Like Sands Through the Hourglass…

FullSizeRender (5)FullSizeRender (6)FullSizeRender (7)FullSizeRender (8)IMG_2438FullSizeRender (9)FullSizeRender (10)FullSizeRender (11)When deliberating where to go for our last hurrah vacation as a family of four, we were able to narrow it down to L.A. vs. Orlando.  Thankfully, we didn’t have too many options to cull through as our passports have not been renewed and other Florida spots were known for Zika outbreaks.  As much as we would have loved to go back to my hometown, we opted for Orlando as Escaping the Cold and Relaxation were our #1 priorities.

You know how we all say, “Where has the time gone!?”?  I can recall a few moments from this delightful break where I actually could pinpoint my kids growing up before my very eyes.

As much as our Wild Florida Airboat ride, Gator and Wildlife Park, Legoland, Crayola Experience, and other excursions made the trip fun and memorable, I replayed the precious growth moments over and over in my head during our week together.  They may sound mundane but I still recall them vividly:

When we arrived at Crayola Experience on the one rainy day of the week, I immediately looked for a bench to hobble towards as I had been having acute back pain.  It was so bad that we looked into renting an Electric Convenience Vehicle at Legoland.  Anyways, the boys were dancing in front of some moving crayon images while I watched.  Suddenly, a massive group of students on fieldtrip entered the space between the boys and me, while Kevin was in the admissions line.  I still had my eye on them but they could not see me.  I craned my neck to keep my eye on them and watched as Micah’s face morphed from slight panic to great resolve.

“Ellis, come!” Micah looked ever firstborn in that split second as he grabbed his compliant little bro’s hand and starting walking away from the crowd.

“Micah!  Mommy still sees you!  Where you going?  I never lost sight of you.”

Micah, looking relieved: “I was taking us to the workers to report that we had lost our mom.”  (Of course I thought about the movie, “Lion,” all over again.  Gulp.)

For some reason, this moment has left a mark on my heart.  My boy is growing up.  I don’t see the drooly toddler who soaked through 15 bibs a day, no exaggerating, as we watched the big kindergardeners go off to school.  This is a bonafide big brother who snatched his cheeky little brother when he thought that this was finally the moment his mom had warned him about, “If you ever get lost, go up to someone who works there OR go up to another mom!”

He is ready to become Big Bro of two.

Second moment:  When we hit the pool, Ellis usually asks one of us to hold him as he gets adjusted to the water.  I didn’t realize how much I savored that babyish habit until this time, in our Orlando pool, he said, “I don’t need you any more, Mom-oo!”

I paused to take the moment in.  “My Pillow Cheeks has grown up so much.  You don’t even need Mommy any more!”  I sheepishly swam away backwards while facing him to watch him grow before my very eyes.  He must have felt this moment too as he added, “I don’t need you.  But I still want you.”

And the final moment was at the airport.  We were strapped for time as I had kept us another 15 minutes at Disney Springs.  Instead of trying to manage with my jacked back, one sleeping Ellis, and too many bags for Kevin and Micah to carry on their own, we flagged down a porter.  When I told the porter our flight time, he said, “We have to hurry.”

But I could not hurry.  I could hardly walk as I felt stabbing pain on my lower back, even with a belly / back brace on.  The rest of my family ran with the porter.  I tried my best but I could only walk.  My eyes started watering from the pain and I looked up to see my Micah’s concerned face.  “My mom…she can’t run.  She’s coming.  Mommy, you can do it, you can do it!”

Now, my eyes were watering from the love my growing boy had for me as I hobbled to keep up.  I always imagine him from a few years back, where I did everything for him.  I guess it didn’t dawn on me that as he grows up, he will be the one cheering ME on.  I had underestimated the six year old boy before me.

His stricken look didn’t go away until I was able to join them in the elevator to make our flight.  I realized that our family being together was just as important to the kids as it was to us.

Thank you, Orlando, the host of our precious moments!  Happy 40th Birthday to Kevin, who took care of all of us on the trip!

 

 

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That Raccoon Life

A few of my years attending UC Berkeley for undergrad was spent in a house on Dwight Way.  I remember my roommates and I talking about the new nuisance on the block:  Raccoons!  While adorable in children’s storybooks, far from adorable when stumbling upon them in real life.

One of my housemates came home reporting another raccoon sighting:  “Eww, the guys across the street at Americana said that at night, they caught a FAMILY of raccoons going for a night swim!  Can you imagine?  So gross!”

As I tried to fall asleep that night, visions of the raccoon family took hold of me.  As much as I was anti-raccoon, the vivid image of the family going for a swim captured my heart.  Not gross at all.

Were the raccoon parents immigrants?  What was their story?  When did the parents get together?  The dad must have told his buddies, proudly, that he can’t go foraging with them that night because he was going to take his family swimming.  The kids were probably excited all day for their moonlit swim.

I pictured the dad looking at a map for the best swim holes Berkeley had to offer, researching how to get there and weighing the pros and cons between Clark Kerr pool and the more humble pool at Americana apartments.

I imagined the mom making some kimbahb and packing some trash for their midnight excursion.  The kids were not helpful but their excitement was contagious.  When the coast was clear and the loud humans were off to bed, the dad must have let out a high pitched whistle with his black lips and leathery black fingers,  waving one bandit hand, “It’s time.  Dive on in, guys!”

For some reason, this raccoon family I had not even encountered for myself during my college days, left an imprint in my brain.  I especially pictured the leader of the pack, the family-oriented Dad, creating some merriment for his brood.

Yesterday, despite the cold, hail, rain, and slushy Slurpee streets of NYC, Kevin and I were determined to go for a swim together.  His gym was offering two hours of Family Fun time where we could all go swimming as part of his membership.  This would entail some planning in order to make it in time.

Pack our swim stuff the night before, to take on the E train into Midtown.

Attend church.  Leave stuff in car for easier transport to subway.

Buy empanadas for speedy lunch on the run.

Drop off car in our lot.  Confirm with gym that their pool is open.  Take swim stuff and position onto Ellis’ stroller and have him sit in stroller so our massive belongings don’t tip over.

Walk to subway stop without slipping.  Especially Mommy and her Belly.

Wait for Sunday E train and remind boys to stay in the middle of the platform.

Hop on train.  Grab seats as they become available.  Kevin scarf down a few empanadas he could not eat while driving us home.

Pop out of train and maneuver umbrellas.  Walk to gym as more freezing rain pours down.

Laugh at how we really must like adventures and wonder if others would even bother to do this for a free family swim or just say, “Haiiiill nah!”

Sign waivers, change into swimsuits and meet at the pool.

Kevin told me to get my lap swim on while he frolicked with the kids in the loafer lane.  The kids were beaming.  Their wet seal heads bobbed up and down.  Daddy took them on rides on his back.

As I swam towards them, my eyes teared up behind my goggles.  They looked…not unlike…the raccoon family of my college imaginings.  I hadn’t thought about that raccoon family in years but there they were, every bit as tight as I had imagined.  Turns out that the dad had a gym membership!

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post swim foraging

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post swim ride home – feeling relaxed and happy and hungry

 

 

 

 

Storm Queen aka This is 40

I used to get embarrassed for folks who were all, “It’s my birfday!  We gotta go out for my birfday!”  I was like, “You turning 38, don’t act thirsty for a bouncy house or a tiara.  Have several seats and act grown!”

Living in the age of social media, I see more stories of lives taken too soon and those asking for prayer for health problems.  So, as I get older, fully FEELING how everyday is a gift, I want to celebrate everything. (And I repent my previous years of judging the birthday-thirsty).

Though I didn’t get a chance to reflect some more about my big 4-0 (beyond the previous blog post written when I was a tender 39) or set any goals for the new decade, I wanted to share a couple favorite moments.

My 10/4 (4×10) birthday landed on Rosh Hashanah, on day two of two consecutive school holidays after the weekend celebration of Ellis’ 4th birthday. His casual school party, World’s Maker Faire, Ellis’ Bowlmageddon Party, then two days dedicated to me.

Kevin took two days off and drove us to one of my fave spots on the eve of my birthday.  Storm King:  one of the world’s leading sculpture parks in the lower Hudson Valley, about an hour north of NYC.  (We also stopped by the tiny Socrates Sculpture Park in Queens on my actual birthday the next day, but that was a drive-by half-hour visit, after dropping by the gorgeous waterfront Costco in LIC next door, before escaping the city again).

Being outdoors in nature is one of the most life-giving gifts for this California gal.  I would love to hike and swim all year long, nekked if I could.  The boys took me to Storm King so that I can trade in all that car-honking in Queens for some geese-honking.  (Actually, even the geese of Storm King were very quiet.)

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We took a 40-minute shuttle ride around the grounds.  While it was lovely, it was not restful or peaceful because I sat next to Ellis the Clown who would exclaim after placing various objects on my body, “Mommy, guess wha-a-at?  You have a rock on your shoulder!  Why don’t you pretend to throw it?  ahahahahahah you still have a rock on your shoulder!  Mommy, do you think I’m going to throw this bottle out or do you think I’m going to just pretend?  Litterbug or just pretend?”

So I had to monitor this charming but handful of a dude.  Later, Kevin wanted to gift me with a solitary ride in the same shuttle.  “Hey, you loved riding alone last time.  You have to do it again.  If you run, you can catch the last one and I’ll take these fools around to wrestle on the grass.”

I was torn for a second because I wanted to spend every moment with my morsels on my last day of being 39 (yes, I am SUPER sentimental).  But I caught a front row seat on the shuttle, all by myself.

As the shuttle took off, I heard, “MOMMY MOMMY!” coming from a tower.  I looked up and saw my three boys, Small, Medium and Large, sending me off on my 40 minutes of solo time.  They were beaming and waving at me from behind the trees, like I was going off to Seoul to teach English for a year rather than just 40 minutes away.

Naturally, I waved back like a maniac and teared up, thinking about how close we are as a family, perhaps due to the very thing that grieves me, the lack of an extended family village.  Also, memories came gushing forth, memories of when I was a 100% stay-at-home mom for a full 4.5 years, those years of being each others’ planets.

And now look at them, my emoji comedian who can moonlight as a food inspector as he WILL find even the smallest hair in any takeout order or couch cushion, my observant and profound MLK, who says things that make my mouth drop to the floor (“I still dream of Nepal, Mommy.  What’s going on over there now?”) and my husband, my biggest supporter and encourager, who also says things that make me go WHAT!?…(“Hey, so I’m not gonna wear shorts any more because I saw Pitbull.  THAT dude looks SO cool in his suits, like he would never ever be caught dead wearing shorts.  It’s just beneath him.”)

During my 37-minute shuttle ride, I relished in the quiet, thanked God over and over again for my gifts, and lifted up a few prayers for my new decade.  As we drove past the last few sculptures, I saw some masterpieces GALLOP past me!

It was my family, about to climb one of the viewing towers as we shuttlers watched.  The boys shyly waved at me.

It was a perfect moment I hope to replay over and over again.  This shuttle taking me around to each giant monument on the 500 acres was perfect for my 40th as I remembered the monuments in my own life, and admired the three greatest ones, now literally on display for me to gaze at.

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Micah sitting on nickels

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10.4.16 Socrates Sculpture Park

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Socrates

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Socrates

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Christopher Walken heads at Socrates

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Socrates

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Kombucha Tea and the Amalfi Coast

One huge perk of being an at-home mama is that I don’t have to take the subway five days a week no mo’.

I am reminded of this blessing each time I end up on the train.  The delays have gotten much worse.  Commuters look like they are suffering from clinical depression.  The shiny, happy ones are just visiting from Austin or Cleveland.

I had a couple appointments in deep Manhattan the other day.  Unfortunately, I had brought a novel that turned out to be unreadable so I tried to practice mindfulness during this rare occasion for weekday solitude.

Sitting across from me was an older Black lady with her chin slumped down on her chest. She wore dark sunglasses, a hat, about 20 beaded bracelets on each forearm, multiple layers of clothes, including a thick beige wool coat on this fair, sunny day.  On her feet were thick white socks and flip-flops.  She looked like she was either in deep slumber or closing her eyes to shut out reality.  Her big turquoise purse was taking up coveted sitting space on the crowded morning E train.

I noticed her but I didn’t pay her any mind as I let my thoughts wander off.

Suddenly, I heard her screaming.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me, you beater!  I will hit you right back, you beater!  I bet if I were a man, you wouldn’t have dared touched me!  I am so sick of men always poking and touching me!  I will fight back you hear me!?”

A man had tapped her to move her purse so he can sit.

She came undone and her rage came spewing forth like hot molten lava.  Commuters either looked away, looked past her, or stared while smirking as she continued to shout at the man.

The man took the seat calmly and let her continue with her loud diatribe:

“Drink some kombucha, you bottom belly!”

“Try some fine arts to exercise your left brain, right brain, you pig!”

When the man got off at the next stop, another commuter offered him his condolences and pat him on his back as he wished him a great day.  He was smiling and unfazed.  He hadn’t let her get to him because she clearly was dealing with a whole lot of pain that had nothing to do with him.

His tap on her shoulder had simply released all that palpable rage hovering at the surface.

When these type of subway incidents occur, I only get surprised that more don’t occur with all of us jammed together, getting sloshed around as if in a snow globe.

I’ve had my share of them, from a visibly deranged White woman calling my genitalia racial slurs to a gay White man growling at me for being “so annoying.”  (I was simply sitting and existing, not eating or pushing or singing or playing any music or even breathing stank breath when I noticed him glaring at me like he wanted to hit me.  I had to ask him whassup before his eyes popped out of his head and he explained that I was “so annoying.”  Let’s just say…we had words.)

This angry lady’s diatribe reminded me once again of how we all have different triggers from different hurts that we carry with us.  And God help the stranger on the train or the colleague at work or acquaintance at your child’s school or close friend or spouse who picks the scabs offa those wounds.

Shortly after this angry lady got off the train, another lady got on.  This one was White, trying to be blonde, maybe in her early to mid-50s, carrying a bright white Prada bag.  She was not pretty but impeccably groomed, her face freshly treated to a facial and who knows what else.  Very well-dressed.  Her essence exuded a pampered, enviable existence.

She kept checking her reflection against the dark subway windows as she conversed with her subway companion, a young man, young enough to be her son (but just an acquaintance).  I couldn’t help but overhear their entire conversation as they stood right in front of me.

I started feeling annoyed by this privileged aging princess who was saying some really conceited sh*t while standing in front of me.

She kept adjusting her expensive clothes and checking out her unlined face.  I got the feeling she wanted others to hear her talking.

“…so I’ll be headed to the Amalfi Coast early June.  My friends are already there so all I have to do is show up, you know.  How easy is that?” she said as she looked around.

My annoyance began to bubble.

“Fuck you and the Amalfi Coast.  Why don’t your privileged ass just stay there and DRINK SOME KOMBUCHA, YOU BOTTOM BELLY!”

That’s when I realized that the only thing separating me from the raging lady earlier was that she said her stuff out loud while I shouted on the inside.

What we shared in common was that we took out our “stuff” onto perfect strangers who happened to push our exposed triggers.

I didn’t know this lady at all but suddenly, my wounds regarding the Haves and Have Nots, my family’s struggles and er, their lack of Amalfi Coast vacations even in the sunset of their lives, were easy to lash out against her bright white Prada purse and unnaturally unlined, pampered face.

Suddenly, I wasn’t myself, not the self that I know.  I was eyeing my Tory Birch tote bag and Gucci watch, both purchased during our Double Income No Kids days, as if those trifling labels proved my worth before this wealthy lady.  I couldn’t believe myself.  GROSS!

My lightweight Costco Calvin Klein coat that every other woman in Queens was sporting this winter and my black jeans, also from Costco, suddenly deemed me Less Than!?

I may have to give this kombucha tea a try though.  Amalfi Coast, perhaps another time. Who said the subway wasn’t educational?

Ladybug’s Landing

It’s been a couple months since I blogged. First, different things came up so I didn’t have the luxury of writing at night.  Then we made it back to LA for our annual trip home.  Well, MY home.

It’s been hard adjusting back to NYC life, my home of nearly ten years, after getting a taste of what my life could be like in a sunny, palm tree-lined land where I could see my family weekly instead of annually, and where my kids could grow up with my best friends’ kids.  I’m sure I said that exact same thing about a year ago. I just feel so done with everything.  The weather, the congestion, the potholes created by the snow, the commute to our car, the repeating myself over and over again as I hear the boys going back and forth between lovefest and fighting every few moments.

Even blogging and Facebook make me say, “Eh, why bother?” Life feels “thinner” or less full here away from the different way of life on the West Coast, away from the folks who’ve known me since I was a kid.  Or from birth.

Daily tasks are just plain harder to accomplish here where space is at a premium and you don’t know how freezing it will be on any given day.  To walk out the door still requires pre-bundling. Don’t even get me started on the huge disparity in customer service in SoCal vs my ‘hood.  Folks be asking how it’s going while they SMILE at me, assuring me to take my time, asking if I need help with anything!

Finally, at the risk of sounding REALLY Californian, people’s auras were downright different.  People were happy and light as they hiked through the canyons, not pummeled by constant cold weather and rush rush rush. I’ve been sighing too much.  I’m still surprised by adult life even at my mature age.  It sure takes a lot of energy to maintain a household, a family, a marriage, not to mention friendships, individual needs, wants, and goals.

Then I go through a cycle of guilt when I hear about a young mama passing away suddenly at the age of 30, or yet another unsuspecting soul being stricken with cancer.

In my recent rut, I wake up with my hands outstretched to the heavens, praying that God will give me strength for the day ahead when I don’t FEEL the motivation I used to have. The spring in my steps.  The extra boost of mom stremf.  My mojo is lost or at least temporarily misplaced.

It’s funny that in my slump, when the last thing I want to do is take care of other humans, my kids end up encouraging me when I least expect it. Just last week, I was probably sighing again as I refilled their drinks and got up to fetch another library book to keep them from asking for TV.  While up, I put away a few toys, threatened to throw away Starscream if I stepped on him again, and peeked at the cable box’s clock to see when I can just sit in silence with no one asking me for one more thing.

Ellis climbed right up onto my chest with his huge round eyes.  Like a cat. He peered right into my “I’m So Over This” gaze and pointed out solemnly and loudly, “Mommy, you so lucky.”

“Lucky?”

I didn’t feel lucky in that moment.  I felt like the kids’ fat maid who needed to get fired.

“Why is Mommy so lucky?”  I itched to know. He got even closer to my face, with his wet tulip mouth and no sense of boundaries.  He placed his pudgy hand on my forearm.

“Because a ladybug landed on you, Mommy.  At the beach, the ladybug landed on YOU.  You lucky, Mommy.”  He looked very serious like a little preacher.

I remembered. I remembered how we got to play at the beach on Kevin’s birthday during our trip to LA.  It was around 85 degrees that day, the day after NYC had yet another snowstorm.  So hot that we even got to go in the water.  I was able to wear short shorts.  And my beloved Crocs.

A light grey ladybug landed on me while we were eating our gas station samiches.  I wanted to take a picture because I treasure magical moments.  He flew away before I got to memorialize him.  We all oohed and ahhed that the ladybug had landed on Mommy of all people!

That memory had stayed with little E.  And he had felt the need to mention it now when I felt so very uninspired.  The night before Ellis reminded me of this moment, a couple weeks after it had occurred, I had actually Googled “meaning of grey ladybug” while I was supposed to be using the bathroom.  Just sniffing around for some magic or meaning as I struggled with the minutiae of life.

My dumpling son is right.  I am lucky.  Even when I don’t feel it.  It sounds so much better coming from his innocent face instead of well-meaning adults.

And even when I couldn’t yield a Google search result explaining that a light grey ladybug landing on you while at the beach can only mean that you will win the lottery that month. IMG_1091 IMG_1087 IMG_1081 IMG_1072

How Did You Get Here?

I just got off the subway after a topsy turvy day on Roosevelt Island with the boys and our small group of buddies.

It also happened to be the hottest day of “summer” on this second day of September, the day after Labor Day.

I learned that I should follow my gut about certain excursions with the kids, like the Rockettes Christmas show that Micah wasn’t ready for, a Central Park picnic I didn’t take a stroller to, the 12 hour day in Manhattan, and several others in the Kim Outings Hall of Fame.

Despite a nagging feeling to pass on this group excursion, I went because I wanted to catch our buddies before our respective first days of school. I couldn’t shake this feeling that it was going to be a tough, raisin-in-the-sun type of long day with unexpected stressors.

Oh, and it was going to be a humid 92 degrees out, but I wanted to seem down!

The subway elevator that went eastbound from Roosevelt Island was unexpectedly broken on our way back home, after tram rides, playground, my failed attempts to feed them, sprinkler fun, rest stops, sunscreen applications, and bathroom breaks. And stroller protests. And my eye abrasion/infection that showed up out of nowhere.

Did I mention 92 degrees?

Our other little buddies went home earlier and didn’t need the elevator because they either didn’t have a stroller or had a Daddy to carry down their Strollerus Prime.

My friend and I were forced to take the only working elevator down to catch a train in the OPPOSITE direction, westbound into Manhattan, farther from home, to get to another elevator subway stop in Manhattan that would eventually take us in the right direction.

Of course, by then, it turned out to be rush hour so we were lucky to even be able to fit our huge doublestrollers onto the subway at all.

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As I was shoving my butt into a seated passenger’s face in order to fix Micah’s stroller seat, the young man asked, “Would you like to sit down so you can fix his seat?” I thanked him profusely and we got to chatting, while my friend was crammed in on the other side of the subway car.

He ended up telling me his story. I love stories.

He is a 21 year-old Puerto Rican from East New York and he just got released from his second prison term. We chatted about our respective days, first about how we were experiencing different types of exhaustion, then onto racial dynamics and implications (one of my favorite topics), his time in prison, NYC, God, and more.

I noticed that my stop was coming up so I said, “I’m totally gonna have to interrupt you to ask you a question as a mama. When you look back at your life, what do you think could have helped you stay up? What could have helped you from going down this particular path? I have to ask because I’m the mama of these two young men konked out in the stroller and I gotta do right by them.”

I confess I was fishing for an affirmation in the form of, “If only my mama had been a stay-at-home mom until I was at least five years old, taking me to museums and playgrounds all over NYC, including the Roosevelt Island tram on a hot day like today.”

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His answer?

Idle time. He had gotten into trouble because he lived in a bad neighborhood and was bored after school let out. He didn’t have an afterschool center where he could have discovered creative outlets for his restless energy.

This conversation with a perfect stranger on the subway is still percolating. I had already been thinking a lot about the different trajectories our lives take.

Our head pastor is also Puerto Rican and from East New York. Rich has mad Brooklyn pride, always trying to hoot and holler, “I’m from BROOKLYN, y’all” any chance he gets when he preaches. In fact, HE GREW UP ON THE SAME BLOCK as the young man I met on the subway!

Somehow, Rich was able to stay out of trouble and today, he is a pastor of a deeply impactful church in Elmhurst, Queens.

Though Rich is a bright dude, it wasn’t that he was simply “better” or smarter than the Subway Guy.

Sure, one can argue that we all have to take personal responsibility for our choices but it isn’t so black and white. The factors that lead to the different paths our lives take include different influences, decisions or series of decisions, missteps, a case of wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time, serendipitous good fortune, and most of all, timing.

Any one of these things can change the entire arc of our lives.

Ultimately, he was the only one who could take responsibility for certain choices that he made. However, different factors were at play to shape the mind of a young boy in the projects, leading up to his being incarcerated at the age of 16, then again at age 19.

I have always been fascinated by how so many different “ingredients” make up our lives and trajectory they take.

The family we are born into. The class we’re born into. The country we’re born into. The person we end up marrying. Having children. If those children have special needs or become ill. Just to name a few.

Sometimes, I wonder, what if I hadn’t met and fallen for this boy from CT/NY? What if Kevin hadn’t met this crazy girl from Cali? What if neither one of us had ever gone to law school? (Then we wouldn’t have such student loans! But I digress…)

And also about the future, “What is our family’s vision? Is our next step only to move into a bigger, nicer space and live the picket fence dream or should we do something radical and countercultural?”

Though I often wonder, “How did they get here?” about others, like the young man on the subway and millionaires, the pressing question I am grappling with these days is, “What is next, Lord? What am I called to do? Who am I called to be?”

But right now, I am called to join my family for dinner.

In Pursuit of Magic

People are always looking for signs. For meaning. For something more.

At least, I know I am. I know I can be completely ridiculous and try too hard at times. Recently, a friend who prays a lot asked me during a casual conversation, whether we’d like to have more kids. I raised one eyebrow and peered intensely into her face as I thought aloud, “WHY? Do you know something? Has He mentioned something? Who sent you? ARE YOU A PROPHET?”

Even on my “Bachelor in Paradise” guilty pleasure show, there is a scene where Claire is having an emotionally intimate moment with her dude on the beach, sharing about the death of her dad. Suddenly, she squeals as she notices a turtle going out into the ocean after laying a bunch of eggs. She says it is a sign from her dad. New life=new beginnings.

I especially love stories where parents have DREAMED of their child’s name, gender, or arrival.

My heart hurts when I hear of the signs that parents receive after they’ve lost their children. When they are dealing with their unimaginable grief, their child’s favorite animal just happens to show up in their backyard, or a red cardinal ends up visiting them EVERY SINGLE DAY while on vacation.

Or in the case of Kevin and Marina Krim whose two beloved children, Lulu and Leo, were murdered by their nanny in NYC in October of 2012.

Marina posted on Facebook:

“I accepted that Lulu and Leo’s physical presences were no longer with me and I needed to learn to connect with their spiritual presence. I needed to use my 5 senses ‘outside the box’ to connect with Lulu and Leo. Once I started to do that, little everyday things began to take on new meaning. This was the beginning of my lifelong scavenger hunt — clues that my Lulu and Leo were leaving me to find.”

[The title from this blog post is from Marina Krim’s post “My Pursuit of Magic” which I could not find a link for.]

One can argue that such signs are frivolous and reaching for connections when there aren’t any. Sure, there is no proof of any connection and it can all be chalked up to coincidence but you also have a choice.

To look for magic or not.

Today, I ended up being out with our boys from 8:30 am to 5 pm, for three back-to-back-to back activities. I just wanted to eke out the remaining sliver of summer.

During our second activity of the day, around the sixth hour of being out, AFTER the lucky little guy emerged from his beauty sleep in the car+stroller, I was WIPED and started to beat myself up.

“You have no one to blame but yourself. Being out like this all day, about to fall flat on your face when you should have gone home after lunch and before naps.”

I had hoped that I could rest a bit if both of them had fallen asleep during the ride over but alas, Micah and I ended up cruising all over the park and zoo while Baby Bro snoozed.

I really didn’t know how I was going to make it, strolling about 100 pounds after an already active morning, wrangling both of my wriggly guys who had just MacGyver’d out of the public bathroom stall at the zoo to expose me in my huge Korean underwear.

Thankfully(?), I only exposed myself to a friendly nanny from our co-op who happened to be visiting the zoo to pick up her charge. I was able to exchange warm greetings while the door remained open.

The boys and I ended up in the aviary. That was when things started getting magical.

Recently, we had only speed-walked through the aviary because we were always with our little buddies. I would chat with the mamas as we chased our kids up and down the ramps. We never really stopped to admire the macaws and blue-billed ducks and other winged creatures.

I noticed for the first time today, just how mesmerized my baby was. Micah, too, but especially Ellis.

And just as I had started beating myself up for being out all day and burning myself out with two more days left in the week, a skinny white bird perched in front of us, within touching distance from us.

He showed no signs of flying away.

We were beaming, thrilled to be in his presence. To have him stay awhile.

As cheesy as this sounds, I felt all this love and gratitude gushing out in that moment. So grateful to be alive and for the very reason I was so wiped out: TO BE PLAYING WITH MY KIDS TOO MUCH!

Just minutes before, I was sighing as I zipped up my shorts, about to konk out in the bathroom while peeing but as I clenched my boys in my arms with this amazing white bird with blonde tufts of “hair” joining us, I was gifted with a precious memory I can tuck away for good.

I received the “sign” to be, “It is all worth it, Mama. Your toiling away for them is NOT for NAUGHT.” I got pumped with a jolt of energy to last me a few more hours.

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The thing about the pursuit of magic? The more you look, the more you’ll find.