New ‘Do, New View

Posted on January 22, 2014 by ajummama

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

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

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

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

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

Moving on…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Eyes. I liked that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hunchback of Polar Vortex: BYODY (Bring Your Own “Dahm-Yo”)

Posted on January 10, 2014 by ajummama

Hi, Micah and Ellis, my beloved favorite children,

I am daring myself to write AND publish this now that you’ve both stopped cracking up in your room and succumbed to a late afternoon nap. I would love for your dad to give this a glance before publishing for my seven readers to see, but by the time that happens, I will be itching to write a different post, your fingernails will need to be clipped again, dinner dished out then put away, and a backlog of pictures and videos of you guys finally uploaded onto our laptop.

There’s always something that needs to be done so the time is NOW.

Ellis recently moved into Hyung’s little room. It’s been heartwarming to see you guys enjoy each other in your shared room, talking in your secret language (Micah imitating Ellis’ babbles).

There is no sweeter sound in this world than your hysterical laughter and brotherly conversation.

Thank you so much for infusing cuteness into our humble abode this extra cold January week.

What a week.

In some ways, the usual. Ellis and Mommy bonding while Brother is off to school most mornings. Skyping with Grandma Lee so that she can openly adore Ellis without noonchee-bahing Micah. Ellis catching a cold this past slushy Sunday, when all four of us carefully teeter-tottered to church like penguins and to a dear friend’s belated third birthday bash in the (literally) freezing rain.

Ellis, you became uncharacteristically clingy, hanging onto me for comfort, making me wonder again, just how affectionate Micah was at this same age. I don’t quite recall Micah hugging INTO me, like a koala bear, though you also wanted this Mommy lots. Ellis has remained clingy even though you seem to be 100% recovered.

It saddens me when I’m not able to recall moments and characteristics. But life is moving so fast and even with my stalker-like, wicked awesome memory, I can’t recall all your little mannerisms from the recent past. All I see is the 15 month old and 3 year old before me.

Other than when I absolutely must fetch something from the kitchen or use the bathroom, I am relishing Ellis the Cling-On’s new habit because I know you will soon be Mr. “*I* do it, *I* do it, By Myself, By Myself.” I adore your loud nose-breathing in your sleep, the way you wrinkle your nose to smile, the way you MUST booty-shake to any beat, even far off in the cluttered living room, while I am talking to your bro.

Tuesday of this very ordinary week was the height of the Polar Vortex. High of 10 degrees but with a Feels Like of 10 below zero. The Feels Like always cracks me up as that is the only piece of info we care about. Lead with that please.

It was a rude cold. Wasabi spicy cold. Sinus-clearing cold. Dangerously cold for any skin to be exposed. Dangerously cold especially for babies and senior citizens. Granted, I’m reporting this without actually having been out that day. Only from having opened the window for a few seconds at a time so we can “ooh and ahh” from our toasty apartment. I normally have to experience whatever is hyped up but this was not worth it, especially with Ellis fighting his cold. No matter how bundled up, we were going to be exposed.

We did visit the freeze by standing in our building’s foyer and opening the door so that we can receive the Polar Bear’s Text. Alls it said was, “Brrrr…! Your mama left California for this!”

I don’t think folks could wrap their minds around a whole ‘nutha level of cold that was being hyped up over the weekend but once it arrived, it was a cold many of us had never experienced. I kept you home, Micah, when I realized just how bad it was upon waking that morning.

The next day, January 8th, Wednesday, was still cold but the day prior had made us appreciate anything even a tad less cold. So we were actually relieved that the temps had creeped UP into the low 20s, while CA friends clowned us with status updates like, “High of 81 but be careful out there, wind chill of 79.”

The weather channel seemed to be doing PR, talking about, “ABUNDANT SUNSHINE. (High of 22).” Reminded me of someone trying to set up a blind date for her girlfriend: “AWESOME PERSONALITY. (He weighs far less than you).”

Picking up Micah Hyung the other day was comical. Forced you to sit down in our cheap Toys R Us umbrella stroller so that the walk home from our parking space wouldn’t turn into our usual stop n go adventure. Not in that cold.

Micah asking me about snacks I had forgotten at home while grabbing you guys’ winter gear. Just so much stuff, including my long sleeping bag of a puffy mom coat. I didn’t have the luxury of throwing it all onto the extremely lightweight stroller but I wasn’t about to lift the heavier stroller in and out of our car in those temps.

My car keys falling onto a lonely patch of snow and Micah repeatedly alerting me to them.

“Mommy, your keys, your keys.”

My hands freezing while trying to keep Micah’s gloves on a few times. “I know Micah. Mommy leaving those keys there because I need to get you bundled up first!”

Throwing on ski pants on top of Baby’s NorthFace fleece pants for added warmth to brave the walk home. Baby’s bundled up self arching your back while I wear you. Didn’t have the patience for your useless gloves that keep coming off. I stretch out your jacket sleeves more and tuck your velvety little hands under my armpits for true mammalian warmth.

But impossible to keep them there.

I straight brought a baby dahm-yo (Korean furry blanket) to throw onto whichever son ended up strolling home, since this light stroller doesn’t have a Bundle Me option.

So I was a sight to behold as I tried on a hunchbacked posture to balance the stroller with a bundled up Micah and a big furry blanket about to fall off each step we took, and baby arching his back to do an upside-down peekaboo while I tried to contain his hands under my pits.

“Micah, you are being so patient and quiet. Sorry, Mommy, forgot to bring your snacks. You must be so hungry.”

Of course, you are never that quiet when you’re with us. The dahm-yo was so furry that you had konked out during the walk, without eating a thing. Mommy transferred you onto my big bed, the bed Daddy gets to sleep in only when you don’t scream awake in the middle of the night, “DADDY! DADDYYY! Where’s my Daddy!”

Despite the cold, I was sweating by the time we got home.

I can already feel 2014 zipping along, though we just rang in the new year. Birthday parties, doctor visits, new babies arriving, learning about the NYC public school system, trying to get healthier and more active despite the cold, keeping in touch with close friends and acquaintances mostly through Facebook, being part of our Forest Hills and church community, reading more books and writing.

Speaking of trying to get healthier. Micah, you were fascinated by Daddy and Mommy measuring our waists with a tape measurer in the bathroom last night, while you were in the bath. You heard Mommy ask for a do-over a handful of times. “WHAT!? Oh, uh-uh! Are you sure the tape isn’t loose somewhere? Keep it taut, man! Subtract a half-inch for human error!”

Today you said, “Micah like Mommy/Daddy! Micah waist size is 29. No, 49,” as you insisted on napping with our tape measurer. I tried to take it away from you but you ran out of your room like I had stripped you of your Winnie Pooh and Small Bear.

Oh, before I forget. I’ve been meaning to tell you (guys)…

I may not be the same newbie mama who would take you on two excursions a day, when it was just you and me Micah, and I may have counted down the minutes ’til your dad walked in this week, like the night I thought I could enjoy some Greek yogurt while you two played with each other, until you both came at me like two little puppies begging. I was balancing the yogurt and three spoons (since Ellis was sick), while I bounced newly-clingy Ellis on my lap, when Micah tried to join the party, too. The cold yogurt fell onto Ellis’ head and Mommy’s Uniqlo Heattech long-sleeve shirt which is working overtime at keeping her warm, but also at accentuating the top of her muffin .

When Mommy retreats into her room more than when you were a baby, sighing, or saying, “I just need to be alone…” as soon as your dad walks in, please understand that it’s a mental health thang, nothing personal against you guys. Sometimes I just need to recover from the comedy of errors hour or hours before your dad joins us, a chance to exhale and center myself amid the whirlwind.

Micah, you keep asking me if I love you always, if I’m always proud of you no matter what. I truly hope you are just asking for the sake of asking, just to hear the reassuring, loving affirmation over and over again, and that you are never actually doubting your belovedness.

You two are the most precious gifts I’ve ever received. You couldn’t possibly be more beloved, other than by our Lord Himself.

Just like you guys change everyday, Mommy goes through her phases too. You have to know that whether I’m the bright-eyed bushy-tailed new Mama of November 2010, not yet able to fathom how parents (GASP!) sometimes snap at their toddlers, or the more worn out Polar Bear Texted Mama of January 2014, my love for you both only grows, like the new dreadlocks I’ve somehow acquired this New Year and the weather updates on my Newsfeed.

frozen water left in our car

snuggles before bundling up the layers

waiting in doc office for Ellis’ 15 month visit, Ellis throwin’ up gang signs everywhere we go, Micah thinking this is his chance to hit up the lollipop buffet

precious Koala memories

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

Posted on December 27, 2013 by ajummama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes me livid.

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

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

I have to watch the road in 2014.

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Culture Shock: Learning How to Be Merry

Posted on December 6, 2013 by ajummama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was our reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Eve 2012, Macy’s, NYC

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

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

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

Subway Snooze Spectacular

Posted on November 27, 2013 by ajummama

So, I survive the afternoon with the Christmas Spectacular Superfan.

We get on the train to return home…sweet home. It’s past Micah’s naptime and he’s had an extra active day: school in the morning, followed by the subway ride, running through Rock Center and all that energy crying through Radio City Music Hall’s Christmas Spectacular.

I’m relishing my cuddle time with him on the train especially after his getting so upset at the show that I hardly worry about what may happen if he falls asleep on the train. He’s so happy, back to his usual self. We admire a cool dude’s bright gold Nikes. Micah puts his little red Nikes next to his, remarking, “WOW!”

Soon, Micah becomes more subdued, putting his head down on my lap. The motion of the train lulls him into the heavy-lidded phase before slumber hits. “Micah, we’re almost there. Just wait a little longer and then you can sleep at home, sweetheart! C’mon, my Micah, don’t fall asleep please!”

It was useless. He fell into a sound sleep at 4:10 pm, when we had just three more subway stops to go.

I hate to wake him from a nap. For so many reasons. Primarily, I want him to get his rest on and be himself when he wakes up, the Micah who is not going to whine and scream and carry on about being carried. When he wakes up prematurely while we are out, he cannot be consoled.

And like I stated in the last post, I HAD DECIDED TO LEAVE MY STROLLER IN THE CAR. I wanted to take a risk and not bother, remember? Frontin’ like I was free as the howling wind outside, not like the mama of a young boy who should be prepared for any combination of scenarios.

Sound familiar? Just like when I hadn’t wanted to “bother” with peeing before my drive from Long Island with the boys.

We exit the train and I try to wake him up gently. “Micah, Micah? We have to walk home now. We’re almost there. We can go see Daddy and Baby. Mommy can’t carry you. Mommy has big AHH-yah from carrying you in and out of the show. I can’t walk home carrying you because Micah’s my big boy.”

Dude slumps down on the cold subway platform to continue sleeping! Even with the loud subway sounds and low temps (30s outside). I scan the premises and realize that there are no benches on this end of the platform. There is only a blue metal contraption, maybe housing some electrical units that the MTA uses?

I hoist myself onto it, with Micah sound asleep in my arms, sharing the space with a young couple gazing into each others’ eyes. It’s about 4:15 pm. I decide that this world rushes too much these days. I’mma sit on this blue steel thingamajiggie and let Micah complete his nap, at least a catnap for the next 30 minutes. He hadn’t asked to come to no show so I will not rob him of his nap.

Plus, if he got woken up right then and started screaming for me to carry him all the way home, I wouldn’t know what to do. I just could not do that again after that last time that hero named Bruce tried to rescue me.

I mean, it was 30 degrees outside, maybe even colder now that it was dark, and the subway was so very loud like multiple car accidents to my supersonic ears, screeching and clanking in and out of the platform every few minutes on both sides since it was peak hours (commuting hour). But hey, I wanted to let my boy sleep.

So I sat there. I asked the couple to take a picture of us before they can start making out. I was using our jackets as blankets for Micah.

I realized I was really cold. My lady bits and butt were actually numb from the cold. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

People watched me. Some were obvious about staring. Some may have wondered if I was hard up. Where was my sign? That thing I was sitting on was NOT for made for sitting so I stood out to onlookers. Cold and uncomfy to sit on so I must be desperate. It became obvious that I was staying for a while. One man watched me, perplexed, trying to figure out why I was just sitting there in a weird spot with my sleeping child.

“You not taking the E OR F trains?” he asked, shaking his head while I let train after train loudly pass by without us on them. (Writing this, I’m wondering what HE was doing there, missing train after train, watching me!)

I couldn’t call Kevin because there was no reception underground, and my phone had died shortly thereafter. I didn’t seriously think about enlisting his help. Maybe because it was really cold out and I didn’t want him and Ellis to get involved when we’d soon be on our merry way. I was the one choosing to let Micah continue to nap.

Also, I felt like I was caving in to too much damsel in distress syndrome lately. So many scenarios where Kevin comes to my assistance because it’s just too hard or overwhelming while he is so capable, able to handle so much more than me. If I can’t fix something around the house, Micah immediately says, “Maybe Daddy will fix for us, Mommy? Ask Daddy!”

Maybe God was trying to teach me to work on cultivating gratitude once again. My rebellious spirit had been having a hard time being TRULY thankful for our NYC co-op this year. While once so thankful for it, I now only see its flaws, lacking the space and amenities I desperately crave, even encroaching upon my emotional health this postpartum year. And yeah yeah, I knew that others have it exponentially worse all around the world but I didn’t care.

But sitting there with my frozen butt and labia, I sure was missing home. Though small, it was toasty and it kept us safe from the elements. Together. Fine, Lord, I repent. Can Micah wake up now?

Forget 30 minutes later. Micah was sleeping a delicious sound sleep, even making sounds like he was enjoying food, it was so yummy. So deep he was grinding his teeth. I was staring at him and giving him butterfly kisses all over his face. A handsome Latino Yankee fan tried to help me. He may have been the only one to ask if I need help.

“So uh, where’s your person? Do you have uh, your person you should be able to call up for help? How can I help? You want me to carry him for you?”

(I couldn’t take him up on his offer because he was going to miss his train and Micah would wake up if I transported him into someone else’s arms. What would I do then after this man left?)

“Do you need to borrow my phone to call anyone? How far do you live?”

And later, after I told him that Micah should be waking up any minute now and thanks: “Are you from the Philippines? It’s crazy what happened out there.”

Approximately 75 minutes later, I flag down a woman exiting the train and ask her if she can send my husband a message. She let me type it out on her iPhone and assured me she would send it once she got above ground. It was just to let him know that we had arrived at 4:15 but had been on the platform so that Micah would continue sleeping.

So after a grand total of 90 minutes, I start to stir Micah awake. At this rate, he may have been able to do a record three-hour nap and I was really too cold without wearing my jacket I was using as his blanket. I hoped he was well-rested enough to not get upset…which was THE WHOLE POINT OF MY LETTING HIM NAP!

But of course, he got upset because he was still sleepy. “Waaaahhhhhh! Mommmyyyy, Mommmyyyy, carry up, carry up!” Inconsolable. My waiting out his nap was all for naught.

I ended up carrying him up the stairs while a kind older woman insisted on carrying my bags up the stairs for me. I went into the pizzeria right next to the subway stop and asked to borrow their phone. Called Kevin to come out and help me.

Soon, Kevin and Ellis came with the doublestroller to help us. I felt a little better that even with Kevin and the cozy doublestroller awaiting him like a horse and carriage, Micah demanded to be carried all the way home. I strolled Ellis while Kevin carried Micah.

Later, Kevin pointed out that I should have called him er, 90 minutes earlier from the pizza place to avoid that crazy cold waiting period.

Apparently, my brain had frozen too. I could have spared myself this 90 minutes on the ice tundra. If I had accepted that man’s offer to help, I could have made it up the stairs then called from the pizzeria! I had lamely thought that I had to get him ALL the way home – the pizzeria idea only hatched when I realized there was no way I’d make it home. D’oh! I really wasn’t thinking straight that night.

My recent battle against envy, namely house/space/amenities envy, is ongoing and sometimes very acute, but I was extra thankful that particular night for my cozy couch, warm food, and heat in our apartment.

…Even with Kevin shaking his head at me over and over again, laughing, muttering, “I can’t believe you sometimes! The things you put yourself through!”

P.S. The lady’s text message came through about an hour after we were all snug at home. “Hello, this is the lady from the subway. My phone had a malfunction and I was not able to get this message to you until now. Your wife and son are down at the subway platform. Sorry for the delay.”

Christmas Spectacular Superfan

Posted on November 26, 2013 by ajummama

“Listen to your gut!” was warring against “Don’t overthink it. Just live a little!”

I was on a Facecbook thread with a group of local mamas who were going to take Micah’s little buddies to NYC’s iconic Radio City Music Hall show, “Christmas Spectacular.” I hadn’t even thought about it since Micah wasn’t turning three until the end of November.

Gut feeling: He still too young. There will be many more opportunities for him to attend shows when he’s a bit older. Also, not exactly holding weight in the decision-making process but I can’t stomach musicals. They make me wanna yell, “Oh, UH-UH! C’mon now! Singing dialogue?! Just no!”

Live a little: I could arrange to take him alone so that I can have rare one-on-one time with him while Daddy and Ellis bond at home. A special date. It would be one special memory. He would love a musical. The theater would be so cool. And going on the subway is always a big treat for him. And you never know…maybe we won’t even be here next year so we should go while we can.

After going back and forth, I purchased the tickets. None of us mamas could work out our schedules to go together so we were each going separately on one-on-one dates with our firstborns.

I told Micah about it the week prior to attending to get the anticipation going. After all, sometimes anticipation is more exciting than the real thing.

Our day arrived.

“Mommy, we going to Christmas Show on train NOW!?”

“No, not yet. When I pick you up from school today! Mommy will park the car and then Micah and Mommy go on train to see the sho-o-o-w!”

“Oh, THAT’s riggghhhht!” (One of his current favorite sayings)

After collecting him from school, I wonder if I should take the stroller into Manhattan. Hmmm…great for emergencies like if he insists I carry him but such a pain. Direct ride into Rockefeller Center, minimal walking.

Will take a risk and leave the stroller in the car. What could go wrong? (mmhmm…famous last words)

Big Boy Micah and I walk to the subway in the howling wind. While waiting on the platform, Micah and I sing and dance until I say, “Wait, Micah, let’s not get too wild. We have to stand in the middle, far away from the train tracks, OK? Let’s not dance while waiting for the train. I don’t want you to get too excited and go near those yellow lines.”

But then I would forget and we would sing and dance again (in the middle of the platform) until he said, “Mommy, ‘member? Stop singing. No dancing. We waiting for train. No yellow lines. Mommyyyyy – you forgot?”

As always, he enjoyed the ride so much. Pointing out people’s shoes, “I like that one Mommy! We have that one at ho-ome!” Looking all around and telling stories. Hugging me, strumming my side fatty fats with his little hands, and laughing with his hand over his mouth like a cartoon critter.

Once we got off?

He enjoyed himself TOO much at the underground concourse level of Rock Center. He would not hold my hand as he ran around among the bustling lunch crowd. Oh, Lord, help me. He was so small in the crowd but he did not have a care in the world while I feared losing him.

“MICAH! You HAVE to hold my hand!” I was carrying a mess of bags as usual, all our winter gear, sippy cup, and snacks.

He would smirk and leap forward and run away while I chased him down. “MICAH! You have to listen to Mommy!”

He slowed down when he looked like he had seen the pearly gates of heaven. It was a store called GameStop. He pressed his face and hands against the store window, completely mesmerized, “Mommy, I want to go in there. I want to play that one,” about the huge video game display.

“Micah, we have to go to show now, remember? That’s why we took the train? To come see the show. Maybe after the show, I can bring you here?”

We get through a very short line. We look around the gorgeous lobby. He refuses to go near Santa who is awaiting little boys and girls on the floor below. He would like to visit the candy bins instead.

I wasn’t planning to buy him any overpriced candy but hey, it’s a special occasion and he looks really excited so I let him scoop out some gummy candies and end up paying $10.98 for a handful in a cellophane bag. $10.98.

We squeeze ourselves onto an elevator to get to our seats. One lady in the back yells, “Hey, you, the person who just got on. Get off!” I want to shout back at her some choice expletives, including a lecture on entitlement but then I remember I am on a date with my boy, so I play the part of a mature adult and declare, “Sorry, I am with my toddler and we need a few minutes to settle in before the show so we needed to squeeze in.” It wasn’t even as crowded as some NYC elevators get. I think I was too nice (why did I apologize?) to that spoiled lady but I digress.

We get seated. I’m relieved that I can still see everything clearly from my seats even with my eye issues which made me have to wear glasses all month. I look over at his little face sitting in the theater. This was really special to be on a real date with my firstborn. Look at that little face, entranced by this beautiful theater. What a memory.

In fact, hmm…his face looks downright frozen with anticipation.

Theater turns pitch black.

Show starts. Booming intro music. Aww yeah, great acoustics.

Sound of a baby wailing hysterically. Not a baby but maybe a toddler.

MY toddler!

I turn to see Micah horrified and bawling uncontrollably.

“waaahhhhhhhh! MOMMYYYYYY! I want to go home. I want to go home now!”

I scoop him up and run out the theater. I sit down on the floor right outside the theater, rocking him back and forth.

“Micah! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were scared! You’ve been to the circus before and planetarium too with your friend A! Was it too dark? Was it too loud?”

“Mommmyyyyyyy! Too dark! Too loud. I want to go on train and go to my home!” He is still bawling.

Some tourists are getting escorted to their seats and look over at me consoling Micah.

“Micah, it will not be so dark if we stay in there a bit longer! Remember how much you loved the circus with Daddy, Mommy and Ellis? It was dark there too but it was so fun! We came on train to watch this show. Mommy bought candy to eat during the show. Your candy is still in the theater!”

“Daddy? I want Dadddyyyyy!”

One of the ushers is trying to help us out.

“Excuse me, where can I go to get my refund? There is no way he will sit through this. It is too much for him. He was NOT having it as soon as the show started. Too loud, too dark.”

“Oh, there are usually no refunds. Who did you purchase through?”

“Ticketmaster.”

“We wouldn’t even be able to issue you a refund then. You would have to work it out with them.”

NO REFUNDS? Micah, sorry bro, we staying.

“Micah, do you want to try sitting in the way back where there are some lights in the theater? And special chairs? Let’s try that. If you don’t like it, we can run back out again, ok?”

The usher takes us into the nosebleediest corner back seats of the entire theater with some dim lights on the ceiling. “Micah, how’s this? See there are some lights up here?” Few seconds pause.

Booming sounds. Theater gets darker again.

“Mommmyyyyy! I want to go home! Let’s go home. Daddyyyyyy!”

We rush back out of the theater. Micah is still crying. I’m thinking about joining him.

“Micah, Mommy can’t go home right now because when Micah was crying, Mommy left all our stuff on our seats so I have to grab them first, OK?”

Another usher tries to help. “Hey Michael. You wanna stay with me so your Mommy can get her stuff?”

He starts crying more. “Mommyyyy!”

“Micah, if you stay here with Mr. _____, I will go grab our coats and bags, okay?”

The usher held him in his arms like a long lost son while I went back in to retrieve our things.

Micah was starting to calm down. We sat on the floor outside the theater and made a call to Daddy. “Daddy?! I was crying so much!”

Another usher came and explained that the other parts of the show won’t be as dark. “Mommy, I have to pee pee.”

We go into the restroom and Micah is back to himself. “Mommy, here is not loud and dark.” I mutter under my breath, “I’m not about to pay good money to stay in the women’s lounge, boy.”

“Yes, Micah, if we stay in the theater without leaving so much, it won’t be as dark in there, too.”

“Mommy!? Remember when I was crying so much?” Is this guy for real? Yes, I remember! BECAUSE IT HAPPENED 0.8 minutes ago, son!

We make another attempt to go back into the theater with the usher’s guidance. We see multiple Santas dancing (creepy, I have to admit) in the pitch black theater with small spotlights on them and Micah starts crying again so I immediately run out, carrying him, perhaps for the fifth time.

I feel like crying too. From weariness. From beating myself up for not listening to my gut. My glasses fog up. It was such a cold day and he was already a handful to chase even before the show had started. I had NO IDEA he would get scared at the theater since he’s been to puppet shows and other shows in dark theaters!

“Micah, please try to be brave. I know you’re scared. But Mommy is with you, holding you tight. GOD is with you always, too. You don’t have to be scared. It’s all for fun. Remember we wanted to watch the Christmas show together. You don’t have to stay if you are really scared but we can at least try to watch some parts of the show. Mommy’s stuff is in there again so we can’t go home.”

“Mommy, you need to get our stuff? I weel stay with that ahjushee who carried me befo’!”

It went on like that for a few more segments. In and out, in and out. A nice young usher helped us out a lot by telling us which segments may be less scary. He even gave Micah a “Superfan” pin to pin on his sweater. Ohhhh, the irony. Superfan!? I thanked him profusely and took a picture of him and Micah after the show since we were practically family after that ordeal.

Micah the “Superfan” and Mr. Jeremy, our kind usher

Micah was able to enjoy the nativity scene. “Mommy, camel!” and some of the fake snow.

When we were leaving, Micah was back to himself, even stopping to dance and ham it up. I was taking deep breaths but relieved that we caught more than 60% of the show, and that Micah was able to be persuaded to give scary things a chance.

I had forgotten how small and young he still is. Because he’s become so Little Man-like with the things he says these days, I was treating him like I was at a movie with a peer, practically asking him how he’s liking the latest developments on “Scandal.” Just when I treat him like he’s grown, he reminds me again that he is still a young tender who needs his Mommy.

On our elevator ride down, a tour guide asks me how he’s doing. She is guiding a group of tourists and explains to them, “Yes, remember we saw this little guy having a hard time before?” and something about, “All kids are different. Some little ones can handle it.”

Apparently, we had become one of the attractions on the behind-the-scenes Radio City Music Hall tours.

Of course, I feel all defensive and want to explain, “He’s been to the circus and planetarium before and he was fine, I swear. It was a total surprise he got so scared,” but I have some sense.

I’m sure the senior citizens from Nebraska weren’t interested in hearing about his developmental phases.

Before we got on the subway, Micah pauses and says, “Mommy! You said you gon’ take me to video store to play game after the show!”

I lie and say, “Yes, Micah. I tried to but the store was closed. We try again next time, maybe with Daddy?”

On the subway, Micah says, “Mommy, the game store? Sometimes, it’s open, Mommy. I know.”

P.S. The hardest (and coldest) part of that day hadn’t happened yet. Remember how I left that stroller in the car? I hope to continue in another post but it may have surpassed my public urination day in suckiness, though I suppose it could be a toss up.

Christmas Spectacular. Special memories, indeedy.

Just Relax!

Posted on November 14, 2013 by ajummama

I now have to go to physical therapy after that car struck me on Monday, November 4th. It is a whole new world for me. Physical therapists and chiropractors may have two of the most directly rewarding jobs. Healing people with focused, physical touch. Connecting with them as they help restore. Teaching them how to use their bodies. So much better than being chained to a cubicle.

One of my physical therapists told me to lie down and let my neck fall into his hands.

“Relax. Let go.”

“I’m still resisting? Am I holding my neck up on my own?”

“Yes, you’re not letting your neck fall all the way. You’re using your own strength.”

I’ve been wanting to write about the effects of remaining in a state of perpetual UNrest and boom, the perfect metaphor falls into my, er, neck. I haven’t been able to fully exhale for what feels like all of 2013, though I’m sure I’ve stolen moments, even half-days, here and there. But now, there is such a deficit that even when I score me some time thanks to my co-parent, it doesn’t feel like enough. Just a drop in the bucket.

I’m sure there is a cost to not relaxing.

When I was pregnant with my first, I was given a heads up only about the newborn stage: the sleep deprivation, the poop, and the nursing. Countless “your life will never be the same’s,” but very few details from the trenches. Perhaps it didn’t make sense to warn about stages to come because it would be too premature (and too scary) when I hadn’t popped the baby out yet. So subconsciously, I may have thought that after a steep learning curve IN THE BEGINNING, order would be restored once they were out of the new puppy stage.

In some ways, it’s true. I feel like a pro raising my second baby boy into toddlerhood. I feel an out-of-body experience when I watch and hear myself share my experiences with pregnant women who ask me what it’s all like. I’m able to drop a deuce while the nearly-three-year-old and one year old watch “Little Einsteins” in harmony.

But I’m also finding that each stage gives way to a different set of needs. You can’t be on cruise control just because you’re out of the urgent newborn stage.

Preparing pureed baby food is replaced with disciplining and learning what triggers tantrums.

Packing the diaper bag with extra diapers and emergency outfits is replaced with repeatedly reassuring toddler that there is nothing scary about pooping in the potty and begging him to let Mommy/Daddy pick out his outfits without passionate protest.

Changing diapers ’round the clock soon evolves into changing diapers every now and then but replaced with vigilantly watching to make sure little dude doesn’t climb the lamp and daredevil himself off the desk.

Baby gets old enough to sit in a highchair at a restaurant but also gets nimble enough to Houdini off the tablecloth right from under the plates and table settings.

I am so tired. That is why I am so in awe of single parents and families of five or more. Not ALL large families, mind you, but large families who do it well, maintaining a solid marriage and mental/emotional health. Mommies who are able to care for their families while still keeping their own dreams alive.

I had another first after my first experience with physical therapy.

Ellis cried awake next to me in his crib at 6 am. I brought him into our bed and allowed him to nurse while I tried to sleep a little bit more. We are in the process of weaning but due to his getting sick and my craving rest, I allow him to nurse whenever, though it is turning out to be mostly mornings and ungodly hours. No rush to wean at all.

Kevin had already been summoned onto the wooden floor of Micah’s tiny closet-room earlier when he screamed awake, calling for Daddy in the middle of the night (a habit we are too tired to break since he started doing this scream-wake in August).

Thunderous crash. A baby wailing.

Where am I? Who am I? Omigod, I had drifted. Reality check: I’m not only in my 30s but creeping towards the big 4-0 (GASP!) and that baby is MY baby crying!

Ellis had crashed headfirst onto our wooden floor after doing his bed acrobatics. Before this, I had always been able “sleep” with one eye sensing my child, like a ninja, sleeping a light, nasty, unrestful sleep while catching baby by the ankle whenever he tried to be a daredevil.

Today, my baby fell off the bed because I had relaxed into a real slumber for a few minutes, even dreaming that I was meeting my friend’s boyfriend while we were in our 20s (both of us married with a kid or two in real life).

This has NEVER happened before.

Reminds me of how people talk about self-care and how the Earth won’t stop rotating just because you relax and take pause. (What is that actual phrase? Anyone?)

The Earth will continue to go about its business but your baby will come crashing down onto the floor.

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.

all shook up

Posted on November 5, 2013 by ajummama

I dreamt last night that I had committed a crime so huge that the government was going to bury me alive. And I had not watched any “Homeland” before going to bed (we are two episodes behind and I don’t itch to watch it as much this second season). It was very vivid and the parts I remember were of how I was going to succumb to my government-issued fate but at the last minute, as the government-issued towncar drove me to proceed with my inhumane death, I panicked and said I could NOT just accept this buried alive business.

I remember the panic and sheer horror and telling my mom who suddenly materialized in that black towncar, that I couldn’t go through with it and that I had to be on the run. At first, she looked so glum and so resigned to my fate, muttering, “What can we do?” (I may have been handcuffed, both wrists and ankles), but at the last second, she went on the run with me. I told her to run as fast as she could and to knock things down as she ran so that the government couldn’t snare me.

I woke up clammy with a thin layer of sweat covering me under my too warm pajamas in our bedroom that is sometimes overheated when winter temps hit. It took a few moments for me to realize that in real life, I was alive and well, and not on my way to get buried alive. Ellis had been uncharacteristically fussy yesterday so he was sleeping in our bed after some acrobatics, all warm and milky, and touching his face comforted me back to reality.

Then, on this cold Monday morning, after dropping off Micah at school, I procured a parking spot, paid for that spot for two hours, went to the passenger seat to grab my jacket and baby carrier before going around to Ellis’ carseat to retrieve him and place him in my carrier. I heard a loud sound and realized that sound was my body being hit by a car.

I am okay, as of now, with only slight aches throughout my back, shoulders, neck and Ellis was NOT AFFECTED AT ALL, but I am very shaken up and weepy. That’s it for now. I thought maybe writing it down and sharing, even just that much may help with the shakes.

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