everything was. I was and am super sentimental. Pictures of my kids mean everything to me. I can hardly throw away y’alls’ Christmas cards if there are pictures of your families on them. Last year, I told Kevin that I threw them out but he found them in the bottom of my sock/underwear drawer.

I admit I am lazy about cooking and cleaning but when it comes to taking pictures or staying connected with friends (though it is getting harder), I am diligent.

In elementary school, I would write down what percentage of my day was Happy and what percentage was Sad. Sometimes, I would start new journals with a physical description of one Jihee Lee lest I ever suffered from full-blown amnesia and had no idea who I was.

As an adult, I don’t get to indulge as much, but I still try to do brief “time capsules” like “Hurricane Irene Hardly Strikes,” “33 Miners Rescued while I was 33 weeks pregnant,” “March Madness Begins,” or even about friends’ milestones like “J’s first car” or “Dr. J’s Match Day!” In the era of Facebook with quickie records via status updates, I hardly old-skool journal any more but I miss it.

Sometimes, when life got too frantic or swallowed me up, I would fret that I didn’t get to record more and the husband would reassure me, “If there’s anything you need to beat yourself up over, it’s NOT that you didn’t do more memorializing. Uh, trust me.” (Those double negatives are confusing to read while Micah is getting comforted with an extra episode of Little Einsteins and baby bro is entertaining himself in his crib after waking up moments ago. I’m gonna have to go fetch him right quick.)

Today is 11.12.13. That is too fwine of a date to go without at least a mini-memorial. I haven’t been able to write REAL posts lately but here is a brief time capsule of this special date:

First time driving since that car/driver struck me two Mondays ago.

First snow of the year (I think?). Micah and I took turns catching the falling snow on our walk over to our parking spot.

“Mommy, the snow won’t let me catch it in my hands!”

“Because it’s falling on your nose, Micah!”

“Mommy, it’s on your eyes now!” He had so much fun he didn’t want to get into the car.

First time getting That Call from school. Had to go pick up a suddenly sick Micah after we had been fussing over sicky baby bro this past weekend.

Second son walking so wobblingly (?) from couch to the safe haven of my bressessess, exactly like his ever-cautious brother at this age. They are so opposite but so similar in this way of not yet walking at 13 months because they not tryna faceplant. Memories of Micah trying out his first wobbles, walking from Daddy to Uncle AO while some football game was on in the background.

Getting to discuss love and forgiveness and being countercultural with some women.

Tonight will be snuggling with my Sick and Less Sick little boys while their dad is at the first of his office holiday parties. They will be coughing directly into my nostrils and open mouth and wiping Beethoven-like slobber all over my already crusty shirt while I chase them with Kleenex boxes, but I’m ready for it again. Daddy desperately deserves a break after taking extra good care of all of us. Some symptoms of depression reared their ugly heads after that driver didn’t see me. I don’t even like to call it a car accident as two cars were not involved. Just one car and my body.

11.12.13. Consider yourself memorialized.

Just “Cute” Me!

Posted on November 1, 2013 by ajummama

Dear Micah,
Thanks to you, I’ve been gifted with a memorably cute week, with some trick-or-treating as the grand finale. When Ellis joined our family, Grandma Lee called it while looking at the Kim boys: “Alvin Simon Theodore!” so that’s what y’all went as this Halloween.

Halloween 2013

Yesterday, the night before Halloween, was my first Parents’ Night. There have been so many moments, following your birth, where I thought, “I have NOW arrived. I am REALLY a mom.” One such moment was when we visited a baby music/dance class at Dragonfly Dulou in Los Feliz, CA on your first trip back to LA, to escape the many snowstorms of NYC. You were ridiculously young to be in the class, even for overeager modern parenting or Korean parenting (achievement-obsessed) standards. Grandma Lee came with me and she cracked up, commenting, “I dunno how much baby Micah enjoyed this class since he’s still a fetus but his Mama was delirious with excitement throughout the whole thing. I was just watching your face.” I nearly teared up as we danced around, making silly sounds and trying out musical toys, looking good and crazy. I AM IN A BABY MUSIC CLASS WITH MY SON! I AM A MAMA. I AM FOREVER CHANGED.

I felt like this again last night, attending PARENTS’ NIGHT as a newbie. Daddy stayed back with you and your brother, while I was gifted with the chance to enjoy a nice walk to your school, in perfect fall weather. I thought, “This is a trip. I am attending my son’s PARENTS’ NIGHT with other PARENTS. I am REALLY a mama now, maybe a year away from wearing jewelry he will make with flour and bake in the oven, under the careful supervision of his teachers.”

Naturally, I sat in the front row. Just so you know, all the cool kids in school sit in the front row, so as not to miss anything the teachers have to say, or get distracted from watching the people who sit in front of you. Reminds me of Grandpa Lee getting pissed when someone too tall sat in front of him at your uncle’s 6th grade graduation. We laughed because Mr. Too Tall happened to be Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, his classmate’s very famous daddy. But I digress.

I listened to your teachers explain early childhood development theory, how even during something as simple as snacktime, you are learning so much. I was touched by how much your teachers genuinely desire for you and your little classmates to feel valued as a member of their school community. I soaked up every word, and nearly teared up hearing about the details of your mornings, including how you and your classmates are learning to develop conclusions on your own: “That red paint and yellow paint that Miss B poured separately made the new orange paint!” Miss B also informed us that soon we are going to take a “field trip” around the neighborhood, on a Shape Walk, a trip that will make you guys look for shapes everywhere you go. Mommy and Ellis will go on that little trip with you, if we don’t cramp your style too much. They ended with a slideshow presentation and when I saw you up on the screen, larger than life, I just felt so lucky to be your mama, sitting in that front middle seat in that auditorium.

yup, yo mama took a picture of your picture, from the front row. no shame.

I have to admit that for a few months, I found myself stuck in a rut of “Get It Over With” parenting. I wanted to get all the tough stuff over with just so I can exhale and rest and tune out, fast forward to the end of the day when I can just have some peace and quiet. Mealtime battles, discipline issues, answering your many questions from the kitchen while nervously running back and forth from the living room to make sure you are not closing Ellis’ eyelids shut, talking about, “You can’t watch TV, baby! It’s mine!”, repeating myself and still not getting listened to. I confess that I just wanted to phone it in. And I sighed. A LOT.

What helped me slowly START getting out of the rut was you. You made me marvel again the way I used to during your earlier years, before I let the wear and tear of daily demands of two toddlers get at me. When you were an infant, or even a less verbal, more baby-like toddler, everything you did was amazing and I had boundless energy because of this marveling and wonder. You helped me remember to marvel again as you’ve been growing up so swiftly these days, sometimes in the course of one day.

Your humor is coming along quite nicely. How did my no-necked, soft little baby with fine wisps of hair, develop such a sense of humor. You think you George W. Bush, giving everyone a nickname? I ask you who you like to play with at school and you get that mischievous smile on your face before you answer, “I play with Carry Up and Phone.” Turns out you like to play with a little girl named Carrie (maybe because you are drawn to her name, as you love to beg Mommy to “Carry Up” especially when she is wearing your little brother and steering the heavy stroller) and a sweet guy named Cameron (“Mommy, I call him Camera, like CameraPhone. I call him Phone now.”)

You love to dance HARD when we play some of your favorite songs. A couple days ago you would mimic Robin Thicke singing “hey hey hey..” in “Blurred Lines,” squealing, “This is my Daddy’s song!” You sing songs that you learned at school, songs that Mommy doesn’t know. I heard you sing the end of one school song, “…October brings the harvest…” and when I tried to learn it you said, “No, Mommy, don’t sing! I sing it.” And of course, “Don’t Sing, Mommy!” is not complete without a “Don’t Dance, Mommy!”

I don’t know where you learn some things that I’ve never heard you say before. A few weeks ago, your teacher told me that you fell off the tricycle during playground time, but that it was a complete accident and that you were fine. I later asked you more about that accident and you finally told me more about what happens at school. You calmly shared that your classmate hits you, but “not everyday, Mommy! He only hit me sometimes.”

Upon hearing that, Micah, Mommy’s body got hot with fury. I wanted to do what I usually want to do when I get furious. Strip off all my clothes and beat my chest, howl, revert to animal DNA.

“Did he hit you today?”

“Yes, he hit me today but he only hit me sometimes, Mommy.”

“Did he hit you in the face?” (Really trying not to rip off my clothes as my body heat rises)

“No, he didn’t Mommy! He hit me in my nose. Are you mad Mommy? Are you mad at me Mommy?”

“OF COURSE NOT, MICAH! Where are you getting this from, Micah? Why would Mommy be mad at YOU for telling me like a big boy what happens at school. Mommy feels mad and sad right now but not at you. I feel mad that I couldn’t protect you. I feel sad that my Micah got hurt and I didn’t even know. I will NEVER be mad when you tell me what happens at school. I sometimes get mad when you don’t listen to Mommy but when you tell me that someone hit you or pushed you, I am only PROUD that you were brave enough to tell me.”

“Is Daddy proud of me, too-oo?”

“OF COURSE, MICAH! DADDY IS SO PROUD OF YOU!”

“Do you love me Mommy? You love me?”

You slay me with these questions. How do you even know to ask such things? Apparently I knew nothing about nearly three-year-olds before I had kids. I didn’t expect such profound questions so early on.

I just wanted to say thanks to you, my dear first baby, Micah, Mommy had an extra full, extra cute week. I love you always and I am proud of you always just because you are you, not because of anything you do. You can ask me about that as much as you want, but I hope you know it and feel it…always.

cuteness overload

Evite Reminder: MLK’s (Theme-to-Be-Determined) Ko-Mitzvah 11.25.2023

Posted on October 21, 2013 by ajummama

I can write at least 58 different posts on this one topic alone, the topic being “Things I Used to Judge Only to Do Them Now.”

When I was pregnant with my firstborn, MLK, I had somehow developed a stance against kiddie pay-to-play classes like Gymboree.

I’d be all, “Augh! Why would I pay more than my own adult gym’s monthly payments so that my kid can LEARN to PLAY? That is too yuppie for my taste. I’m old school. I’m au naturel! Why would my kid attend some sorta hakwon as a baby!?” [“hakwon” = Korean prep academy / afterschool enrichment]

Then I happened to take him to a trial class. Not only did I promptly sign him up, we became loyal Gymboree members, referring more than a dozen other kiddos and continuing our membership for longer than any of our peers. It wasn’t about learning to play as I had initially thought, but rather, having a colorful, inviting space to play in regularly, other than our same ol’ same ol’ living room or other buddies’ living rooms.

Micah started looking like Billy Madison among babies, when we finally quit two whole years later, at 31 months old. I almost couldn’t go through with terminating our membership because Gymboree was so beloved by both Micah and Mama, such a big part of our lives as newbie mama and first baby, but it was time. (Ellis as second-born never got to join Gymboree as you’re not allowed to bring your older sibling to the younger class. Too Godzilla-like).

When I was pregnant, people warned me mostly about sleep deprivation, or made vague and ominous declarations like “Your life will never be the same again,” but not about how my weekends would usually include a kiddie birthday party, sometimes back-to-back, before and after naps. Thankfully I still enjoy them, especially watching these little guys light up, but I used to judge elaborate kiddie birthday parties. Hward.

My natural gut reaction was to scoff at how fancy these parties were becoming compared to my childhood where my McDonald’s birthday party was my most pimped out.

We recently went to a sprawling gymnastics birthday party for a cute little three-year old friend of Micah’s (who we met at Gymboree as infants). The gymnastics academy was one of the best venues I’d seen for these active toddlers to tumble around in, complete with a foam diving pit and largest parachute ever. The hosts were so inclusive of their many little buddies that this was the biggest party we had been to…since her 2nd birthday party.

I was wearing Ellis, having a hard time side-shimmying through the crowd during lunch as everyone had to squeeze in behind their seated little ones on a long table and accompanying bench. I watched all the parents obediently file into line, shoulder-to-shoulder, behind their children, amidst commotion, to receive their standard party rations: pizza and cake. Because this party was so big, the tables and benches kept you from mingling about. Strictly single file line. You bess stay at your station.

I saw my good friend multi-tasking, feeding her son and looking out for Kevin by asking him quickly, “Did you get your pizza? You were able to eat?” Kevin, while keeping Micah and Micah’s juice from falling off the bench and table respectively, quickly responded, “Yup, yup, I ate, I ate. Plenty, thanks. You got one, too, right?”

It was heartwarming. They were Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman lookin’ out for each other in the prison mess hall.

Before I had these kids, it was all too easy to snub my nose at these modern day birthday parties because they just seemed too fancy compared to my own childhood. I’m talking gymnastics, carousel, museum, zoo, petting zoo, circus, water station, sprawling “treehouse,” Gymboree, My Gym, Bounce U, farm, and more.

Just yesterday, Micah came home excitedly after attending his buddy’s birthday party with his Daddy while Ellis and I had to miss due to Ellis’ fever.

“Did you have fun at E’s party? Was it fun on the schoolbus!?”

“Mommy! It’s not schoolbus! It’s Fun Bus.”

He had had a blast at the Fun Bus party. A Fun Bus is a schoolbus painted all cute with its insides gutted out so that kids can tumble and swing around.

Micah taking a break from Fun Bus er, fun, to peek out at his Daddy / photo credit: his Daddy

photo credit: Claudia Douyon

I remember a childhood friend telling me, “Jihee, my son went to a party where they had a Bubble-ologist. The weirdest part is that he called HIMSELF that. With a straight face.”

I used to think that I would be able to resist this party culture for my kids but just like with Gymboree, I saw how much he enjoyed himself and how his little buddies, especially now that they aren’t babies any more, really understood that it was their special birthday celebration. Plus, many of us live in small NYC apartments so it’s a matter of practicality. There is just no way to host a party in our own homes unless you invite only two little friends and their mamas.

I’ve slowly come to realize that I can’t keep comparing to my McDonald’s party of yesteryear because this is a whole new world. I was learning this new invention called “computer” on an Apple IIC or IIE in our elementary school’s computer lab, stressing about learning how to play a new game called “Carmen Sandiego” while some toddlers these days have their own iPads. Naturally, the landscape of birthday parties, especially in cities like NYC or LA, would get suped up.

I know I’m a dinosaur but what is up with themes? These days, great parties and weddings all seem to have a theme. Was just thinking that today’s hipsters may throw an ironic McDonald’s-themed party, complete with retro uniforms and modernized purple fondant Grimace cake.

“Does Ellis have a theme for his doljanchi?” asked one of my best friends recently, as she planned her son’s in LA.

“Watchoo mean ‘theme’? The ‘THEME’ is that he turnin’ One and we feeding our friends and family a gluttonous amount of food and dduk. And hiring his music class teacher to do some dope kiddie songs for 45 minutes!”

“No, girl, a THEME!”

Online stores like Etsy make it easy to choose a theme like “Carnival” or “Rock Star” and buy accompanying decorations but it’s just one more thing to have to make a series of micro-decisions about. That is what I am allergic to in event planning: how tending to just “x,y, and z” soon sprouts into tending to “a thru w, and don’t forget the x, y, and z,” even though it’s all for such a happy occasion. So, no, we didn’t have no theme for both boys’ doljanchis other than, “Get Yo Grub On, and Watch Our Son Crawl Towards The Object Which Scientifically Foretells His Destiny aka Doljabi.”

I got married more than six years ago and thank God people didn’t ask me “What is your theme for the wedding?”

My “THEME” is marriage. That by God’s grace, my crazy ass is getting hitched.

So, back to these modern birthday parties. Special venues do allow parents to relax as they usually have most of the details covered. Most of the time, even a built-in THEME!

I recently heard my girl, Wendy Williams, talk about her 13 year-old son’s Bro-Mitzvah complete with a celeb date for him to walk around with and recording artists for entertainment, fancier than my wedding. Also on “Basketball Wives,” Shaq’s son, Shareef, got a Bro-Mitzvah with a stylist picking out his multiple couture outfits and of course, per his request, fire.

While I did end up booking the gymnastics academy for Micah’s 3rd birthday party (with a very short guestlist to keep it intimate), I do draw the line at throwing him a Ko-Mitzvah.

For now.

Can’t Go Home Again

Posted on October 17, 2013 by ajummama

My mama recently came to NYC for her annual visit. The last time she was here, the timing was serendipitous as Ellis waited for her to arrive to take care of not-so-big (22 month-old) Big Bro before emerging from his mama’s womb.

Some parts of the visit made my heart swell with joy. Watching her finally be able to squeeze and hold her precious grandbabies instead of only peeking at them via harried and choppy Skype session. Watching her fall in love all over again, this time with her newer grandson as he has developed into a real person from the newbie he was the last time she saw him back home in LA. Watching her watch Micah with fascination (and sometimes with intimidation), her first grandchild now a young boy, complete with a new, strong will, dance moves with gangsta face and fist pumps, his own sense of humor, and tantrums.

But some parts of the visit made me crazy. I’m sure that her being clear ‘cross the country adds to her not being able to accept and conform to our routines as easily as a local grandma would but it was still exhausting to receive push-back on how we do things. When you are an adult child who has lived away from your parents from the age of 18, being under the same roof for an extended period of time, with child-rearing up in the already cramped mix, can really press some hot buttons.

In some ways, I felt like we were experiencing role reversal, like when I had to lecture her on how handwashing is a MUST after changing E’s diaper:

Ma: But my hands didn’t touch anything! This is excessive! My hands are peeling.

Me: No, Umma, I can’t believe *I* have to tell you this as the daughter! You MUST wash your hands when you change any diaper – pee or poo. You can’t see or feel germs, but they get on our hands. YOU HAVE TO DISINFECT to prevent the spread of germs.

Ma: But my hands stay clean! And if you are so obsessed with germs, why don’t you care more about the dust around the house? And your fridge is a mess. I cleaned it out.

Me: Poo germs are more urgent. Just don’t fight me on everything. Please don’t make me repeat myself. WASH YOUR HANDS EACH TIME. WITH SOAP!

Ma: You are so picky.

Me: And you just won’t listen.

Same convo about 17 times.

It was constant:

“Why do the kids have to sleep at regular bedtimes each night? They are humans, not robots. Like we sleep at different times each night depending on how tired we are.”

“YES, but they are not adults. They thrive on structure. Please don’t mention this each night. HAVING TO FIGHT YOU at the end of the day drains me even more. I don’t have any reserves left to do this.”

Oh, the intricacies in the relationship between Mother/Grandma with an adult daughter-with-her-own-kids in a small space.

And I shouldn’t have been surprised that we had the same issues we had on previous visits, both in LA and NYC. Time doesn’t heal when we both behave the same as we did before. Generational, cultural and personality conflicts. Language as a barrier (which I didn’t notice as much growing up but now that I’m trying to talk woman-to-woman, mom-to-mom, the stuff of epiphanies and deep talks, my Korean words won’t come as fast as my thoughts).

Sometimes, because I didn’t know how to communicate without it leading to another fight, we would only talk about the safe topics, like something cute the boys did or if they’re wearing enough sunscreen or…about food. Talking about food in and of itself is not bad, but I wanted to really connect. It was all too loaded and unsafe, so we would sit at our meal in Punta Cana, talking about the manchego cheese and razor clams instead. I felt so frustrated and resigned. So much love but so hard to really hear each other.

Essentially, I had been hoping that when she made this annual visit, I’d be able to exhale. I’ve become so irritable lately that I actually started hating on well-rested status updates on my Facebook. “Leisure-time-having mofo…” I would unfairly hiss.

So many factors that added to my inability to relax this year: My hormones have registered as off the charts low since I’ve been nursing Ellis, we’ve definitely outgrown our space so there is nowhere to retreat, Ellis sleeps in his crib in our room since he has nowhere else to go…until he creeps into our bed in the middle of the night, Micah has been going through a bad nap/sleep phase since August, plus his recent cough/asthma(?) attacks. AND HAVING TO REPEAT MYSELF all day. These are roughly just a few reasons why I, with the supersonic hearing and nervous personality, haven’t been able to “Poook Shee-Uh” (FULLY FULLY REST) like my body and mind has been desperately craving.

Thankfully, my kids are both healthy and these are just day-to-day stressors but they have still done a number on me.

So when my mama arrived and we ended up WATCHING THE KIDS TOGETHER, I kept thinking, “What a damn waste. Why do we end up watching the kids together!? Her visits are the only real time I can leave the kids for an extended mental health break but here we are, BOTH feeding them, BOTH making sure Ellis don’t climb over the baby gates. A waste of manpower.” I expressed this to my mama but she said that because she hasn’t taken care of them BOTH at their current ages, she doesn’t feel confident, especially with Micah being more strong-willed and vocal now.

When their naps overlapped after much cajoling with Micah who is now nap-resistant (and we have to go through a whole THING before he succumbs), I told my mama I will just go across the street with my laptop. She seemed to be okay with that since they were both napping (and I was all hurt that she wasn’t all, “Go for it!” She seemed more like, “What if the big one goes hysterical for you?”).

Soon after I scoped out my leather loveseat at Starbucks, ordered myself a warm fatty beverage, and opened up the laptop, my mama called me with a hysterical Micah who had woken up from his nap looking for me.

I felt like he was cranking up the drama because my mama was so reactive.

I told her to calm him and that I’d be right there.

But it ain’t 2011 no more and he ain’t a newborn so I surprised myself: my ass was not rushing home. I was DRAINED in every way. I took my sweet time closing up my laptop and willing my feet to start moving from this refuge.

I know mamas always say their disclaimers about HOW MUCH WE LOVE OUR KIDS before we complain about anything. And I do. They own my heart forever. But so much has accumulated upon this mama this year, that tired piled atop more tired atop “Can I FREAKING Sleep or Be Able to Have a Cough Attack in Peace in My Own Bedroom Without Waking Up my Baby Beluga?” makes for a different kind of mama. I dunno how I used to have boundless energy when it was just Micah and me, running off to the playground or playdate sometimes twice a day, strolling a mile each way.

When I finally started walking down our courtyard, my mama called me again saying that Micah wants to come look for me. Before I could say anything, sho’ nuff, my mama was already in plain view, with Ellis tied to her back with a huge piece of fabric like she used to do in Seoul circa 1976 thru 1980, and Micah scanning the premises for me like Carrie Mathison on Homeland. When Micah gets hysterical, so does Grandma Lee. This has been a recurring challenge for us – how she gets hysterical with them instead of being the calming influence, even when we tried to go to Ellis’ newborn doc visit. She had even left our apartment door slightly ajar because she rushed to get the kids to me.

We love you Halmoni. Thanks for feeding us better than our mama can.

I’ve had to remind her that while it is hard to bear, Micah crying doesn’t mean he’s dying. But she believes that it will have an effect on him long-term so she gets frenzied.

Now that she’s back in LA, I realize that while we have legitimate conflicts and communication barriers, some of it is the stage I’m going through. The notion of not being able to ever take a break from being a Mommy, as blessed as I am. Of course I knew that you can’t ever really be On Break from being someone’s Mommy but to actually live it is different from just knowing it as a notion.

I remember coming home from undergrad finals or law school finals for winter break and I would spent lots of that time just refueling by eating my mama’s homemade stews and boocheengehs, sleeping like a bear on my parent’s electric mat, and repeat. I needed that time to POOK SHEE UH before facing a new semester and its stressors.

I can’t “go home” again in that way again. (And I’m guessing most of y’all reading this can’t either with your grown a$$es).

No one can ever step in for me and be my kids’ mama. I mean, on the one hand, thank God, but on the other, man, it’s been overwhelming. The 24-7 needs of little humans.

One of my working mama friends called me as she was stuck in rush hour traffic and she casually remarked, “But you BEEN home since Micah was born. Why is it any different from before?” It’s just the accumulation of drained upon drained in ways I am too drained to even type out, now with two toddlers in my care, one of them fearlessly climbing everything and another thinking it’s so funny to say “no” to every directive.

Basically, my chapter as Eager Beaver Disney character newbie mama has come to an end. This new chapter is still adorable with the first son talking up a storm and even cracking jokes, and the second son booty-shaking to any beat, but I definitely notice some wear and tear. I do have to think about ways to improve the next visit with my beloved mama, not letting the wear and tear get the best of me.

I Have Had an Announcement for 10.10.13

Posted on October 9, 2013 by ajummama

I used to have a recurring fantasy: My girlfriends and I would be at the movies, hooridin’ and crackin’ up until the previews hit. We would shush each other as usual, “OK, everyone needs to shuddup now. We tryna watch this, and that means you, Jihee! Don’t be talking during the movie PLEASE and no asking questions ’til the end…JIHEE!”

The movie would start and BAM, right out the gate, zoom into a close-up shot of Yours Truly. My girls’ jaws would drop, speechless for once. They would finally look down the row at me in the pitch black theater and seethe, “What the HELL!? How you gonna STAR in a freaking movie and keep it a secret?” I would just grin. Real cool-like.

The most savory moment is when I am still seated, gazing at the screen instead of at my flabbergasted friends, like it was just another night at the movies at The Beverly Center. I would simply smile and say, “Just watch the movie, heffas,” as I reached for more popcorn. Gangsta.

I was hoping to have a sliver of this fantasy come true on 10.10. I have date fetish.

I like cute dates and I cannot lie.

After getting married on 07.07.07, I was blessed with a baby shower on 10.10.10. On 10.10.11, our little family went to the beach, remembering how Micah was in my belly the year before, being showered with love. Naturally, I was beyond tickled when I found out that my second baby was due on the catchy date of 10.11.12.

So, for 10.10.13, I had something up my sleeve.

Back in August, I ended up casually emailing a very popular blogger, telling her that I don’t get to read as many blogs as I would like, but that I read hers and oh, here is my tiny little blog, with a link to one of my posts. I didn’t expect a reply since she big time, but she replied promptly saying it made her laugh but that she wasn’t accepting “story” type submissions at the moment.

I hadn’t realized that I was actually submitting anything for publication, more like a, “Hey there, please take a peek at me if you have a moment.” But once she said that, I responded with another post that was less story-like. She responded promptly again, saying she’d love to publish it.

Wait, what? It was just THAT easy to have a NY Times bestselling author run my piece on her blog?

It happened so fast and was way too easy. She gets millions of views on her very popular blog and I couldn’t believe that my first and only email to a REAL blogger yielded such an opportunity to be viewed by so many at once.

I wanted to surprise everyone (see fantasy sequence above). I only told two people: I enlisted the help of Kevin and one of my dearest friends to make some edits before I unveiled it (thanks again, guys). It was thrilling to talk about myself in the third person when I sent in a small “bio”(!) to run with the piece. She asked me to choose a publication date among three options.

When I saw that 10.10 was an option, it was a no brainer. It also worked out because Ellis’ doljanchi (big Korean 1st Birthday Party) was going to be done by then and we would be able to schedule our vacation during Ellis’ and my actual birthdays, then come home to my big guest post debut. The blogger told me it would be a good idea to be around for comments.

Everything was finalized late August.

Kevin helped me fix up my very bare bones blog and after some deliberating (“oh, but it’s so cheesy, it’s so self-promoting, I don’t want haters…”), I created a Facebook page for Ajummama. Nights were devoted to reading up on blog stuff: hosting, domains, design, categorizing all my old posts, and more. My blog is still very bare bones but at least I was going forward with this.

While on vacation in Punta Cana with my boys and my mama, I needed to be disconnected from the Internet. Be truly present. Practice mindfulness for once instead of scoffing at it. But I was awaiting a couple important emails so we purchased just one hour of Internet usage for the entire week, just to be able to flag important emails without getting sucked in.

On my actual birthday (10.04, less than a week away from the perfect 10.10 publication date), I see an email from the blogger, starting with, ““I feel awful doing this, and have already been sending these out for an hour… but…”

Basically, she stated that after a bit of soul-searching, she decided to make some big changes on her site, scaling it down from what it has become. It had become too big and too overwhelming so she decided to return to writing more herself and involving only her staff instead of so many guest posts.

at the Internet station in Punta Cana, connection as slow as dial-up days

Kevin was more disappointed than I was. I wasn’t as down as he was perhaps because I always wait for the other shoe to drop or because I had obtained it too easily.

I did kick myself for choosing 10.10 instead of the two earlier dates that would have allowed my piece to run right BEFORE her epiphany post she ran on my birthday prior to her email to me. Did my date fetish do me in?

Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to be “seen” by so many strangers. Maybe it meant too much to me in my recent struggling state to carve out something just for myself while I am burnt out, losing perspective as parenting regularly kicks my ass.

What was I doing anyways? Why such a compulsion to keep up with my tiny blog? Why is it so important to me when I ain’t even getting paid?

But I know the answer. Telling stories is all I’ve ever wanted to do (when not starring in a movie, of course). If I don’t write, I am not fully ME. Even if it don’t translate into scrill, I need to do this. Especially now after motherhood claimed so much of me.

I have always struggled with not feeling good enough. And lemme tell you, it is a tough tough way to be. Not quite sure why but I rationalize away affirmations and compliments. I never knew that being funny or telling a good story could be considered “talent.” Don’t get me wrong; when people tell me I’m funny, I absolutely agree, not because I’ve been affirmed by others, but because at my core, I always knew that about myself and was secure about that ONE trait.

But to be called “talented” makes me have a reflex response of, “Yeah right.” And for some reason, I can’t believe it when it’s from a loved one. “Well, it’s ‘cause you know me and care for me so of course you have to think well of me.” Or as I tell my husband who has seen me at my worst, “You have to say that. You don’t want to confess to having buyer’s remorse about your wifey.”

So when a legit “celeb” blogger, A PERFECT STRANGER who has no obligation or incentive to affirm me, picked up my piece so easily, I took a risk and allowed myself to START believing in myself for once. She thought I was good enough and she is a bonafide writer.

But you know what? Even without my fantasy scene coming true on this 10.10, I WILL write more.

And, F*CK YOU, FEARS! I am so tired of y’all.

By not getting published on this fwine date of 10.10, it has lead me to do a bit of soul-searching, too. To pray that I may truly KNOW my value simply by being a human being, whether my blog is enjoyed by my loyal tens of readers or whether I go viral. And believe me, I don’t expect to go viral as I am still sifting through how much I want to share, what I would like my blog identity to be and what my true voice is.

Going further, I yearn to know my worth as a beloved child of God, whether I am a stay-at-home mama and nothing more, a practicing or lapsed lawyer, a wildly successful or wildly unsuccessful writer, the heaviest I’ve ever weighed without having a baby inside of me, an imperfect parent, or a raging, wounded little girl in a quite mature body.

Sure, I will fail time and time again as I am my own worst critic and I often compare myself to more successful peers and that damn Bethenny Frankel, who cranked out a best-selling book as she walked down the aisle, birthed a baby and also made hundreds of millions of dollars off a smart mouth and a cocktail.

So 10.10, you done flipped the script on me this year by being less-than-perfect, but maybe that was the point all along.

Be. Yourself. (Sometimes?)

Posted on August 21, 2013 by ajummama

I have a theory I wanted to put to the test after a recent dentist appointment:

People who keep it all business, tend to get treated better.

By nature, I am relational. Almost to a fault. Even in customer service dealings and other non-friendship exchanges, I can’t help but be relational (unless I am really not feeling you).

When we were co-op shopping while I was pregnant with my Micah in 2010, Kevin had to warn me before meeting different brokers:

“Remember, Jihee-yah. For these visits, what did I tell you?”

“Don’t be myself. Don’t be relational. I especially do not want to bond with the seller. Got it.”

My husband is, by nature, the opposite. He is private and keeps dental visits limited to information exchanges about cavities and flossing.

[Sorry, I fell asleep right quick just thinking about fact-only exchanges.]

I don’t think I can do that, even on a dare.

But I started envying how folks respond to him and other Keep It All Business people. People tend to try harder with those who Keep It All Business.

My dentist seems to enjoy my personality when I drop by once in a while with my weak teeth. In fact, she and her staff actually seem eager for me to get my gab on because they have to be more formal with their other patients. Frankly, they seem like they exhale when they realize it’s “just” me walking through the door. They’ve even turned on politically incorrect stand-up comedy on TV when it’s just me in their office.

On the one hand, I am glad that they feel comfy with me because of our chats over the years I’ve been going to her but on the other, I have to double-check that I am receiving the same manner of care and respect doled out to other patients.

When it comes time to handle business, and I ask her to please go over different treatment plans, she doesn’t like to break it down for me. Last time, I felt rushed when she didn’t go over my different options as thoroughly as she should have for me to make my informed consent.

She practically jumped when she saw a Suit waiting in her waiting area as her next patient, while she was wrapping up with me. I was quickly led to her receptionist to make my payment. I requested more information but the dentist and receptionist were short with me. It didn’t sit well with me so I called her after the visit, just letting her know that I felt rushed and uninformed.

I have an acute fear of being a pushover or being disrespected.

So I dared myself to return for the next visit more like my husband, and less like myself, in order to get more respectful and formal treatment. She saw me in the waiting area and of course, didn’t jump to make a timely appointment like she did with Suit.

She called me in after gabbing with her receptionist about some mumbo jumbo and asked, “How are you?”

“Um, I’m good. Thanks.” (KEEP IT MOVING JIHEE. The seemingly innocuous “HOW ARE YOU’s” are sure to get you. And don’t even THINK about telling her how her first, middle, and last name on her plaque all look so beautiful in script!)

“And awww, how are the BABIES!? You couldn’t bring them with you?”

So…yeah.

I failed my own dare within a record milli-second. The dare actually spurred me to be more relational than ever.

I kid you not, I even danced the (low) Limbo at one point (complete with caveman sound effects), to demonstrate an interaction with my Micah. So much for All Business. Sure, we were all laughing, but I proved once again, even on a dare, my true self will bust through. (I still made sure she explain dental details to me.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about those two loaded words: “Be Yourself.” Or “Do You.”

I seem to deal with “opposite” issues compared to those I know.

Sometimes, I feel alien because I cannot relate to what others struggle with within their God-given temperaments. People generally work on being more vulnerable, opening up more, whereas I have to dare myself to be more closed off and guarded.

My pastor talks about how we all have icebergs, deep deep icebergs of hidden emotions, beneath our seemingly serene still waters. He explained in his book, “Emotionally Healthy Spirituality,” that most people strive to keep these icebergs hidden and walk around wearing masks of serene still waters.

I used to joke that my iceberg always be hangin’ out, melting all over the place, while others only reveal their still waters.

And sure, it’s wise and discerning to only share your iceberg with your “safe” people but for some folks, even their closest loved ones don’t REALLY know their deepest fears and pain.

While most people I know would like to appear to be happy and “together,” why do I have this compulsion to confess my ugly bits? I NEVER want to appear like I have it all together. Why? What does that do for people? You rarely convince anyone of it anyhow.

It sounds like a humble-brag but truly, I just can’t relate and sometimes I feel disconnected and lonely as I find myself muttering, “REALLY?,” after yet another exchange where I can’t help but go beyond small talk and/or fact-exchange and the other person is tight-lipped or desperately trying to keep it light and “LOL.”

So what are y’all’s default settings? (If you’re private, message me – haha.) If your iceberg hangs out, too, then let it flow next to my puddle, by posting a comment or three.

Home is Where the “Hart” is

Posted on August 15, 2013 by ajummama

This past weekend was an especially kid-centered weekend. Lots of fun playing and celebrating at three little friends’ birthday parties, including one Dol, one Bounce U. party, and one Gymnastics party. Thoughts about kiddie parties of 2013 deserve their own post for another time.

On the way there, I did something I rarely do these days. I looked in the mirror. I was sitting in the passenger seat as my husband drove us to the first party.

Some mamas of small children are able to swing it but for me, mirror-checks don’t happen with a toddler and infant around.

The vibe is almost always loud and harried. I’m just happy to be able to wash my face without having to carry on a conversation mid-splash, so a gaze into the mirror isn’t even on my radar. “Yes, Micah, Mommy do seh-soo, right now. Please be patient. Mommy get you Acai berry juice after!”

Constant conversation and negotiations.

Packing sippy cups and a bevy of snacks.

Putting on shoes and tiny socks.

Sniffing butts.

Pleading with the boys to not cry or whine after being belted into their doublestroller and almost out the door when Mommy realizes she has to dig up her keys from another bag.

Running back to the living room from the bathroom because all is too quiet.

Rushing back to the gated play area to make sure #2 didn’t climb to new heights.

Even when their naps overlap, I have to take a deep breath, calm myself for a moment or two before eating some leftovers, making phone calls, responding to emails, and cleaning up messes. (And maybe some blogging on a good day).

The bright light from the passenger seat mirror revealed something I hadn’t seen before. A chin hair. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve sprouted a different, lesser strain before: a long, fine, almost invisible hair the color of straw. So even if it was as long as half my finger, it was magically invisible. But this new guy was short and wiry and black, with an attitude. I named him Kevin Hart. He had been planning to roll to all three parties with me that day, trying to steal the show! He sounded like the Budweiser “WASSSSSSUP” commercial circa 2000.

For some reason, this Kevin Hart made me think about the concept of Home.

Not a metaphorical Home like in the movie “Garden State” or the Home mentioned in one of the most earnest and heartfelt wedding toasts I’ve heard (“May you find a Home in each other”) but an actual physical Home that embodies such longings and sentiments.

As a Christian, I do believe that this world is not my Home in the eternal sense, but as a human, I can’t help but yearn for a worldly home.

A fortress. A sanctuary. A haven.

Perhaps because I keep catching myself waiting to exhale during my current joyful but frenzied life stage.

I don’t have one childhood home I think about when I think about Home.

We immigrated to Los Angeles (Koreatown) a couple months before I turned five, then moved around every few years within different parts of the Los Angeles area. (Realized I’m writing this on the eve of our Coming to America anniversary date).

Each place felt like a Just For Now. Until we move on again.

Even after I moved away to Berkeley for college, my parents moved a couple times so I would visit different homes during my breaks. After Berkeley came graduate school, a few years of working, then law school. All the places I lived in felt so temporary, almost like extended business trips.

I am now a mama of two and a wifey. We are trying our best but have yet to carve out a Home for our new family. I will definitely remember our current place as the home we brought both boys to from their respective hospitals, where they experienced many Firsts and where we nibbled on them probably close to a million times, but it is not where we will lay our heads down for years to come (Lord willing).

I picture a Home where I can be ensconced in a plush bedroom I don’t have to hold my breath and tiptoe into lest I wake up my Baby Beluga second son. Have some space to exhale, read a novel, write my stories. A kitchen that is open and inviting, more of a gathering place.

A home where I don’t have to resort to wearing earplugs that my husband had to buy me (in bulk) so I can sleep in from time to time.

Where the boys can run around and compete in our family talent show. Where we can all have some healthy space apart before we reconvene for mealtimes and storytimes.

Where we can park in the driveway.

Where I can pause to notice a stubborn chin hair or two and pluck away in a leisurely fashion.

I know I am beyond blessed to have my fellow denizens ready to inhabit this future Home with. Am excited to dream and move towards that place.

For now, I’m just going to work on at least installing a full-length mirror SOMEWHERE in our current place because raising a toddler and infant is no excuse to never really see yourself.

Roadtrip to CVS

Posted on July 17, 2013 by ajummama

I was crossing Queens Blvd. (Lotta my stories can start with that line).

My usually observant self hardly noticed that another (younger, whiter) female was crossing with me.

If we had both been heading to a popular deli with bomb sandwiches to go, I would definitely have noticed her as I would have broken out into a jog so that I can avoid waiting behind her in line. Especially because usually, there is a car full of men waiting for me to get back into the passenger seat.

I purchased the one item I needed from CVS (birthday card) and started writing in it at a Starbucks just a few doors down. I had to write my love messages fast as my mama’s birthday was approaching and the mailboxes in our ‘hood do 9 am or 10 am pick-ups(!). I wouldn’t be able to celebrate her 60th with her because she is clear ‘cross the country as usual, though I plan to make it up to her this year. The 1st and 60th birthdays in Korean culture are the hugest milestones.

I then noticed the Queens Blvd. gal from earlier. She had hardly registered in my peripheral view but I recognized her now as she was CLEARLY not headed to CVS like me.

UNLIKE ME, she was headed to her PARTY LIMO to meet at least seven of her friends who had already gathered with overnight bags, coolers, outerwear. They were a diverse bunch, brown and white, male and female. They looked and sounded really happy and excited. Co-workers, I guessed.

After I mailed my card, on my way back home, I sauntered over to them and asked, “Where you guys off to? It looks so fun! Jealous.”

One of the guys already seated in the limo, with the doors still open answered, “We’re going to Vegas for the weekend. We got room for one more. You wanna join us?”

“You guys DRIVING to Vegas from here in a limo!? That is cray…” I pause to shake the rust off my brain. “I mean, you guys headed to the airport in the limo, then spending the weekend there?! That’s cool. Sounds fun. Y’all look so refreshed and relaxed, by the way.”

They proceeded to flatter me some. I wasn’t surprised (I had just dyed my greys). Note: they proceeded to flatter an octogenarian who also stopped by to ask them where they were off to.

“Sounds fun. Um…are you all single? I remember those days I could just pack up and go anywhere, any time. Now I got two little kids waiting for me at home.”

“Two kids?! No, no, no, no! You know you can’t bring them along, right? You better get home now!” he teased.

I did get my butt back home, then off to my second son’s Baby Dedication. Talk about opposite plans.

This limo crew reminded me of a couple life stages ago, when I was free to hit up Vegas for my friend and her friend’s double bachelorette party. Or free to do anything really, though my goody goody self was known to be a buzzkill at clubs, asking philosophical and existential questions like, “Is this really a good time for you guys, talking about how faded you are? What about meaning though?”

The black stretch limo dared me again to try to live in the present EVEN MORE, since I will yearn for many of today’s moments years down the road.

Back in earlier life stages, I may have fretted a bit too much about “Where my husband at?” though a natural and honest concern as a single gal of “marriageable age.” And even now, I worry about what type of job/career to resume and when. Where our family should settle down. How to maximize precious time with the kids without going broke and while still cultivating my own interests apart from them.

But looking back, I really didn’t need to fret so much about the unknowns. ESPECIALLY in my tenderoni years!

My roadtrip to CVS prodded me AGAIN to savor my NOW though so tempting to OVER-wonder about the next life stages. My now is not a whirlwind Vegas trip or even a spontaneous trip to go swimming in Manhattan, but my firstborn calling out, “MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY watch me!” every other waking moment and my second-born bootyshaking to different beats and protesting his highchair so that he can bum a cuddle in Mommy’s sweaty lap instead.

Sometimes I get wistful for my freedom but this is my NOW. Blogging while the clock on their naps is ticking like the clock on “24.”

The limo crew also made me pause to think about my friends in other life stages, how they, too, should savor whichever stage they’re in, because somewhere out there, someone is thinking how nice it would be to have the freedom to jet to Vegas, have childless moments with spouses or single moments with closest girlfriends, or travel the world on sabbatical or during retirement.

Next roadtrip: RiteAid.

Play

Posted on July 12, 2013 by ajummama

When I first started putting Micah in timeouts, I felt sheepish. I could actually hear my Korean ancestors laughing from their knolly graves.

I’m trying to learn what kind of parents we are. Sift through the noise and parenting junk emails overflowing in my inbox. So many loaded terms. Attachment parenting (you mean what the rest of the world does)? Waldorf schools? Montessori? Charter schools? Homeschooling? Unschooling?

Sometimes, the labels just make things more intimidating and confusing than necessary. I have almost always followed the rules (except at movie theaters) but I do have an unnecessarily rebellious side, too. If someone too hungrily wants to know all my business while remaining private about their mess, I don’t want to tell them anything and have even privatized my Facebook page to a couple acquaintances. (Or if I am Facebook-friended too prematurely. Yes, this dates me as young kids these days friend anyone and everyone). But if someone couldn’t care less about my life, I want to reveal all. In detail.

I still refuse to call Manhattan “The City.” It ain’t the only one.

Before I became a mama, I didn’t want to “schedule playdates” for my future children because it sounded too yuppie and ridiculous for my little babies. (I’ve since matured and realized there is no getting around that one.) But words mean a lot to me.

So while I am still trying to figure out where I fit in as a parent, which philosophies I adhere to, all I know is that today, in this perfectly breezy 75 degree weather, my boys and I had so much fun literally rolling around in the grass with kids from the neighborhood. At first, Micah looked at me like I was actin’ a damn fool but once I got into it, he cautiously started rolling with me and other playmates.

Then we played treetag with Micah’s cheeks shaking as he ran, no longer a baby but not yet a boy, first wide-eyed and tentative, then with delight. Even little Ellis got in on the action, playing in the grass and rolling about. We even built houses with twigs (I hear this is called “fairy house” – more new lingo.)

Does my closet hippie make me a follower of Waldorf pedagogy? YO, I dunno! I just think kids should play outdoors as much as possible. Good for their health and souls. Found a blade of grass in my baby’s diaper from our outdoorsy play. It was a good, no, GREAT day.

Thanks to my kids, I have bonus childhoods to enjoy at my age. Memories of my own childhood flood me as I play with them. Handball with the neighborhood kids behind our yellow apartment building in Koreatown LA, until it was night. Rollerskating down too-steep apartment driveways with no helmets or kneepads while my parents worked long and hard in their store, to pay for our piano lessons and future SAT classes. Digging for buried treasure with my little brother with my dad’s finest silver spoon next to graffiti’d walls. Devouring book after book at the public library until my parents closed up shop and came to pick us up after the sun set so late in the summers.

[Speaking of outdoors, Happy Birthday to Henry David Thoreau:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”]

I See You

Posted on June 12, 2013 by ajummama

It is already June.

Have been itching to blog more frequently but also to improve my writing.

However, as of right now, the itch is too great. I just don’t have the energy or the time at the end of the day to commit to the editing process that is required to improve my quickly-cranked out posts.

Instead, per my usual stylo, I am opting to sneak this post in hurriedly during this sweet spot of the boys’ naps overlapping. I should be eating a real lunch instead of this tray of watermelon while typing (I know I will be too hungry to workout tonight at this rate). I SHOULD BE vacuuming the remnants of their lunches but I will gift myself with this half hour of expressing myself first. If I tended to all the “should’s” that hang out in my head, I wouldn’t get to blog until fall.

This past Saturday, I woke up too early, sleeptrained by our roommate, Little E.Z., who is prone to cry, then get sprung from his crib anywhere from 5ish, 6ish, or 7ish to nurse and crawl around in our bed.

I woke up thinking it was a weekday, then realizing it was Saturday.

Yet I didn’t hear the Hallelujah chorus go off once I realized the weekend had arrived.

This made me pause. Why wasn’t I ecstatic that it was Saturday, the bedazzling beauty of the week!? Kevin would be with us to do all the heavy lifting, corraling, disciplining, and pleading. A partner in crime to keep our kiddies alive and fed and entertained and napped.

A-ha! It dawned on me slowly in my just woken up fog. It was because I was SPENT. My body felt clammy and my throat sore. Saturdays = family fun days. Sometimes, too much fun. Marathon fun days where we allow the boys to sleep in the car so that we don’t let long naps cramp our style. Memories to create with all four of us present. Longer than typical work days.

My body was On Break. With a “B*tch, PLEASE. HAVE MERCY!”

I knew that I had to invest in rest or else the following week was going to be too much.

So, Kevin took Micah to soccer alone, then to our friends’ place on Long Island for a potluck with other parents and toddlers. I was going to allow myself to “waste” this Saturday by staying home and relaxing. I almost backslid and called Kevin to just swoop me up after soccer so that our family can be together as a foursome.

But I set myself straight. It was just one Saturday, not a North Korean – South Korean separation.

And CAN I TELL YOU? It was GLORIOUS.

It felt like spa day even though I was in my cluttered home with my Li’l Kim.

It reminded of the days when Micah and I had so much one-on-one time to fall in love all through the week, everyday, all day.

This past Saturday, I was really able to look at my younger son and drink him in. Who are you, you chubby little morsel with your jolly temperament? You who waited until Gramma Lee touched down at JFK to burst out of me. You who we didn’t know would be a boy, a gentle, laidback, delectable boy.

I didn’t have to rush so that I can feed big bro. I didn’t have to peel Micah off of him or time everything perfectly so that I can be there for the both of them. I didn’t have to rush. Period.

We rolled around on the floor. He crawled over my face. Stood up using my body for support, just beaming. Peered deep into my eyes and grabbed my face, like, “I SEE YOU, MOMMY. I REALLY SEE YOU!” We told Yo Mama jokes (Wait…). I read to him. I talked to him.

Highlight of the day was when I fed him some dinner while he was seated in his stroller in our courtyard, instead of the usual frenzied dinner scene at home in his highchair and his bro in his booster. It was a balmy evening and I fed him some messy pasta baby food while he coo’d at me. I took my time showing him the flowers, the fountain, the squirrels, the birds. I strolled him in the SINGLE stroller and called my girlfriends back home (left voicemails) while Kevin continued to stay out with Micah for my sake (Costco and BuyBuyBaby runs).

My “spa day” with just the one son also made me recall a scene from this past Mother’s Day. I had struck up a conversation with a family while sitting on a bench near the Brooklyn Bridge. I was wearing a napping Ellis while the two other boys went to pick up some pizza for our impromptu picnic on the grass. I asked the dad what life was like as a family of five, as I admired his three daughters (ages 10, 7 and 5).

“Three is the new TWO,” he told me. “Most of my good friends have three or more kids. I think it may be a reaction to 9/11. We just crave connection. Family time. And more family members.” (paraphrasing here)

I said, earnestly, “I heard that once you’re outnumbered, you have to go on one-on-one dates with them so that you can really spend quality time with them.”

He laughed. “All or nothing in my house. Who has the time?”

I laughed, too, TOTALLY understanding where he was coming from. It’s hard enough running a happy household juggling everyone’s demands and needs, and spending rare quality time on the weekends as a cohesive unit, family of four, so how can we devote ourselves to just ONE kid regularly?

And yet.

I realized how much I enjoy these rare times with just one of my kids. Just like any other relationship. As much as I love hanging out with a group of local Mommy friends or my girlfriends back home, it is extra special bonding when we can go deep one-on-one and really SEE each other. Hear what makes us happy, what makes us sad, what we want to work on. Just what gives us LIFE overall.

It also made me think of Avatar’s simple yet profound tag line, “I SEE YOU!” And when my first son says, “Look at ME, Mommy, look at ME!” craving my undivided attention.

We all want to connect and be seen. To be heard without multi-tasking or being told, “Not now. Be patient while I…” “Maybe soon…”

What a gift it was.

I can’t wait for another “spa day” with just one Kim.

I see you. And your cape, SuperEllis. [photo credit: Jenny Tang]