Category Archives: musings

LeJihee Signing on For Another Season

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Sometimes, the decision to stay the course, involves just as much risk and faith as pursuing the path of change.

I officially decided on Monday, after more than a week of deliberating with the babies’ daddy, that I will be staying at home longer instead of pursuing an opportunity that would have me working full-time as early as June.

We went over this time and time again last week, listing the pros and cons and how it would affect our family.

We sought wisdom in Scripture, sermons, and people, though I tried to avoid talking to too many people but I needed prayer. It is tricky to consult people as we naturally dish out advice based on our experience and justifications for our own life choices. I also didn’t want my head to be needlessly cluttered with unhelpful “I would NEVER leave my kids!” or “I would NEVER be able to just stay at home.”

I also looked for signs everywhere, sometimes not so wisely, like in the season finale of my current favorite sitcom, The Mindy Project – “…sometimes you just say ‘Yes.'”

This opportunity and crossroads came at a time I had been praying for confirmation that I should continue to stay at home 2.5 years after my firstborn had arrived.

Would Mama be taking her talents to South Beach or would she sign with the Cleveland Cavs for an eighth season?

Micah will be starting preschool a few mornings in the fall so we have to be responsible for that additional monthly payment. My bringing in an income would be WONDERFUL. I miss that luxury, that cushion.

We’d be able to save substantially more and move into a bigger space as we burst at the seams in our current place. We’d be able to get stuff from our Wants List, like eating out often, taking exotic vacations, and signing the kids up for unlimited extracurriculars, without having to deliberate carefully.

I told Kevin that part of this pull towards rejoining the workforce immediately was 70% due to income. But I had to dig deeper and examine the remaining 30%.

A paycheck for my time and efforts was about more than just the scrill, the cheddah, the greenbacks. It was largely tied to how I measured my worth. While the efforts of moms are priceless, I wasn’t satisfied with “priceless.” I craved a price! I wanted a quantifiable measure of my contribution to my family. Digging even deeper, I wanted to set myself apart from the stereotype of a stay-at-home mom whose only identity is linked to her kids, having no recollection of who she is apart from them and when her kids become more independent, she has nothing left to call her own.

And finally, it represented freedom from some really hard days with no relief. It would allow me to thump my chest and say, “I am MORE than just mamamamamama. Mama gets paid! Mama gets haircuts and trendy (while age-appropriate) new clothes and huge tubes of Bliss lotion from Nordstrom Rack just because she can! Mama will eat lunch whenever she wants to at Hale and Hearty, not at 3 pm after the kids’ naps overlap, while glaring at an avalanche of toys and clothes that needs to be picked up.”

I also longed to go to work to escape the thankless duties of motherhood. Just to name a few:

Pleading with the toddler to please refrain from doing his repeated, giggly pelvic thrusts while mama wrestles him to change his poopy diaper. (What the hell is this about? I have to BEG dude to let me change his diaper because it is such a lovely task that I look forward to daily?).

Pleading with said toddler not to beg for Mommy’s phone and make emergency calls featuring Chinese characters on the screen while mama at dry cleaners.

Pleading not to ride his infant brother like a horsey though #2 plush and solid.

Pleading not to touch all public surfaces, then proceed to place four of his five fingers in his mouth, like a dust and germ lollipop he whipped up.

Turning each mealtime into a game with mama telling overly animated stories and making Jim Carey faces so that he will be interested enough to eat a decent portion.

Eating leftovers just to soothe my growling stomach, not actually tasting the food, while feeding baby his avocado banana mush and toddler some chicken noodle soup. And constantly picking up food and drinks that toddler keeps dropping, both accidentally and on purpose.

Recently, the boys and I visited their daddy at the office. I quietly strolled in with the boys in their double stroller, having taken the subway from home. I was surprised by just how out of touch with that prior life I was, even though I have the same expensive degree. His co-workers were going for lunch and contemplating what to eat at their desks. Without two warm cute little bodies to factor in. One of our friends held Ellis for a few moments and then announced half-jokingly that that’s enough for him since he has to take care of his babies at home.

Had to pause right there to really let it sink in.

I, too, wanted to be On Break. And GET PAID FOR IT. Of course I know that working outside the home is not a true break but in that frazzled and overtired phase I was in, Kevin’s office seemed like the freaking spa. The quiet. The food. The peace.

This whopping 30% of my temptation to rejoin the workforce was turning out to be a disproportionately huge “30%!”

There is no need to make this a Stay-at-Home v. Working Mama debate. Absolutely no need. I learned this past week just how personal this decision is. I needlessly beat myself up for “not being like other moms” who go back to work after a standard maternity leave. I also felt it was too “luxurious” to stay at home for my second to grow into toddlerhood, like I couldn’t justify it. (And yes, I know I am SO blessed to even be able to weigh the options but we have been practicing living on one income since we got married).

After having made the choice to STAY THE SAME, to continue being at home for now, just like I’d been doing for the past 2.5 years, I am surprised to feel a change. I feel excited to form and solidify our own value system, for just our own little family, no one else’s, after surveying friends, acquaintances and strangers alike.

So this is The Decision. FOR NOW, FOR ME, FOR US. Never set in stone. Always up for reassessing periodically. FOR ME, I want to be the one to NOT get paid to play with my boys all day, for better or for worse. FOR ME, to take them to music class and see their faces light up with delight. FOR US, to pick #1 up from his first preschool and let him know that Mommy will always be there for him. FOR US, to nuzzle on both at home on our playmat and after taking a fall at the playground. FOR US, to tell stories to while strolling them in different configurations in our double stroller. FOR US, to discipline and chase and plead with.

To not miss out on Micah saying, “Be ‘shareful’ Mommy!” when he sees me opening the oven door in our cluttered little kitchen. To hear him say to his little brother, “Don’t cry, Ellis, Mommy’s hee-ah,” and even to hear him saying, “Go office, Mommy. I miss Daddy.”

An unexpected answer to prayer confirming that I would choose this same path all over again even with the whining, the diaper battles, the incessant demands.

Sure I can still experience my kids’ milestones and moments even if I went back to work now, but I don’t want to juggle FOR NOW. I want to be here for all of it, as Micah transitions to part-time preschool after being with Mommy his entire life, and as Ellis gets better at crawling without crashing head first into the TV stand.

FOR NOW, FOR ME, FOR US.

‘Cause I Gotta Have Faith, the Faith, the Faith…

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Kevin just left for his Wednesday night ritual. Looking for parking.

“Do what you need to do Jihee-yah! I’ll be BOCK,” he said as he left.

I’ve been wanting to write for so long but have been burnt out the past couple weeks. Since the kids have been battling a persistent cough and runny nose, I have been running after the one who can run and wrangling the other tender morsel to wipe their faces multiple times an hour. NONSTOP. The second one has to succumb to my sucking his snot out with my beloved Nosefrida but the first one just starts running like Peter, the chubby white boy on “The Cosby Show” whenever I threaten him with, “You’re next, Micah!” My days are filled with snot, spit-up, tears, drool, “Cover your mouth when you cough, Micah!” and, “Ellis, Ow, ow, ow, let go of mommy’s hair,” and a dozen requests for Mommy to do something else right then and there. Micah has also been a bit sensitive lately to our adoration of his little brother, acting up more when he sees me caring for or nibbling on Ellis.

As I started typing this, I got a whiff of a distinct gnarly smell. I began looking around the living room to see if I missed a puddle of spit-up from when Ellis practices crawling too soon after a meal. Nope. Couldn’t find anything. It turns out it’s my shirt. Just a general stench from wearing it two days in a row while carrying the kids around.

As thoroughly spent as I am, if I don’t write, I feel incomplete and even melancholy, just a shell of myself. I have to write but I’ve been confused about the medium: what belongs in a journal, in an email to a close friend, in a blog post, or even in a letter to my kids (moments to read about when they are older).

Since my last post, so much has happened in the world, namely the Boston Marathon bombing, which I don’t have the energy to string together words for at this moment.

When I want to write about 17 different things, and don’t get to jot them down, I lose them all.

(Okay, I need to take off this smelly shirt before I can proceed).

Two Sundays ago, Kevin and Ellis stayed home from church to nurse their colds. Kevin rarely misses church and I was tempted to stay back with them to gladly declare the day as Family Rest Day but I ended up driving just Micah and me to church. I acutely craved church after hearing about Pastor Rick Warren’s son, Matthew Warren, taking his own life at the age of 27, after battling depression all his life. A lot to unpack.

Quick drive down Queens Blvd. Micah is talking to me about what he sees on the road or singing along with the chorus of Taylor Swift’s “Trouble, trouble, trouble, Ohhh!”

We get in the vicinity of church and I start looking for parking. We pass by a crew of firemen washing their firetruck. Each time we pass, Micah exclaims, “FIRETRUCK!” At first, it was a cool sight to see, but each time we pass by them, it becomes a reminder that we STILL ain’t found no parking!

I start sweating profusely as I struggle to withhold my choice curse words. It is maddening to deal with parking even to get to church! I am very close to just driving back home since we are already half an hour late and I can’t stomach such tardiness. I can imagine myself surprising sick Kevin by stomping back into our apartment and throwing myself onto the couch, crying about how we couldn’t go to church due to PARKING! I know how much little Micah loves his Sunday school and this pisses me off even more.

I pray for patience, calm, and a parking spot. I explain to Micah, “We just need to park the car and then we can go into the church. You can go into your Little Lambs class but we need to park our car, okay?” (I used to wonder why parents bother to give play-by-plays to their toddlers but now I see how it can prevent tantrums if they know what’s going on, and how they are part of the action).

I start muttering while breathing deeply, “For the LOVE of GOD, please, please give us a parking spot!” Micah starts to parrot back, “…Love…God! please…parking! Love…God…oh, Mommy, firetruck!”

As the radio starts to blast George Michael’s oldie “‘Cause I gotta have faith, the faith, the faith, I gotta have faith!” I come up on a parking spot, like an oasis in the desert. A big space too! Now I see how God was teaching me patience and timely provision. I can make it to church after all. He had prepared this spot for me while I of weak faith doubted. What a great lesson, a story to tell on my blog perhaps? Almost too good to be true, especially with the perfect song playing on the radio!

Our friends pull up beside me in their bigger Honda. I say hello and check with them, “Hey, I finally found parking after more than 30 minutes! This is fine, right, this parking spot?” He checks for a few moments and informs me, “No, this is a construction site. You can’t park here.” Sure enough, I see that there is a sign on a makeshift wooden facade indicating that it is a construction site and that cars will be towed. It looked too good to be true because it was.

Moments ago, Micah and I had been high-fiving and cheering, “Yay, parking! Awww, jeahh!” but I sheepishly scoop Micah back into his carseat and explain that we cannot park there after all. Somehow, I am no longer tempted to return home to have an adult tantrum. I continue to look for parking. A huge truck ahead of me swoops in on a huge spot that I had been salivating for. In order to not give up, I keep picturing Micah learning songs in his Sunday school class. Keep my eyes on the prize.

We eventually find legal parking.

That Sunday ended up being the first time Micah stayed in Sunday school by himself. I kept sneaking peeks through the window in disbelief that he was able to separate. Initially, he started crying when I left but after I took him into the sanctuary for a few minutes to show him that this is where Mommy and other adults will be singing and listening to sermon, he looked at me firm in the eyes and solemnly said, “Bye Mommy!” I knew then that this was going to be it. He was ready.

Sure, parking is just parking, not a matter of life or death and this is a long-winded rant but when I thought I had found a spot with that George Michael song so aptly setting the mood, I thought I had come across a sweet little nugget, a neat story about having faith and God providing even something as insignificant as parking in moments of “darkness.” (I was really reaching, I know).

But life is messy and complex. God does not provide everything that can make for a sweet anecdote about faith or fit easily into a chapter of “Chicken Soup for the Soul.” Instead of the gift of that initial parking spot, I was gifted with resolve and self-control by not succumbing to my quick temper, by not driving home dejectedly. And the unexpected gift of Micah staying in Sunday school on his own for the first time.

In this wilderness of staying home with two very young children, I often feel lost in terms of next steps. The How of it all. When do I go back to work? In what form? How do I pour out all my heart and breath for my kids and family while still remembering to dream for myself and figure out what is life-giving to me apart from being their mama? And how can I contribute income to my family doing something I enjoy, while still being able to spend heaps of time with my kids? Is this even possible or must I white-fist it through some job just to provide?

I don’t know.

It may not be a simple story I can put a bow on and present as a neat chapter of my life but I want to keep searching. I may sweat profusely and throw tantrums along the way but I want to keep on keeping on. Goodnight.

“They’re Out of My Organic, Gluten-free Kale Chips!” and Other First World Problems

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“I’m looking at the list right now. Yup, there are about 80 people ahead of you on the waitlist for a parking space.”

“(Sigh). Well, thanks for double-checking. I was hoping y’all were April Foolin’ me about how there really are that many people ahead of us for parking since we bought our co-op over two years ago, but I guess the joke is really on us. But thanks for at least understanding what it’s like to look for parking with a toddler and infant in the backseat.”

“Wish I could help. It is even awful with my older kids but yes, there are about 80 people ahead of you.”

After I drove home with my two little morsels in the backseat today, trying to keep #1 from falling asleep so that he can clock at least a two-hour nap at home (don’t rob mama of her Halleluyer time), I could not find parking. AS ALWAYS. When I say I could not find parking, I don’t mean parking on my block. I mean parking within 10-12 blocks of our home. Time was of the essence and I grew more desperate as I saw #1 drowsily drop his apple chips and burrow into the sides of his carseat to drift off closer to REM sleep.

I had been praying for parking as I looped around and around the neighborhood but I knew I had to give up.

I parked in the first metered parking spot available. “Oh, so you have metered parking available you drama queen!” one might exclaim. Metered parking allows you to pay for only two hours at a time until 7 pm. This means after I pay for the first two hours, I have to come back at least two to three times to feed the meter. Not a huge deal if it were just me but this means no exhaling the rest of the day as I have to bring the kiddies out every two hours to avoid getting a costly ticket. Coax myself out of my pajama pants, coax my toddler back into his outside clothes, put him in his socks and shoes, wait for the elevator, give daps to the doorman again, wrangle my boy to come directly to the parking spot and not go wandering off to a puddle or patch of grass that happens to interest him. And wear my infant. And plead with #1 not to demand being carried when he catches mama cooing at his chubbier, roll-ier baby bro as she wears him.

Parking and weather are two of my greatest woes living in NYC. They affect me deeply. “Cuts me to the white meat”(!) as The Real Housewives of Atlanta say.

And yet…

I feel I cannot vent properly about them and how they affect my quality of life, how they zap me of my mojo, because of three STFU words that are getting on my last nerve because they are being overused and wrongly used: “First World Problems.” YES, the problems we face are largely problems that can exist only in the First World but it is not fair or helpful to minimize everything down to “First World Problems.”

At first, I liked the label. “First World Problems.” Catchy. Calling out our spoiled Americannness. Puts you in your place as you whine about how the organic market ran out of your favorite kale chips. The phrase was sassy and punchy. Could really shut it down in one fell swoop if anyone dared to complain about something that is not a problem at all, like stuff I’ve wanted to status update about even in a joking manner.

But I just couldn’t because they were so annoyingly First World: “My hands are all scratched up from shelling that juicy dungeness crab for dinner,” or, “You know your purely functional SAS-looking Mom shoes have reached new heights of hideousness when at a gathering, when it’s time to put your shoes back on, you pretend they ain’t yours and that you still looking for your pair when there ain’t no other shoes around.”

But then I caught myself calling EVERYTHING First World Problems and I choked myself out of sharing what I’m fighting through. And as an external processor, if I don’t feel free to talk about stuff that I’m struggling with because they sounded, well, too First World, then it could definitely mess with my mental health.

I already tend to compound my problems by judging myself for HAVING them in the first place. How dare I complain about how, sometimes, it can be SO hard to stay at home with my two kiddies when they are such gentle and agreeable kiddies, especially the jolly, roll-y infant? It’s not like I have triplets or even twins! I am SO blessed to be able to stay at home and still pay the bills. (And it doesn’t help when my MiL expresses that exact sentiment. “WHAT HAVE YOU TO COMPLAIN ABOUT!?”)

But I want to give myself permission to express how I long for some Me Time even by way of commuting to and from work without two little warm and smushy adorable bodies depending on me for food, entertainment, poop and pee disposal, clothing, shelter, general staying alive-ness, but I can’t make peace with someone else watching them. How I didn’t enjoy the actual work at my office jobs but boy I crave the Alone at Pret A Manger lunch breaks after which I can run a couple errands, just me myself and I, without a double stroller nearly knocking down a display as I enter or exit a CVS.

How I can feel more hairs turning grey when dealing with #1’s tantrum, as rare as they are, on the street for 40 minutes while the infant patiently coos at me and the staff at our co-op look at me with compassion as the sky starts to thunder and the parking space I scored is not really a parking space because of the damn fire hydrant rules.

And how I nearly tear up with envy when I hear local mamas say that THEIR local mama is coming over to relieve them here and there so that every outing doesn’t always have to be as a family of four. And how the long winter of 2012-2013 and the parking situation only exacerbated these feelings. Oh, and how I want to be able to have a washer/dryer unit INSIDE our home. And a dishwasher other than my husband.

It just becomes a slippery slope when we cannot validate someone’s struggles because someone else has it so much worse. Then how can we ever share what gets us down or trips us up?

Now White People Problems on the other hand…

to make a long story short

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To show people that I am actively listening to their stories, I tend to ask a lot of questions.  I am also a naturally curious person, like a kid in some ways.  I have to work on engaging in listening but with more silence. 

Thankfully, there is a Cliffs Notes version of listening as the following previews have clued me in on what’s about to follow:

1)  “…to make a long story short…” –> with all those tangents, first and last names, what year it was, what you were wearing, EVEN LONGER STORY AHEAD.  Better to just tell the long story without this inaccurate signifier.

2)  “Not to sound racist or anything…” –> hella racist and ign’ant shit (i.e. ex-co-worker Mean Girl leader, “Not to sound racist or anything but do you even celebrate Thanksgiving since you’re Korean?  Am I allowed to ask that or like, am I gonna be receiving an email from HR?”).  Note:  her question would have been perfectly fine had it been, “Hey, do Koreans even celebrate Thanksgiving?” or “Do Korean-Americans generally observe Thanksgiving?”

3)  “I’m just keepin’ it real…”  –>  real rude and hurtful.  Usually, users of this phrase can dish it but can’t take it when you “keep it real” with them.

4)  “I love her to death but…” –>  lemme break it down to you about aspects of her personality that I can’t stand.

What else?  I’m sure there are SO many more out there.

Deactivate

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I love blogging for the thrill of instant gratification. The publish option I choose is always, for better or for worse, “publish immediately.” Oftentimes, I know I should edit and make it better but I am like a little kid in a very grown body and I can’t wait to share my thoughts.

I realized that however drained I am after taking care of my toddler and infant all day, I am able to sneak in some Facebook and sometimes blogging too. What made me feel wistful/”jjing” is that Facebooking and blogging had replaced journaling, something that has been a part of my life since my dad bought me my first diary in the third grade. For me (and for others, too, I would imagine), blogging should never replace journaling because while I try to stay true to myself when writing for an audience, it is still writing with a knowing that others will read it.

What I blog about is only a sliver of who I am. There is always the fear of sharing something too personal and regretting it. The fear of how permanent it is once it’s out there. The fear of being misunderstood. Of being labeled. Categorized. Dissected. Judged. And of course, not every story is wholly my story to tell.

Everything is for public consumption these days. A while back, when I was trying to resist the Facebook craze, I watched some teenagers on the subway. They were taking so many pictures of themselves during the entire ride. They weren’t satisfied with each photo so they kept posing and reaching their arms out to take more selfies (self-pics) instead of carrying a conversation and being present with each other. Not just on that subway ride but everywhere. Restaurants, theaters, malls, parties, playgrounds, churches, living rooms, hospitals, cubicles, you name it.

While I was trying to relax for my first Mother’s Day at Spa Castle a couple years ago, I noticed a gaggle of teenage girls taking so many selfies in the dry sauna. AT THE SPA! “No, I don’t look cute here. Take it again.” I knew it was because they were dying to share on Facebook/Twitter in that very moment.

IT’S EVERYWHERE! I saw a first-time mama excitedly walking into her sonogram appointment, but only after she paused and checked in on Facebook. I can hear people thumbtyping away on the toilet in public restrooms. It’s become second nature, like flushing those very toilets people are Facebooking from.

As soon as our plane touched down on the runway on a recent flight, people turned on their gadgets and checked their Facebook even before their voicemails or emails. Props to Zuckerberg for world domination.

So many of us live like this now, including myself. I do this with pictures of my boys. I was always camera-happy even before I joined social media but now that I can share instantaneously especially with my friends and family back home, I am itching to share. My Newsfeed is full of check-ins, selfies, look what I’m reading, thinking about, watching…RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT!

Something that happened yesterday is old news.

How connected we are in 2013 never ceases to amaze me, but it does make some moments just a bit faker than back in the day. Living each moment while trying to record and share it right away lends itself to being less organic, more staged. I sometimes get grossed out when I think, “Oooh, I wanna blog about this.”

While I was trying to work some things out in my head and heart after leaving sunny LA and returning to grey NYC, I realized that my inner voice and God’s voice were too hard to hear with the noise of Facebook traffic constantly inundating me with tidbits from acquaintances’ lives. I deactivated for about a week just to clear my head. Deactivating the account proved to be too extreme because practically speaking, most acquaintances communicate via Facebook message instead of email, and with my not having text message there really would be no way to communicate.

I’m back on Facebook for now but I’ll always remind myself of those simpler times when people could just be happy or excited or _______ without taking a picture of being happy or excited or _______ and sharing that moment with 423 “friends.”

(Don’t) Text Me

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“Yeah, we should get together with the kids, after their naps some time,” I said to a friendly local mama I met at Gymboree then at the park. This was over the summer when I was pregnant with my Ellis and savoring my playtime with my OCUO (Only Child Until October).

“I know. We live pretty close by. Give me your phone number and I can text you when we come back to the park,” she responded.

“Oh, I don’t have text. Er, I mean I never allowed texting on my phone even if it’s a smartphone and I end up checking my emails too much. I know, my friends find it so annoying. Do you check your emails?” I asked.

“No, I don’t check my emails regularly at all. Should I find you on Facebook? I check that all the time although I am under a different name and it gets sort of complicated,” explained the nice mama.

“Hmm…I prefer email because I’m actually trying to wean myself off of Facebook. I guess everyone just prefers texting. I do see why it’s necessary.”

Needless to say, we never got together.

“Text me.” “Let’s Skype.” “Email me.” “Private message me on Facebook.” “Do you FaceTime?” One of my cousins in Korea even said, “If only you were on kakaotalk, we’d be able to keep in touch more.” Yet another medium! Not to mention Twitter and Pinterest. I can’t keep up!

I know I am practically the only one who still doesn’t text. I promise I’m not doing it just to have a quirk because that would be so lame and so sad. In fact, I don’t enjoy always explaining to people how or why I don’t have text. Now I can refer them to this entry.

Around 2000, I gave in and finally acquired a cellphone. The prior year, I had borrowed my dad’s very basic cellphone when I had to take my Master’s Exam at UCLA. I was worried about having car problems on the way to the exam. When I did become a cellphone owner, I asked Verizon not to turn on this “text” option as I started hearing about friends sending and receiving too many texts and owing way more than their usual bill each month. People started warning people, “Hey, call me, don’t text me because I went way over this month.”

I have a tendency to resist technology that makes life easier. I know I am dating myself but when I was a senior in high school, I heard about something called “electronic mail.” I heard it was like a letter but NOT USING THE POSTAL SERVICE! You received the “letter” within seconds. This scared me. This level of technological advancement sounded like some voodoo black magic. E-mail? I am a Christian for God’s sakes! I declared, “Well, I don’t care how popular this E-MAIL is. I do NOT want any part of it.” I have since come around.

I have yet to come around with texting. It started with a conviction that everyone was becoming too easily reachable. Only doctors need to be reached at all hours of the day and night!

These days, both socially and professionally, people are too connected via some medium of communicating. Texting seemed to be the most direct, like someone tapping you on your shoulder no matter what you were in the middle of, and asking you to respond. “Did you get my text? You never texted back!” This makes it the most efficient way of asking someone something really fast and it bites me in the butt to not be able to do that yet I haven’t budged because of the pressure I would put on myself to respond even faster than I already do to emails.

This neurosis is related to being a people-pleaser. I try to respond to all emails and voicemails though not everyone reciprocates with this courtesy. But good for them, to be able to cut themselves a break and flake at times. I’d love to be able to allow myself to not respond sometimes but I feel a monkey on my back if I don’t. I never want to be thought of as unreliable or unresponsive. I sometimes catch myself responding to emails when I shouldn’t, like while nursing my baby in bed or while I’m supposed to be fully engaged and present, working on a puzzle with my toddler. The thought of being judged or even perceived as unresponsive drives me nuts. I pride myself in being responsive to other people’s needs so when I feel that I am failing in this, it consumes me and I am driven to try and fix this. I don’t even know why this bothers me so much since “unresponsive” isn’t synonymous with murderer or arsonist. I may have to talk to a shrink about this.

I am not able to turn this self-pressuring off. I fear that texting will only exacerbate it.

So even if I still respond to almost all emails and vmails, I want the OPTION to not respond right away because it will stress me out. Yes, I know I am overthinking things but somehow, not texting has become a vestige of a time we weren’t so unhealthily connected ’round the clock.

Sure, I am on my gmail and Facebook way too much these days, thus defeating the purpose of being unreachable at times but they are vehicles I’ve chosen. Sidenote: There is a timestamp feature on Facebook messaging, where it says, for instance, “seen at 9:01 pm,” letting the sender know when exactly you read their message. It tattles on me and I feel pressure to respond right away, much like a text would, and I don’t like it at all.

I am not sure if texting will become obsolete since so many have email capabilities on their phones now or if I will have to give in because more people, like my boys’ future schools, may choose to communicate via text.

My husband said, “Jihee-yah, if you were at a college like Virginia Tech where they’re going to start warning students of shooters on campus VIA TEXT, you’d be the only one not evacuating. You’d be in the computer lab, trying to eat your snacks and not knowing that there is a shooter on campus all because of your no texting policy. So can I please just get it for you?”

Many years ago, Kevin and I were playing a game of Amazing Race around Manhattan with a group of people from our church and they texted me the final clue. My not being able to receive texts nearly robbed us of our victory. (We still won because we were able to prove we were the earliest to the pit stop.)

I know, it’s weird. I do reconsider when I hear that someone texted me and thought I was just not responding since they don’t receive an error message from Verizon stating that recipient does not have text messaging.

You think this is beyond weird? Then don’t even get me started on my fear of video games. I don’t think it takes a psychiatrist to figure out why seeing the word “FAIL” in bright neon letters with sound effects does a number on me.

cauliflower steaks

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On this rainy Monday, Micah and I were watching his beloved Mickey on Disney Junior after his nap. I almost fastforwarded through a commerical, a how-to demo for making “Cauliflower Steaks.” But during the fastforwarding, I saw that she had just rubbed some salt and parsley into cut-up cauliflower and put them on the grill for five minutes. That’s it? Even *I* can do that!

I realized again that names mean everything to me. Just because she had called them “cauliflower steaks,” I had gotten needlessly intimidated and wanted to glaze over the way I do for all things kitchen. The name sounded more serious than what it was, which was “Cut and Salted Cauliflower in the Oven” or even “Roasted Cauliflower.” I had assumed that cauliflower steaks would involve some elaborate voodoo that I didn’t want to attempt (I promise I did not think it involved the alchemy of turning cauliflower into steaks).

Same goes for places. When I first moved to NYC seven and a half years ago, I immediately went to go look at Astoria for an apartment rental because the name sounded so enchanting, like from The Never Ending Story. Like I would be exploring NYC’s nooks and crannies with my then-boyfriend, now-husband, along with our entourage of Atreyu, Bastian, and The Luck Dragon. I grimaced when I heard of a land called Flushing.

After watching “Saw,” my husband asked me if I liked it. After deliberating whether or not I did in fact like it (I did), I said, “Yes, but the title.” “What about the title?” “I wish they didn’t call it ‘Saw’. I wish they had named it straight up ‘Kill Yoself Killa.'” I dismiss many movies based on poor titles like “Tower Heist.” Not catchy or creative. I cannot imagine my ordering tickets at the box office for one “Tower Heist.” Yet I appreciate juvenile titles like “Crazy Stupid Love” because it just works! I don’t know how Kevin convinced me to go watch “I Heart Huckabees” though.

During my first full-time job as an Account Associate at a public relations / strategic communications firm in West Hollywood, CA, we were hosting a literacy convention for The LA Times. Our Vice President was trying to impress our client and explained in her most schmoozy voice, “Please do not worry about any of the preparation on that day as my staff will take care of all signage for you.” Signage meant that I was going to make some signs with a black Sharpie. Nothing fancy. Not even involving a computer.

I became consumed with that word and what it represented at that time in my young career. I called my friends to explain that I don’t think I can work in an office setting because people think they can just throw words like “signage” around without laughing. I wanted people to say, “My staff will make the signs.” I know I totally overreacted but I realized I have word allergies. “Signage” was one. “Treatise” was another I encountered years later in law school.

I can go on and on but I have to make my cauliflower steaks now before it gets any later.

“The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” v. “Washington Heights”

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Blizzard looks freaking beautiful outside my window. I love hearing the crackling sound as the snow pellets hit my window.

Both my morsels are knocked out, though #2 will soon suck on his fists vociferously, looking for some nourishment to sustain the swollness of his cheeks. The dude is so chill, making him even more adorable to me. Yesterday, big bro finally became too curious about little bro’s Albert Einstein hair and yanked it hard after fronting like he was going to be gentle. EZ hardly let out more than a yelp though I had to reprimand Micah to never do that again.

I should lie down for a bit because I still feed EZ around 2 am and 6ish am though he is over 4 months now. He doesn’t cry to be fed but I hear him sucking his little fists hard and I see his black eyes open in the dark like a squirrel looking for a nut and I know he’s hungry.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how the ladies of the The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (“TRHOBH”) and the cast of Washington Heights (“WH”) cannot be more different.

I watch TRHOBH with such disdain that I shouldn’t watch, if I’m gonna be such a hater. Eyes hurting from rolling my eyes too much. Maybe it stems from envy on some level but only of their bank accounts and how money is never a factor to weigh. These ladies have money coming out their ears but are the opposite of bombdig80 in every way.

Their posh gatherings are almost always catered even if it’s just hanging out at their crib. I wouldn’t be mad at that because who wouldn’t want tuna tartare on the regular but they don’t even have real friendships while gathered around said tuna tartare, despite all the cheek-kissing. Their gatherings are always about the decadent food or the poshness of the event/trip, not that they actually enjoy each other. Their “friendships” are so wack that I always thank God for my real friends whenever I watch these clowns. They just try to keep up with each other, make sure they are as bling’d out, lipglossed, Spank’d, hair-did, dieted as their “friend.” They are competitive about their pet projects/side hustles that they couldn’t have landed without this show.

The recent Vegas trip hosted by Brandi was cringeworthy because she was trying so hard to fit in with these hens not because they are quality friendship material but because of their wealth, power, connections. They tried so hard to crack up over unfunny banter (“ba-gi-na!”) and act like they are truly bonding. I’ve been in professional situations like that, where I have to fake-smile and sustain the smile for the whole evening that I leave the dinner with aching facial muscles.

I know they are not friends from childhood so I shouldn’t expect their bond to go deeper than for the cameras but I can’t help but compare them to the kids on WH. (I actually don’t know how old the cast of WH are but much younger than me).

I just started watching WH because one of my best friends told me about it. I wasn’t going to tune in because I need to be doing other things offa my to-do list and the cast looks too young to interest me. But these kids are BOMB!

They may not have ends/scrill/cheddar/greenbacks right now but their friendships are so genuine and strong that they want to bring each other up when they do come up. No jealousy or sizing each other up. Always genuinely supporting each others’ endeavors, be it rapping, singing, poetry, art, baseball. They pool together their limited funds to just buy some fried chicken and hang on the rooftop or have taco night but make sure everyone comes through to spend time together, just clowning each other, and checking in.

I know the hens on TROBH always show up to everything to “support” each other but it isn’t convincing. There is such a contrast with WH. These kids really care. They listen to each other, are loyal, and not transactional. Whether it’s someone’s birthday or Open Mic Night, they are so there for each other and celebratory of others’ successes.

Their friendship makes it less tough to deal with problems like a younger brother’s incarceration, not having both parents around, or having to pass out flyers as a day job so that he can chase his pro-baseball dreams.

Unlike some would be, these kids are not ashamed of their humble backgrounds. Ludwin’s grandma sells shaved ice from a cart and he runs after her, not from her, so that he and a friend can score some ices for free. J.P. beams as he hands over a few hundred dollars to his mama, money he made at a rapping gig, money they needed to pay their electric bill.

TROBH would never be okay with slumming it and their “problems” are never about how to pay the bills or having a roof over their heads but about nerves before getting her nose done or feeling awkward at a cocktail party because someone defamed someone else.

And the difference in the LEVEL OF CONVERSATION and humor! The hens on that other show are so dull even though they travel to exotic places and attend high society events. These WH kids just flow with each other and talk so well about matters of the heart – their dreams, fears, relationships, families, issues. True, Frankie needs to walk away from Ludwin because she WILL get hurt but overall dynamics is that everyone can talk about anything and everything. No stupid small talk or hiding their real selves.

OK, this post sucked as I couldn’t drop examples (too time consuming to describe) but if I wait to edit, I’m never gonna post so here it goes. Fat Cheeks woke up anyhow. Peace.

Lazy Susan

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Don’t you just cherish those moments when you get so inspired and renewed with hope?

Last night, when half my family, K and M, went out in the fresh snow to fetch the family some Chinese food for dinner, I used the half hour to unwind by playing on Facebook.

I came across a video clip called, “Oprah: ‘This Is Gonna Shut Your Mouth!'” It’s really too late at night for me to summarize the clip accurately but basically I got to “meet” Nick Vujicic, a young man born without arms or legs. Sure, I’ve heard inspirational stories before but this dude really got to me. He had such lively eyes as he broke it down for us all – how he is now able to truly rejoice in the Lord though he was tormented in his childhood, feeling cursed and worthless.

His journey to self-acceptance and blessing others all around the world is beyond astounding. Visually, he is jarring to lay eyes on, especially for the first time, as he is only a handsome face/head set atop a torso with no arms or legs. All you see is a torso making its way around effortlessly. No prosthetic limbs so he is sometimes carried around like a baby.

Nick sports a huge smile like he just can’t contain all his joy and has that twinkle in his eye as he speaks. He plays soccer, surfs, golfs, and is more active than most of us able-bodied folks. He just recently married the love of his life (gorgeous, of course), and is expecting his first child (a boy) in just a few weeks (I think).

I started reading up on his organization, Life Without Limbs, and was truly inspired to overcome my own deep-seated self-doubts and negativity that sometimes have their way with me. This guy was born without LIMBS yet he is able to THRIVE and live life to its fullest.

As I basked in this moment of Church right at my cluttered desk, my boys arrived with our warm, fatty meal in honor of TGIF. Kevin set up the Korean sahng (table) on the floor, where we eat our dinner.

As I reached for more Beef Chow Fun, Yang Chow Fried Rice, and Walnut Shrimp, I realized I had to get up yet again to grab water and napkins from the kitchen.

I growled, “Man, we can’t be eating on the floor no more! Do you know how hard it is on me, to get up to grab stuff? You know I have a bad back…and a long-ass torso!”

milkshake apéritif

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When my husband comes home soon, I get to go into our poorly lit bedroom for a little bit (until our congested #2 needs to be nursed) and BE STILL, after a day of meeting our kiddies’ demands, without a playdate or an outing to break up the wintry hours.

It is comical to me, a Californian, how cold it is this week. It’s a joke. And it’s doing nothing for my VERY LOOSE plan to slim down before seeing my best friends. The husband is an enabler when he asked all on his own yesterday, the Day Micah Didn’t Nap, “Do you want me to get you your peanut butter/chocolate shake from your spot? I have to move the car anyways and you’ve had a rough day.” Even more ridiculous than this week’s arctic temps is that we still have to move our car. And yes, that is my usual “beverage” of choice.

Being at home with the kids makes me feel like I have multiple personalities. When I’m squeezing and kissing them, or watching the gorgeously fat-cheeked one beaming at the now-lean one, upside down, from his Boppy pillow, with a milky smile, I think, “I SO understand the Duggars. How can we stop at just two of these morsels?” Same for when I see the boys bonding, or #1 beaming at his music class or at Sunday School, or feeding me tons of imaginary food.

But when I still don’t have it together enough to plan and cook nutritious, delicious meals for them or run the home like a small preschool, all the while being a Proverbs 31 wifey, I feel like I am only surviving, not thriving. Not being the best mama I can be while blessed enough to be at home.

Or when I see myself, really see myself a la “Avatar,” on a day like today, dressing PURELY for comfort, wearing the same hole-y tore-up loose grey t-shirt and navy elastic pants that aren’t so elastic any more, with dried milk stains on or around the chest, smelling not unlike cheese because of said milk, and hair falling out of ponytail holder like I’m actually TRYING to look like the BEFORE on The Ricki Lake Show, makeover episode circa 1991, with my teef knocked out (not really, but the gheem I overate while waiting for the husband to make his entrance, makes it look like I lost a couple teeth), I think, “How am I gonna revamp myself to look and feel as presentable as working Jihee? To be motivated in the mornings to not be a slob just because I knew we weren’t going out at all today?” Big ups to my hair, though, steadfastly thick and sustaining a gal through some blah moments, though not able to be held in place.

During this free time, I should finish at least one of the Christian books I’ve started.

I should at least START the book on toilet training that I procured from the library. But how does one read more on parenting after a whole day of parenting? NO THANK YOU!

We really should change the lighting in our home to not look like we’re filming a PSA against domestic violence here.

We really should do something about the clutter that enrages me yet never goes away completely. We just seem to rearrange shit into different corners of the home, a stupid game of Hide-and-Seek, where everything is actually in plain view.

We really need to move into bigger space. Already. After having bought this place so recently (Sept. 2010). But the bank is so unreasonable, not willing to accept Monopoly money for the monthly mortgage and maintenance payments.

All I want to do is tune out for a bit and be on this heavy laptop that Micah forbids me from using during the day, tune out by reading a blog I found called “People I Want to Punch in the Face.” Today, I want to add to that list “people with unlimited free time.”

My time is up. I didn’t get to read that blog but at least I got to type a sliver of my own thoughts. And yes, I know this is all just a season and soon I will find my groove and I need to be kinder and more patient with my self, blah blah. Let a girl get her therapy on via blog, though, won’t you, please, my dear seven readers? Peace.