Dialogue

Our three (and almost half) year old has been exploding with words these days. From the minute he wakes up at 6am until he goes down at 8:30pm, he is spewing with words (with a mini break for a nap in between). New words, old words, made up words, repeated words, he has them all. In the car, he bombards us with questions from destination A to destination B and has a running commentary on every house, car, person, dog, cloud, and blimp we pass.

The other week, we passed acres and acres of almond groves and grape vines as we drove from our friends' house in South Lake Tahoe to visit some other friends in Montecito. T spotted a field of trees, their branches elegantly arched like outstretched limbs, blooming with wisps of delicate white, feathery flowers.

When he saw them, he exclaimed, "Look, Mommy, those trees look like ballerinas!"

Sugar Plum Fairies, anyone? Such poetry from my little man.

When he talks, Jeff and I do all we can to listen (well, most of the time). We lean toward him, we crane our necks, we bend at our knees. We parrot back his words to show we understand. We answer all of his questions, even after the eighteenth "why", even after he circuits back to the same question he asked three questions earlier. We nod our affirmations or explain why we disagree. We open our faces with surprise or scrunch them with consternation. We do all we can to continue the dialogue.

Sometimes, however, his precious words come out a little muddled. It could be that the word is a tad too big, and all the vowels and consonants get jumbled and squashed in his tiny mouth. Or in their hurry to land in our ears, the words run into each other, one unsuspecting fragile mound of syllables tripped and overrun by a bully on its heels. Or little T forgets to breathe in the middle of his rushed sentence, and all the words abandon their beginnings and endings and leave us stranded in an incoherent blob of sounds. The latest has been T's insistence that his words can sound the way he damn pleases, and if he wants to pronounce "cat" as "chat", that's his prerogative.

What three (and almost half) year old has not had a mispronunciation or two. Or some jumbling or slurring of words. Maybe even a lisp. It comes with the territory. We understand that. But what we did not expect was the explosion that happens after we fail to take in what he has to say. If we misinterpret what he has said, he unexpectedly becomes silent. Then, his little lips start to tremble. Little mounds of tear well up in the corners of his eyes. Then the bawling starts. In between the slobbering and the hyperventilating, he shouts, "You MIZ-understood ME!"

It's as if we told him that he could never play with Buzz Lightyear ever again. Or that Mickey died. Or that he could no longer sleep in his Lightning McQueen bed. It's as profound an upset as he could experience in his three and half years of existence lived with a belief in Santa, an unquestioned expectation that food would appear whenever he hungered, and the unwavering knowledge that he could get his star as long as he peed and pooped in his potty.

When his tears start to fall, we entreat him to repeat himself. "Help Mommy and Daddy understand what you said. Can you say it again?" We give him our most concerned smile, attempting to convey that fortitude is what is required at the moment, that we are ever so eager to understand. Sometimes, he shouts back with a big "NO!" and continues to cry. But after some cajoling, he repeats himself -- and sometimes (reluctantly) again -- until we understand. "Oh! Is that what you said. Now we understand! What a good thing you repeated yourself. And you know, I don't know if blimps have steering wheels. Do you want to look it up when we go home? What a good question!"

I've been thinking about his need to be heard and to be understood. To not be misunderstood. And I think about my own experience growing up in this country. Where I often felt as if no one understood what I was going through. That words were often inadequate to convey my perspective, my experience. That even if I spoke, not many could really understand because they had a different frame of reference. How I often chose to stay silent because it seemed so pointless. And I wonder how it impacts us. What do we do with this apparently deep seeded need to be understood when no one does? Where do all those upsets and tears go when those we want to make understand cannot?

I would like my children to have their crying fits now, when we can identify the source of their frustration, rather than later when it takes five therapists to untangle the causes. I want them to have the faith to know that we try, that we'll always try to understand, even if we misunderstand each other at times. I want them to keep trying talking to us, even we seem to lack the ability to understand, even if we at times may be too busy to hear. I want to instill that fortitude in them, the fortitude to keep trying, because if we give up on words, we can so easily lose each other. And losing them is not something I -- no parent -- can stand to bear.

On Self Esteem

Self esteem was in short supply when I was growing up.

Not that anyone was out to crush us. We just didn't have an environment where there was such a thing as self esteem, much less a sense of self. I'm not sure if my parents thought of us in those terms -- as individuals with individual sense of selves. To them, we were children -- viewed as a unit, perhaps more or less interchangeable, with roles to play and futures to fulfill. Of course, they knew us as separate people, with distinct personalities, but I don't know if they necessarily thought of us as contained beings ripe enough to possess inner lives worthy of consideration. We were beings in the making, nascent and malleable, billowing with potential and room for improvement. Their job was to help us ripen, prevent bruises and defects, and deliver us for perfection in the hopes that such painstaking preparation would help us weather future storms.

When I was younger, I remember my mother scrutinizing me for potential defects. In middle school, I walked slightly pigeon-toed. My mother walked alongside me, block after block, reminding me to point my toes straight. Over and over again, she made me walk along the divide in sidewalk cement to use as a guide for my misaligned feet. Her reminders were incessant, and I remember feeling harangued. Just leave me alone, I muttered. It does not matter. But to her, it did matter. It was her job as the mother to correct my defect. She focused on the potential of a corrected defect; all I heard were the words that I was somehow defective.

Another defect I had was my right eyelid. When I chewed, my eyelid flinched ever so slightly with my jaws. My aunt noticed it when I was a child, and my mother zoomed in like a moth drawn to the light. She stared and stared while I ate. Try chewing this way, she encouraged. No, try it another way. To no avail. She gave up when she realized that the movement was involuntary. My only choice was to chew less, which I tried to minimize under my mom's watchful eye, or to chew with my head down. Once in my early 30s, my mom called me out of the blue. She wanted to know if I wasn't seeing anyone, couldn't get married because of my eye. I laughed at the time because the idea seemed so absurd. But to this day, I feel self-conscious and flood with shame when someone notices.

When I was younger, I often felt inadequate. I didn't have much going for me. I stood a good foot taller than most kids in my class. I reached puberty early. I had oily skin and hair. And on top of that, I had a mom who had no problem pointing out my defects.

Now that I'm a parent, I can understand some of those concerns. You want your child to fit in, to belong. To not be that child with a blaring "difference" who could be rejected by a society of primitive beings we all have to learn not to be.

I can see how she was coming from a place of fear. But I can also see how we approach the world from radically different points of view. When faced with a "difference," you can teach your child to accept the difference -- in herself first. To love herself. To build within your child an inner reserve of self esteem and confidence so that she can face the world, and in turn, force the world to make room for her. But to do that, you have to accept that difference first, and you may be more inclined to accept that difference if you see that difference as an intrinsic part of your child. Because you believe that the body (and mind) is a holy temple.

Alternatively, instead of accepting the difference or defect, you can reject it. You don't accept it as an intrinsic part of your child, and you do whatever it takes to eradicate it. This rejection may come from a place of shame, but it may also arise out of concern for your child's welfare, out of fear that your child may be spurned. And it is far simpler to "fix" your child than to fix the world. But this approach can also be viewed optimistically, as a sign of tenacity, that anything can be conquered if you try hard enough, if you work on yourself. Maybe if you were raised in a society as rigid and as socially conforming as South Korea was in my mother's youth, you may see no choice but to conform your child. Because that is the best way to maximize the chances of your child's success.

I can't help but wonder if I would have received her efforts to "correct" me with a better attitude if we had been raised in Korea. Back there, blunt criticisms are unleashed without any attempts at nicety, and it is not uncommon to be told openly that you are fat or unattractive. Maybe if we too had been raised with the same standard of socially acceptable communication, we would have developed the same armadillo skin that could have helped us weather the criticisms and seen them as something constructive, as she intended.

But it wasn't just this. I think it was my parents' ambitions for us that, ironically, did greater damage. My parents had three children, but one dream for all of us. They wanted us to become doctors or lawyers, some kind of professional. It was their idea of security, of fulfillment. It was the best they could imagine. Their children would have money, an earning potential that could never be taken away. And we would have the respect of others, a degree to elevate us in the eyes of others.

Their dream, however well intentioned, had little to do with any of us. Although none of us showed any inclination to become a doctor or a lawyer, they failed to see this in their zeal. My parents tended to disregard our individual traits that didn't align with their prospects for us. And when we showed promise in any other field, whether in playing an instrument or showing our creativity otherwise, it mattered little. Of course they humored us by attending the annual holiday concert, but we were quickly made to understand that excelling in those areas held no value. It was as if they took their pruning knives and lopped off those traits they deemed undesirable in the hopes that we would tend in the direction they set out for us.

But I don't know if we ever recovered from their efforts to shape us. We felt the pain of having parts of ourselves shunted. The implicit message we received was that those traits were neither worth having nor knowing, but to us, they felt like they contained the seeds of our inner essence. It felt like a rejection in the deepest sense, as if they were telling us that we were not worth knowing, not at our core. And it felt like a failure -- their failure to see us for who we really were. And to this day, I can't help but wonder if those thwarted parts were the very things that could have helped us define ourselves, helped fulfill our destiny.

Our sense of rejection created a cascade of issues that none of us children ever addressed, or at least not really well. Suppressed of our distinguishing traits, I think we felt interchangeable -- and hollowed. We became fiercely competitive with each other, even though we never acknowledged it. But we expressed it in the way we always compared ourselves to each other, in the way we resented each other. And we lived with the seed of fear that we could never measure up, that we would never reach the standards that others set for us.

It's hard for me to blame my parents. They were no more ambitious for us than most other Korean parents we knew. If anything, my parents were more easy going. They never sat us at the piano for hours with a stick in hand. They never made us practice for hours. They never prohibited other activities at the exclusion of the one they chose. They were moderate, but even so, they followed the prescribed methods of their time and culture. And they believed, with all of the best intentions, that they were creating the best environment to optimize the future of their children.

But no matter the good intention, I see our upbringing through the American lens, where acceptance is touted as the higher road, and self-confidence, the key to one's success. And through this lens, I am sensitive to the scars my siblings and I bear and what I interpret to be markers of low self-esteem. We are quick to anger. We have a tendency to read into comments, to scour another's words and to find offense in them. To take things personally. To get our feelings easily hurt.  All of us are a little needy -- in need of more attention, more affirmation, more affection. And I don't mean to oversimplify things by pinning everything on the parenting we received, but it's hard to argue that there isn't some connection.

I think of the difficult task of parenting. You could have all the best intentions in the world.  You could plan and hope for the best. You can clothe and feed your child, wipe off that snot, break your back washing laundry by hand day and night, run to the doctor in the middle of the night with desperate fear of that abnormally high temperature as your baby cries and screams at the top of her lungs in your ear. You can refrain from eating that bowl of rice you hunger for because your child wants it, and you limit yourself to the scrapes left over from the last meal that your child rejected simply because he wasn't in the mood to eat the rest. And you can worry in a way you've never worried about another human being, not because something horrific has occurred, but simply because you understand the ever-present dangers of this world as well as the frightening vulnerability of your little person. And you are determined to do whatever it takes to protect this child.

You could do all that, year after year. But the world changes on you. And the standards of parenting change. Your now grown children see the world through a different set of eye, a different measure of approval. And your parenting cannot surpass the boundaries of culture or time. No. You do what you believe to be right at the time, but what you believe to be right is a product of your own upbringing, your own culture, the beliefs of your time. You do the best that you can, and pray that your children will one day have the ability to reflect, the maturity to understand, and the inner resources to appreciate. 

Mothers and Daughters

My mother has the heartiest laugh. Her face opens up and a deep guttural peal rings out. In the middle of her laughing fit, she sometimes snorts and covers her mouth half heartedly as she doubles over in her spasm. Then she throws her head back as she clutches her chest with her other hand and you could see tears squeezing out of the corners of her squinted eyes. It never matters whether anyone else joins in. She is too busy laughing to notice others. Her laughter is always nearby and ready, as if waiting to be released like helium from an overinflated balloon. She finds humor readily, in the smallest incidents, anywhere around the bend. She used to often emerge from the bathroom in a fit of giggles, saying "Oh, it's so stinky in there!"  

Because of her laughter, I used to think of her as a jolly soul. Someone who saw the levity in life, who found humor in the everyday. But as I grew older, I saw a different side of mother. The side that had always been there, but one I had somehow failed to see.

From my late teens, I had been my mother's confidant. She would often sidle up to me late in the evening to chat. I would be lying in bed nestled with a book under a tiny lamp, and she would peek in with any excuse. Do you need more blankets? Are you tired? Did you have enough to eat? I would answer and move over to make room for her. She would drape the comforter over her legs and start the conversation talking about any random tidbit from the day. After a while, though, the conversation would drift toward the all too familiar terrain. Her feelings of neglect. Her anger. Her day to day complaints and frustrations.

For years, I just listened and nodded along. "Oh, really, Mom?" "That's so hard, Mom." "You have to take better care of yourself." I was her sounding board. I was her listening ear. I was her daughter.

Sometimes, though, I didn't listen very well. I felt some topics were off limits, that as her daughter, I should not have to listen to certain types of complaints, like her gripes about my dad. "Mom, you have to find some friends to talk to. I'm your daughter. I shouldn't be hearing about this kind of stuff," I would say. She would respond that she couldn't talk to anyone else because such things should not go outside the family. And I was her daughter. Who else could she talk to but her daughter?, she would ask.

The fact was that even if she wanted to, my mom had no friends to talk to. After we left Houston in 1987, I don't remember my mom ever having a friend or any semblance of a social life. She and my dad just worked. They did not attend church. They did not meet with any alumni groups. They did not know anyone apart from a few Koreans they knew from the old days.

Sometimes I tried to help my mom. I often encouraged her to nurture her relationships with the few people she knew. "Let's invite so and so over for Christmas, Mom," I would say. "I'll help with all the cooking. And if they're busy, let's figure out another date." Once in a while, she agreed, but more often than not, she refused, saying that hosting others was an unnecessary expense. Week after week, months after months, I offered to drive her to church, even though I had no interest in going for myself. Once, when I was home for a college break, I took my mom to meet my friend Cynthia and her mom. We visited their apartment in Flushing and chatted over coffee and tea. When I was graduating from law school, my friends and I organized a dinner with our parents so that our parents could meet each other. And another time, I took my parents to my friend Grace's house for a Thanksgiving dinner. But those events never transpired into anything more than isolated meet ups.

I used to worry about my parents' funeral. Who would attend? Who could we call to remember them and their days with us on earth? And I couldn't even come up with one name apart from our small family.

When I left for college, I felt a deep sense of guilt for abandoning her. For leaving to live my life while she lived so poorly. For having new experiences while she endlessly repeated her mundane routine. For eating at new restaurants and for meeting friends for coffee while she ate the same tedious meals day after day. For having the freedom to live my life while she was stuck in one she didn't like.

Once in a while, we talked on the phone. They were usually more perfunctory than anything else. But sometimes, I would receive a call in the middle of the night, and I could hear her desperation and loneliness. Once, she crushed her hand in the car door, and she described the pain and her feelings of neglect. "It hurts so much," she cried. No one took her to the hospital, and no one took care of her. And I cried from 800 miles away, feeling helpless.

It took me a long time to realize that my mom could help herself. Before, I couldn't see that she could have taken herself to the hospital. That she could have walked out of the store and demanded a different work arrangement with my dad. That she could have taken a train or a bus to church. That she could have learned to drive. That she could have learned English. That she could have said no to whatever she did not want. I could not see that until recently. All these years, I felt so much pity, so much sympathy, and so much guilt for all of her sorrows.

Every time I heard one of her complaints, I felt responsible. I thought it was my job to find a solution. I would offer her suggestions and brainstorm to try to find that magical fix. Or I would drive to the store to buy whatever it was she needed. Other times, I would intervene and scream at my dad. Or at my brother. Or try to cajole my sister to see my mom's point of view. I didn't realize that she may not have been looking for a solution.

Over the years, her complaints have not changed. She repeats them to me, but not to the person who should hear them. She believes in restraint, the kind of restraint that practices walking away with one's civility rather than giving them a piece of your mind, the kind of restraint that elevates harmony over personal needs, even if it means walking on tiptoes day in and day out. I do not understand my mother's need for restraint, for secrecy. Or her sense of powerlessness. I've asked her many times why she doesn't change this or that. Why she doesn't speak up. Why she doesn't express her dissatisfaction and demand a response. She often responds that she herself doesn't know, that she is frustrated with herself. To me, it seems so simple, so easy. But she lives in a different landscape that I do not understand. She answers to some cultural norm that accepts Buddhist form of suffering, some inner psychological need that she herself may not recognize, some standard of civility that seems pointless to me. Maybe she cried because she needed someone's expression of care for her more than bandages for her hands. Maybe it mattered more to see my dad's willingness to compromise than to implement the change that she complained about.

I hadn't realized how deeply her sorrows and anger had seeped into my bones. These days, suddenly, in the middle of the day, I feel a tightening in my chest. A sadness creeps in. Tears well up. A sense of helplessness. And hopelessness. Despair. As I wait for the emotions to recede, my brain starts to process the scenario. A week spent at home with the baby. A desire to go somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere different. To see something new. To escape the familiar. And I remember my mother's constant longing to escape the confines of our hole in the wall burger joint, then the dry cleaners. Her frequent yearnings to see more, to see the world. And I realize that I'm consumed by her sadness even though I live in one of the most glorious places in this country with a view of the ocean in a spacious house, enveloped by the loving sunshine, just blocks from a beach.

Over the years, I have come to resist my mother's unburdening. I no longer want to hear her talk of her sorrows, her complaints, her frustrations. These days, I stop her short, and say, "Mom, you can change all that. It's in your power." And I proceed to advice her the steps to take, even as I hear myself sound like a know-it-all teenager. But I don't know how else to keep her emotions from oozing into my ears, into my bones. To keep these sorrows from settling in and filling up my well. And from overflowing when my own sorrows arise.

So many aspects of my life are answers to my mother. From high school on, I have always maintained close friends and kept them close to my heart. I always have confidants I can talk to about my deepest fears, worries, complaints, and I feel desperate when I don't have close friends nearby, like shortly after a move. And I like to have an active social life. I put in ridiculous efforts to entertain my friends. I invite them over constantly, and I make dishes with dungeness crabs, giant prawns, and nicest cuts of meat, despite the expenses.

And unlike my mother, I take pride in speaking out. In taking action. In finding my way out, whether it entails self help books, a run on the treadmill, a blog post, or a call to the therapist. If I feel wronged, I say so, and I'll raise the issue before I begin to stew. If I don't, I feel powerless, helpless, and I do anything to escape that feeling.

These days, I am on a hunt to find my equilibrium, to find whatever materials I need to fill in the holes in my life. I rebel against my mother's form of restraint because I'm living proof that it does not work. All of her sorrows and anger and fears still reside in me, and they threaten to grow, like mold trapped in the deepest corners of the closet. And I push aside the blinds, throw the windows wide open, reorganize all the crap, throw out what I no longer need, and let the sun shine in.

From the Land of Dog Eaters

Before the birth of our first child, our yellow lab Sherlock led the privileged life as the sole heir of a DINK couple. My husband fed him specially ordered never frozen raw meat. We often emerged from pet shops with $20 squeak toys that Sherlock shredded within minutes. During the week, a professional dog walker chauffeured him and a few other lucky hounds to Fort Funston, a dramatic cliffside beach on the west coast of San Francisco, where he pranced as happily as a prima ballerina. During our weekend walks in Noe Valley, we only frequented restaurants that could accommodate all of us, which usually limited us to a cozy French bistro with an illegal patio in the back.

After our son was born, all that changed. Suddenly, the crunch, crunch of the turkey neck dangling from Sherlock's jaws made us question the prudence of nurturing his taste for raw meat. We immediately switched to dry nibbles. And while we had previously experienced only joy and fascination in watching him chomp on his toys, we suddenly gawked at the sharpness of his canines and agonized over his instinct for tearing into squeaky little things. While the trips to Fort Funston continued, our family walks no longer included the dog after he tried to push ahead of the stroller one too many time. As for those cozy meals at the bistro, we started opting for dining indoors where our baby could be sheltered from the insidious San Francisco fog.

It wasn't only our activities that changed. The creature that I had previously described as a bright but petulant teenager suddenly became no more than a ball of fur. When he furiously shook his head to relieve his itchy ears, which he did several times a day despite his daily eardrop treatment, a cloud of fur emanated like the brewing of a great dust storm and a flurry of haze rose around his 63 pound frame. The puff of fur lingered in the air and then descended on everything around us, including the baby's blanket, the uncapped milk bottle, the dropped pacifier. Some strands of fur dug into the warp of the rug or became entangled in the fringes, and the rest drifted around until they formed stubborn dust bunnies in far reaches under our bed.  

Usually, between the 6am and the 8am feeding, I would start my daily ritual of rolling the lint remover over as many toys as I could manage. Then, I would pull out the vacuum to suck up the fur and dander. While I futilely rammed the blunt edges of the suction into corners to try to reach tiny crevices, I thought of my doctor friend's comment when I fretted about having a pet with an infant in the house. "Who would want a dog with all that dander near a baby!" In those moments, I visualized dander drifting into my baby's mouth, into his nostrils.

When my mom visited, she too focused on Sherlock, or more specifically, Sherlock's fur. "You know, he's such a good dog, but why couldn't Jeff have gotten a dog that doesn't shed? That's his only bad trait." I assume she was referring to the dog.

After a cousin visited from Korea, she went back reciting a couple of criticisms of my housekeeping skills, one of which was that the baby's toys were covered with fur. I'm sure many of my relatives whom I haven't seen in over a decade have intimate knowledge of Sherlock's fur.

It wasn't just the fur. Before Jeff and I merged our households, Sherlock was Jeff's sole companion and had the run of his house. He curled up wherever he liked. He slept on Jeff's bed. Most importantly, he licked whatever he liked. He spent the greater part of his day licking the kitchen floor, lest he miss that one morsel, that one calorie hidden in the crack of the tile. He continued that practice when he moved in with me. Once the kids arrived, however, I tried to modify that behavior.

My friends envied what they saw as a cuddly Roomba. "You don't even have to clean up after your kid eats!" they said. "You're so lucky." I saw it differently. I saw a (relatively) clean floor being smeared with dog spit. And my pristine baby crawl and roll in that film of dog spit, spreading his hands in that spit. And my baby's dog spit covered hands being sucked by my baby's mouth. I vividly remember one of my second grade classmates sharing his ice cream cone with a random dog on the street. It ranks high enough on my gross list that I've remembered it all these years. And here was my baby sucking dog spit off of his hands.

Trying to prevent Sherlock from licking the floor is like trying to shoo a swarm of ants away from a rotting apple. I would send him away from one corner of the kitchen only to have him start at the other. Sometimes, I would scold him with a stern "no!" and send him to his pad. There, he would hunker down, cross his front paws, and droop his head as if to feign resignation. But his doe eyes would stare at me with the intensity of the New York Vigilante. The minute he saw me exit the room, he would spring off of his pad, dart across the room, and start licking the floor nearest the high chair. And the minute he heard my footsteps again, he would quickly skulk back to his pad. I would catch a glimpse of his sashaying tail and hind legs fleeing the scene of the crime.

In addition to the no-licking, I imposed another rule. No doggie on the rug. Since our rug took up most of the living room floor, that was a little unfair to Sherlock, I will admit. But I saw it as my maternal duty to protect my child's space -- space he needed to roam, to learn to crawl, to learn to walk. And to have his toys strewn about as he pleased without having the dog step on or shed all over them.

All these rules did not go over well. Sherlock and I battled constantly, territorially and psychologically. As dogs often do, he pushed the boundaries. At times, he would brush the rug with the tips of his paws, then wait a second or two, then inch forward more and more until the entire length of his front paws fully settled there. Other times, he would lick the floor only when shielded by Jeff, assuming that surely, the alpha male would stand up for his best friend. Otherwise, he would sprawl on the floor and pretend to lick his front paws, and by the time I noticed, he would be surrounded by a halo of dog spit.

Many years ago, I took a tour of Ano Nuevo, a state park about 50 miles south of San Francisco, where elephant seals beach themselves for the winter to give birth. While we watched a colony of seals sprawled all over the beach, the tour guide pointed to one nursing two pups. Since they give birth to only one pup at a time, the guide said that the elephant seal must also be nursing another's. "Bad mom," he said. "She doesn't have enough milk to feed both."

That image stayed with me. Not that I ever nursed Sherlock. The closest was when he licked my baby's spit-up off of the floor, which in turn made me want to puke. But the idea of diverting your resources to another living creature when you should be reserving them for your own offspring raised enough quandaries to unsettle a new, overzealous mom. And something about becoming a mom makes you think in primal terms. Maybe because we spend so much time bearing our chests and cleaning up poop (although not usually at the same time). Granted, our resources were not strictly limited. I knew that intellectually. But emotionally, I was living in a cave, shielding my baby from creatures of the wild and foraging for berries -- all while sleeping suboptimally and trying to get my own basic needs met.

The thing is, I never wanted to be that kind of person. You know, the kind of person who treats a dog like a dog. Rather, I wanted to treat Sherlock like one of us. Because I'm affable. Generous. Compassionate. Easy-going. All those good adjectives that go with being an animal lover here in America. And in America, you can't be affable, generous, compassionate, or easy-going if you're not an animal lover. It's true. Think about it. Have you ever seen a protagonist who hates animals? Who kicks them for fun?

Maybe I'm particularly sensitive to this image because I come from a land where they eat dogs. Sure, they tried to deny it during the '88 Olympics and claimed that it was a thing of the past, but we Koreans know it's not true. Some Koreans still eat dog meat, and you can see those restaurants when you visit South Korea. Not that I ever wanted to frequent such a place, although I cried when my cousin wouldn't take me when I was six.

Once, when I was in high school, I saw my dad kick a cat. It was incomprehensible. Sure, it was during one of the worst stretches in our lives when he was working 15 hour days. And he was going through a bout of depression and frustration. And sure, he was carrying a huge carton filled with buttermilk and the cat was in his way. But the kick was intentional. And I knew, as surely as I knew anything, that he wouldn't have done that had he grown up in America. Because my dad's not a bad guy. Not a mean bone in his body. But he's old school. With old world values. And the thing that differentiated me from him was that I grew up here. And I wanted none of those old world ways about me.

So when Jeff moved in with the dog, a part of me was secretly relieved. Now I too could be a dog owner. One of those people who frisked their dogs and jogged with them. And our children could grow up with a dog in the family. They could be the type of people who love dogs. And wouldn't that be the sure marker of true Americans?

But this dream was short lived. I hadn't realized that when you become a mom, you no longer have the luxury of putting your self image first or even the image of your family. You become a slave to your instinct, and everything is about your child's eating, cleanliness, and sleeping. Before kids, Jeff and I constantly bragged about Sherlock's superior intelligence. And I was fascinated by this creature who knew how to shake hands, roll over and play dead, and rang a bell to be let outside. After kids, however, all those warm and fuzzy feelings toward the dog vaporized, and I only saw him as a source of threat to my kid's safety, hygiene, and territory. I felt like a substandard mom who had allowed an intruder to invade her nest and take residence.

All that Sherlock did seemed like acts of intrusion. When my baby held a piece of cantaloupe in his hands, Sherlock tried to sniff it. When Jeff played with the baby, Sherlock tried to wedge himself in the middle so that he could get his butt scratched. When the baby napped, Sherlock barked non-stop. And when I was in the middle of bathing my little one, he would start ringing the bell to be let out to use the potty. In those moments, I cursed him out, but under my breath so that Jeff couldn't hear.

Perhaps to appease my guilt, I often sought affirmation from fellow moms. Because I found out soon enough that my reaction to Sherlock was common among all dog owners after they became parents, even those who had treated their dogs like their first babies. When I heard other moms complain about their own dogs, I took in every word. And brought them home to Jeff. Because the few times I argued with Jeff were about how I treated Sherlock. And how I insisted that we all wash hands every time we touched Sherlock. When I relayed these stories, I made sure he knew they weren't Koreans like me, because I didn't want to hear him to say, "Well, sure, they don't like dogs. They're Korean," even though I knew he said it in jest.

All my dog-owner friends said things start to change when your children grow old enough to play with the dog. That's when the dog starts to redeem himself in your eyes. Because he can now contribute, instead of just making making demands. He can play fetch and tug of war with your kids. He can make your kids happy.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, we found out that our now toddler son has asthma. And he is allergic to dogs. Allergic. So bad that he had to be admitted to the hospital overnight. Smack in the middle of the redemption phase. How's that for a twist in the story? For the past couple of weeks, not knowing what else to do, we've been keeping Sherlock outside full time (albeit in a nice, sheltered doggie house in prime San Diego weather). Jeff takes him for regular walks and plays with him. But for now, Sherlock's officially ostracized.

I no longer have to spend so much energy trying to contain the dog and his uncontainable dander and his licking tongue and his wily ways. I now have belated justification for my obsessive compulsive vacuuming and insistance that we all wash hands fifty times a day. Yet, I don't feel relieved. Instead, I feel a little sad. Maybe it's the guilt creeping in or a little sense of regret. Or ruefulness that my children cannot grow up with a dog, as I had secretly hoped. But it also seems wrong that any creature's twilight years should be spent alone, away from his family.

Not all is lost, however. Jeff's parents called this week and asked if Sherlock could move in with them. He could be good for Jeff's ailing mother who responds better to the dog than anyone else. And Sherlock's need to be a part of a pack coincides with my in-laws' need for companionship and perhaps something to love. He is good at that - being the object of someone's love.

It's not what we expected. We expected Sherlock to have more time to play with our kids. And to grow old with us. And for him to teach our kids some lessons along the way. I didn't expect such a sudden separation, at least not before I had a chance to make more room in our household for a dog again. And not before I had found my way out of playing the role of the evil stepmother. But life doesn't follow your plans. It also doesn't live up to the scenarios you entertained in your childhood. And time often runs out before you know it.

Our children won't grow up with a family dog. And I will never be as American as I hoped to be. But my son will be able to breathe. And Sherlock will have all the love he wants without some peevish lady chasing him with a vacuum. Maybe that's not such a bad tradeoff.

Reading

In my late teens and in my 20s, I read book after book. I always had a book in my purse or backpack, sometimes two, just in case I had even a few minutes to myself, whether I was on the subway, the LIRR, the El, or the Metro, or waiting to meet a friend at a cafe or a street corner.  When I was working, I protected my lunch hours so that I could skip out to a deli or a cafe to read a book while gulping down my lunch. And I always picked a place where I had no risk of running into someone from my office who might want to chit chat and cut into my valuable time.

I plowed through about a book or two a week. I didn't necessarily read for pleasure, even though I often enjoyed them very much. I also didn't read to escape, as some of my friends did. I read out of desperation. I thought these books could show me how to live my life -- or more precisely, how not to screw up. Mostly, by way of example, by illustrating how others lived theirs -- and what they did right or didn't. I read in search of instruction manuals.

I also read out of fear. Our family moved from Korea to the US when I was eight. During our first few years here, I was often struck by the differences between our way of living and those who lived here. Also, by the different way we saw things. And how some of them failed to understand us -- and yet had no idea how limited their perspective was. As I grew older -- and became more "Americanized"  and identified less with the Korean way of being -- I started to fear turning into one of those people, those who only knew their way of living and understood so little of others'. Books punctured through my own protected bubble and opened windows into other, much larger worlds.

I often read the same books twice. First a quick read - more than a skim but still a passive take, and then once I got the big picture, back to page one to digest more carefully, thoroughly. I sometimes underlined the sentences that resonated with me.  Often those sentences had nothing to do with the main theme of the book, but to me they were little nuggets of truth that felt truer because somebody else had written them down. And after I finished, I neatly lined up the books on my bookshelf, as proof of my growth and improvement.

I often gravitated towards literature and memoirs. For memoirs, usually those written by someone on the outside, whether African American, Jewish-American, or some kind of survivor, and everything I could find by Asian-Americans. At the end of those books, those writers felt like personal friends, with whom I'd had intimate conversations.

I am not an extravagant person, but with books, I did not limit myself. I grabbed whatever caught my eye, often purchasing a pile of books at a time. I had every intention of reading them all, even though I usually ran out of time before another pile of books caught my attention. As a result, I have more unread books than read, especially since after reading, I immediately donate books I feel do not merit shelf space.

When we moved to San Diego a couple of years ago, we did not unpack most of our belongings since we were not sure whether we would stay here for good. When we finally decided to stay, we still did not unpack since we are currently in a rental and plan to buy a house. During that time, my books have been trapped in boxes. A couple of times, I have gone through some of those boxes looking for one or two particular books that stuck in my head -- although it would been easier simply to check it out from the library or order a new copy from Amazon. But most of the time, they have remained in their boxes, marked "S's books - Read" or "S's books - Unread." The other day, I had a moment of panic fearing that they are all growing moldy.

I recently caught up with a friend from my first job out of college. She asked me what I've been reading -- and I found myself reporting that I had read less than three or four books in the last several years. What an awful record. But I feel less desperate about reading these days. Perhaps because I don't assume others know more than I do, although they often do. And perhaps because I am getting set in my ways.

But I still miss my books. And I miss having time to read. Jeff called me a "book hugger" the other day, just because I forbid him from dog-earing my books and cringe when a book is bent at the spine. I teach my children not to step on books, just the way we were taught. And I want to instill in them a love of learning, because I believe that to be the most important tool we have for finding our way in the world. But I don't think there is much for me to do, because they were born with an innate curiosity, an eagerness to learn.

I look forward to the day when I can sit with my children, each of us with our own age appropriate books in hand. But for now, reading is a group activity. We huddle together on the couch next to a big pile of board books, my face pressed against their warm, soft cheeks, our eyes locked on the hungry little caterpillar.

So, So Behind

Next month, I turn 42.  And I am still working on trying to lay the grounds to start a new career.  Laying the grounds as in trying to find time to study for the GREs, trying to find time to research some schools, trying to find time to read up more on the subject in general, trying to find time to talk to people in the field so that I can decide whether that is what I ultimately want to do, and trying to find the time to do enough due diligence on the subject so that I can assure myself that I am making the right decision. You know, the kind of stuff I should have done when I was in my early 20s.

I feel like I'm two decades behind. Well, actually, I am. The other evening, I asked a stay at home mom if she would consider starting a new career at this point.  She said, "Gosh, maybe I'll go back to what I was doing before, but I can't imagine trying to start all over again!" She is younger than me. Not too long ago, I read a New York Times article about Oprah's efforts to "attract 'women in their 30s or perhaps their 20s, to be able to reach people when they are looking to fulfill their destiny" because according to Oprah, "[b]y the time you're 40, 42, you should have kind of figured it out already."

She is right. Oprah is always right. I should have figured it out by now. I should have spent my teenage and college years exploring. Trying out this and that, talking to people in different fields to learn more about their jobs, working as an intern in organizations that piqued my interest. Instead, I spent most of my time coming up with arguments as to why I would not make a good doctor. And when my parents finally accepted that I would not become a brain surgeon, I then worked on trying to rationalize to myself why I would make a good lawyer (my parents' second and only other choice for an acceptable career), even though I had little idea what lawyers did.

We did not grow up in an environment where we were encouraged to explore and to try to determine our future paths for ourselves. Instead, all doors were closed except for one or two. And it was our job to make ourselves fit through one of those doors, no matter how misshapen or contorted. I spent a lot of time banging my head against them and then tending to my bruises. It was the antithesis of exploring.

But even so, you'd think I could have done something in my late 20s and 30s to help myself.  I graduated from law school in 1998, when I was 27. That left me 15 years to fashion some career that I could call my own. But instead, I just put on my good worker bee smile and did all that was expected of a good associate. I put in my hours, cancelled dinners as well as holiday and vacation plans when necessary, and collected my paychecks. I also spent a fair number of my free hours pondering over alternative career options with friends over $15 gin and tonics. I really have no one to blame but myself.

But it's not all that bad. I think if my last job had not ended as it had, then I may still be there or at some other law firm, washing away my doubts with $15 drinks. And telling myself that I should be lucky to have such a well paying job. And delaying my life crisis until retirement, when it would be too late to do anything about it. Thank god they threw me out.

Motherhood is my second chance. It gives me a break from the career that I never wanted and an opportunity to start again. Unlike most women who worry that taking time out to raise their children will damage their careers, I'm grateful for this time off.

But I still worry that I'm too far behind.  I feel pressured to get going on my career. I've already wasted two decades -- so much time to make up for. I hear about my college classmates who've written books, whose articles appear in the magazines I purchase, those who have fulfilled the dreams that I did not let myself entertain, much less aspire for. And when I hear about them, I sometimes find myself in tears. What have I done with all this time? Why have I accomplished so little? Why do I have so little to show for my life so far?

When I talk like this to Jeff, he often points to my law degree and my legal career. That's not nothing, he says. Perhaps, I say, but your career is only as meaningful as the value you place on it. And for me, my legal background didn't measure up to anything, not in my eyes. It held little meaning for me. And I think its unhappy ending diminished it even more.

Things were rolling along somewhat while we had a babysitter, even though I found that 10 hours a week really boils down to far less -- after you have shaken the children off of your leg, put away this or that, and thrown in the laundry. And reluctant to leave both an infant and a toddler in the hands of a college student, I tried to line up the babysitter to come during our toddler's nap -- except that on occasion, he refused to go along with my plans and I would find my three hours abbreviated to one and a half. But at least I had some time to regroup myself.

Then, in early December, our babysitter quit. We quickly lined up another, and planned to get her on board right after the holidays when she would be available. But shortly after the new year, she emailed to say that she had found a more career-oriented position. So now, we are back to the drawing board. Looking up potential babysitters, setting up interviews, checking references. The whole process will take a couple of weeks or longer, and I feel so impatient. For some reason, this feels like a crisis moment -- and perhaps that is what this is. My midlife crisis.

I am starting to understand mothers who are narcissists -- those who have so many personal needs to meet that they cannot meet the needs of their children. God forbid, I'm not a narcissist -- but I can taste the hint of my personal need colliding with the needs of my children -- and at the center stage of all this is our mutual need for my time. And the biggest question is how to slice the pie so that we can all feel somewhat satisfied and not denied. All I want are a couple of hours a day -- it seems so simple, but in the middle of this feeling of crisis, I feel as if a lifetime is passing me by.

I try to still my anxiety -- and my impatience. But I don't know any tricks. I just command and rebuke myself, which only muddles things inside. I am hoping that writing this down will help me sort out my inner turmoil. Why so urgent now? What difference do a few months make, especially since I'm so late as it is? Right?

And maybe I'm not as late as I think. 42. Really, is that so late to start working on a new career? Well, actually, it'll be a couple of years before I can even start a program since I need to study for the GREs, take the exam, apply to schools, etc. So maybe 44. Not a bad number, is it? According to Wikipedia, the number is considered to be a "hitter's number" because it was the number for Hank Aaron and Reggie Jackson. So, I'll have to bank on their luck and keep my fingers crossed for a homerun when I finally get my chance at the bat. I just hope that time doesn't fly until then because I need all the time I can get.

Our baby girl turns one

We celebrated our daughter's one year birthday in December.  This photo was taken by a friend at the birthday party, and I love it.  She looks like a little Korean princess.

Adjusting

I've been a mom for a little over three years now, and I'm still adjusting.  I love my little ones.  There's nothing more wonderful and fulfilling than wrapping my arms around their warm squiggly bodies or seeing their faces light up when they see me enter the room.  The other day, my three year old walked up to me where I was sitting on the floor, put his arm around my shoulder, kissed me on the nose, and said, "I love you, Mom."  That filled me up to the core.

But as I said, I'm still adjusting.  It is a big transition to go from working in an office to hanging out with the kids all day.  

Before I had children, I don't think I really understood that becoming a mother meant entering the service industry. And not in the sense that lawyers or accountants use the phrase, but more along the lines of work performed by servants, janitors, waiters, and maids. As in working to meet the basic bodily needs of others.  This past year has been one long continuous string of changing diapers, cleaning the potty, cutting up food, setting and clearing the table, putting on and taking off socks and shoes, pumping, washing bottles, feeding, doing laundry, vacuuming, and picking up toys.

Of course I understood that parents do these things.  I expected to change diapers.  I expected to pick up after my kids.  I expected to prepare their lunches and do their laundry.  What I didn't expect was how repetitive these tasks can become or the extent of time they consume. How could such little beings generate so much laundry?

In the remaining hours when I'm not caught up in one of these tasks, I'm just hanging out.  Sitting with my three year old as he's playing with Legos.  Shadowing my 11 months old as she's cruising along the couch.  Refereeing the two as they tussle over toys.  Hanging out at a playgroup as they play with other kids.    

While the repetitive household tasks make me feel like Sisyphus, it's the hanging out part that's getting to me.  When I'm just sitting with my kids, I feel time drain away.  I'm not talking about the time when I'm reading with my son or when I'm cuddling my little girl.  I'm okay with those.  I'm talking about times when I can't fully focus on either one because they are running in different directions or I'm just hanging back while they are engaged in some activity that doesn't require my participation.  Those times when I'm just playing guard and ensuring that my children stay alive.  In those times, I fidget, pick every speck of lint from the rug, compile a to do list in my head, and wonder how long I can last as a stay at home mom.

I've never been good at hanging out.  As a teenager, I rarely talked on the telephone because I found it difficult to sit cradling the phone.  In college, I found frat parties to be a little painful as I tried to look like I was at ease sipping lukewarm beer.  For as long as I can remember, I always carried a book in my purse or backpack, just in case I had a few unexpected stray minutes -- that is until I had children.

These days, I do not have time to read.  At least not much more than an online article here and there.  But I have so much time when I'm just sitting or watching passively -- time I could use otherwise to do something.  And it kills me.

I am aware of the source of my anxiety about time. When I was growing up, I watched my parents work crazy hours at the store -- hours they found miserable.  They did nothing other than work.  And grow older.  In those hours, I saw two lives wasting away.  And the few hours that they had to themselves felt so precious, sacred.  I vowed then to use my time well, productively.

The thing about being productive, however, is that you need time to be productive.  You need the freedom to do.  And these days, with two kids to watch, my time isn't my own anymore.

Not having something to show for my time isn't easy.  My identity in part is wrapped around achievement. That's how we were raised.  My parents rarely expressed affection toward us unless we did something that merited approval.  Just being wasn't enough;  we had to do.  And I've geared my life toward doing; finding a way to be an action verb.  When I have nothing to show for my time, I feel useless, unworthy -- like that kid in the back of the class who does not merit attention because he has nothing to contribute.  

The string of tasks I do to run the household do not seem enough to merit "doing."  They are simply busywork -- not dissimilar to the type of work my parents did that seemed so empty.  And the remaining hours of hanging out -- of just being rather than doing -- feel wasted.  But of course, the irony is that they are not wasted.  I'm spending them to help my children grow, to develop.  Still, knowing that does not make it easy to put aside my own anxiety and needs.

I'm beginning to understand why parenting is so difficult.  It's not just about the physical demands -- which of course are very real and challenging.  But it is also because the needs of our children can be at odds with our own needs -- needs which are emotional and psychological and deeply entrenched in the way we function in this world.  And the inability to meet these needs can cause mini implosions within ourselves.

Despite all this, I don't regret staying at home with my children. It is a choice I make every day. I see how well adjusted my children are -- stable and free of anxiety.  On the first day of preschool, my son cried all the way home because he wanted to stay in school longer.  And he told me that he didn't cry when I dropped him off because he knew I would come get him. That made me feel as if all that time hadn't been wasted, even though it didn't appease my sense of worthlessness. Not completely.

Tomorrow, I may choose differently.  I am waiting for my children to need me a little less, although I've heard from enough parents that that day may never come.  But I know that everyday, they do need me a little less because I can see the difference.  And perhaps, the time I'm spending with them now is an investment to help them become more secure and independent in the future.

In the meantime, I am also working on keeping my anxiety in check, while working on small ways to scrounge up some time for myself -- time I can use to read and write and nurture myself.  It'll be a while before I can get to the many things on the list of things I want to do for myself, but for now, just a few hours a week isn't bad.  I feel very lucky that we have the means to hire some regular help during the week. Maybe it's a good thing that I had children later in life so that I was able to have my 20s and early 30s to myself, even though a part of me wonders if I just got spoiled and too used to having so much time to myself.  Would I trade those days of freedom for these?  Not in a million years.

Must Read Article

"The Innocent Man" by Pamela Colloff in the November and December issues of Texas Monthly is simply amazing.  It is a heartbreaking story -- one that will keep you up at night.  I have such respect for the attorneys who worked on the exoneration case as well as Colloff for the excellent reporting.  An example of how meaningful the work of as an attorney or a journalist can be.

Dinner Time

I love watching my son eat.

Last night, it was just him and me at the dinner table.  Jeff left earlier for a trip to LA, and the baby went down for the night shortly before.  T is sick, so I let him nap much longer than usual to let his body do its thing.  I roused him from his sleep around 7:30 pm with a sippy cup of warm milk in hand, thinking that he should have something even if he had no appetite.  But he popped himself up, and said, "Yes, I want dinner!"

I brought him downstairs, sat him on his booster seat, and wrapped the owl bib around his neck.  He asked for the personal pan pizza that he didn't eat for lunch.  While a slice was heating in the toaster oven, I cut up a link of hot dog (microwaved) and poured out some frozen peas (still frozen, just the way he likes them).  Not a gourmet dinner, I know, but when my son is sick, I let him eat whatever he wants.  My goal is just to put some food in his little tummy.

When I laid the food in front of him, he picked up the pizza with both hands and clamped his little fingers around the crust, the same way he holds his harmonica.  The grease immediately oozed onto his fingernails, and little pockets of tomato sauce squeezed out through the cheese.  He brought the slice up to his puckered lips and took a big bite. And then another, and then a third.  He chewed open mouthed, showing little bits of masticated crust, mozzarella, and tomato sauce wedged between his gaping teeth.  His dimples moved up and down with the rhythm of his bites.

As he chewed, he scrutinized his slice of pizza, turning it this way and that.  It became a plane, then a spaceship, then a hot air balloon.  Then without a second thought, he dropped the slice down on his plate and started fingering the frozen peas.  Pop, pop, they went into his mouth.  

Between bites, little drops of three-year old thoughts fell out :

"Mama, I'm a little big boy!"

"I'm three years old, not four years old, just three years old!"

"Mama, can I get another lego set if I poo-poo in potty?"

After the peas, he grabbed the hot dog.  All four pieces at once.  He assembled them, saying "They were like this!  Mama, were they like that?" as he re-constructed the link that had been divided.  Then he rammed all four pieces into his mouth.  There they dangled, until I told him to take them out.

T dropped all of the pieces onto his plate, and then picked up just one piece once again.  He gripped the quartered link with all of his fingers, and started chewing on it as if he were gnawing on a piece of beef jerky.  He worked at it until the piece was done.  Then his greasy hands grabbed the sippy cup of warm milk, and he sipped and sipped and sipped until he was satisfied.

As he ate, I just watched him. Less than two feet away from his face. Openly gazed at him as he chewed, played with his food, sipped his milk. It was nothing unusual for him. To have his mommy stare at him as he chewed with his mouth open while we discussed numerous topics of conversation, from his birthday party in October to various offerings of lego sets to sounds made by cougars to his preschool friends.

By the time he was finished, he had a milk and tomato sauce moustache coated with cheese and hot dog grease.  Petite English peas covered the floor and the bottom of his booster seat.  The black table shined with the smear of food stains.  Drops of milk trailed from his cup to his plate to his bib.  And a little boy with a full belly was ready to play.

Holiday Cooking

When I was growing up, I always associated holidays with cooking.  Even when my parents were working 13 hour days, six days a week, my mom always took the time to cook a few special dishes for the holidays.

When my sister and I were in college, we would always go to my parents' dry cleaners on the day before the holiday, sometimes for the whole day but more often, just for the afternoon.  We would walk about 45 minutes from my parents' house to the LIRR station in Port Washington, and ride to Little Neck.  From the Little Neck station, we would either walk or my dad would come pick us up to take us to Mayflower Cleaners, located where Northern Boulevard meets Great Neck Boulevard.  There, we would help my parents finish up their labor for the day: handling customers as they came in, sorting the clothes, removing the lint from each of the items, bagging the clothes in plastic, putting them on the conveyor belt, restocking all the supplies for the next work day, vacuuming, and wiping down the counters.

As soon as it was closing time, we would hurry out of the store with my parents' black leather bag containing the day's earnings and their canvas bag of empty tupperwear lunch containers and a few apples.  My dad would lock the store door, pull once, then twice, then a third time to ensure that he had locked it properly.  We would then load the bags in the car while my mom re-checked the door to ensure that my dad had checked it properly.  And then once again just in case.  After my dad had loaded the car, he would return to the door to make sure that it had been thoroughly locked, and my mom would say, "Oh, for goodness sakes, enough, enough.  You'll break it already!"

Once in the Mercury Sable, my dad would adjust the old sofa cushion on his back, which he had put in place after the seat electrical adjustor broke.  My mom would ask him whether he had put the black leather bag in the back seat, and my sister and I would pipe up that the bag was right there next to our feet.  She would then remind us to give it to Dad before we went into the grocery store.

From there, we would drive to the Korean grocery on Northern Boulevard in Flushing.  Even if we arrived close to 8pm, the parking lot would be packed with people thronging everywhere.   My dad waited in the locked car with the black leather bag under his seat, while my sister, my mother, and I went to shop.  I usually pushed the cart while my mom and sister went ahead, picking out items we needed.  We went through every aisle methodically, with my mom clutching her grocery list compiled on dry cleaner slips held together by a safety pin.  We usually left the store with bags of groceries and a small package of prepared foods, like fried calamari, kim bap, soon dae, or mandoo.  We often arrived home one package lighter.

The next morning, my mom would wake up around 5am to start preparing.  By the time my sister and I woke up, around 6:30 or so, she would be ready to direct.  Chop these, wash those, pan fry these.  We would cook, as we gabbed about this or that.  Whatever we wanted to discuss.  School.  Our friends.  Books we had read.  Movies we had watched.  Things we had seen in school.  Our relatives in Korea.  With my mom standing at the sink, washing some vegetable or another.  My sister standing in front of the stove with a spatula in hand, pan frying some dish.  Me sitting at the table chopping.  Talking made easier because it was centered around an activity.

Hours would pass like this.  We would eat breakfast, fruits, and samples as we cooked, and take out little plates for our dad sitting in the living room behind his newspaper.  We would often finish by the middle of the day, and we would then take a break to watch some melodrama on TV chosen by our mom.

After, we would sit down to eat what we had cooked.  More than enough for a few meals.  A bounty we had come to expect on occasions like these.  A day to feed ourselves after working, working, and working some more.  A day to remind ourselves that we may not be able to eat like this in Korea, even if we had more money.  A day to remember the justification for why my parents worked as they did.  A day to engage in one of the few family activities that we had.

These days, I no longer cook with my sister and my mom.  My sister has estranged me and we no longer talk.  The last meal we shared together was in 2006 at a restaurant that has since gone out of business on Valencia near 24th in San Francisco.  We had sat across the table from each other, failing to understand each other.  My mother visits from New York once in a while, and we sometimes cook together, but not very often.  Nowadays, her cooking is hurried, impatient, and sometimes begrudging.

For the holidays, I make plans to cook.  I pour over my cookbooks, make my lists, shop in advance.  But my children are too young to cook with me and too small to eat much more than a few spoonfuls.  My husband sees little point in cooking and asks if we really need to bother.  My in-laws, who live nearby and are invited for every major holiday, eat like birds and have no inclination to humor the cook.  "No, I don't eat that" is not an uncommon response when I hold a dish out to them.  When I try to send them home with something I made for them, my father-in-law says, "I don't need your mercy food."

But yesterday, I cooked.  I decided to cook for me.  Just because.  Just because I once found pleasure in it.  Just because I want to be the kind of mom who knows how to feed her family.  Just because I have hopes of being able to nourish myself, even if others do not join.  Just because I don't want to give in to the past and give up on the future.

So I turned on some music as I patted the turkey dry.  I rubbed it with herb butter that I had prepared the night before.  I filled its cavities with onions, carrots, and celery.  I soaked a cheesecloth with chicken stock and covered the bird, and repeated the process every half hour for the next five hours.  I then prepared the stuffing, first cooking the bacon, and then mixing it with chestnuts, onions, carrots, celery, mushrooms, bread crumbs, chicken stock, and milk.  After, I cooked the candied sweet potatoes and heated the cranberry-ginger chutney that I had prepared the night before.

I didin't talk much as I cooked, although I sang along to the Beatles.  Just a few feet away, my husband played with the kids, and the house felt nice and toasty from the oven.  The turkey balloon bopped in the middle of the room.  The flower cornucopia adorned the table.  And I remembered to be thankful, even as I remembered all that was gone.    

The Search for Back Up Parents

Nothing has brought me closer to death than giving birth.

Before I had my son, I thought about death, but only occasionally, the way I assume most others do.  It was there in the abstract, off in the distance, never threatening, never looming.  Like a distant cousin, it reminded me of its existence every once in a while, when I happened to pass an accident on the freeway or read a novel with tragic ending, which in turn reminded me to live more purposefully, meaningfully.  But apart from its occasional pep talk, it had little to do with me.

Back then, I didn't fear death.  If anything, I felt cavalier.  So what, I remember saying.  What do I have to lose?  My life was my own, and I was beholden to no one.  If something were to happen to me, a few others may be sad or even devastated, but I didn't own their grief.  I was the only one who could potentially suffer, but not really because wouldn't I be dead after all?  Just make it quick and don't let me suffer too much, was my canned retort.

This cavalier attitude started to change when I became pregnant.  I'm not sure if it was the hormones or just the change in circumstances, but suddenly, the threat of death seemed to be everywhere.  And it seemed so real, so possible.  I could slip down the stairs.  Jeff's car could be side-wiped by any of the crazy aggressive drivers out here.  My toddler son could fall off of a jungle gym.  My baby could chock on a piece of carrot.  My brain seemed to have entered a heightened state, and my eyes were suddenly opened to the many colorful ways in which one could die.  Throughout the day, a million different scenarios of death danced in my head.

I became hyper-aware of all that I had to lose.  And I couldn't stop thinking that our babies were wholly dependent on me and Jeff.  Wholly.  What if something happened to us?  How could they survive?  Who would take care of them?  If I could, I would have hid in a cave like Gollum, protecting my precious from all the harm that could befall us.  But we don't own a cave.  All we have is a rental house in La Jolla.  And locking oneself in a house with a toddler and a baby is not a good strategy, especially less than half a mile from the beach.  Besides, staying at home is no guarantee of safety.  I kept imagining myself accidentally skewering myself on one of Jeff's many tools in the garage while at home with the kids alone.  Would my son know how to undo the safety latch on the pantry to at least open a can of spam and a box of Fruitables until he was found?    

So Jeff and I came up with our next best strategy.  We decided to finalize our trust papers and set up back-up guardians in case something happened to us.  We didn't understand the complexity of this task -- or the difficulty of identifying a suitable person -- until we started talking through it.

I think I had just assumed that my children would be raised by someone in our extended family if something were to happen.  I secretly preferred someone on my side of the family because I feared that my children would otherwise lose any understanding of my personal history as an immigrant and a Korean-American.  Besides, Jeff's parents are quite old and would his unmarried brother really want to become a parent overnight when he has never changed a single diaper (that is, if you don't count his dog's)?

The only problem with selecting someone from my family is that there is no one in my family whom I would entrust to raise my children.  The best candidates would be my parents, except that they are old.  And now that I was squarely facing the question, I wondered how my children would fare with my parents who, even after four decades in the US, still have trouble communicating with non-Koreans and lack exposure to wide swaths of American life.  Did I really want my children to be bogged down by the same cross cultural issues that I had growing up?

As for my siblings, my relationship with them is essentially nonexistent.  My sister and I used to be close, but about five years ago, over some issues that I still do not understand, she cut me off, and we haven't talked since.  My brother is married with kids, but we never really understood each other growing up and have made little effort to stay in touch as adults, except for the occasional gift exchange or gathering at my parents'.  Apart from my nuclear family, we have no other relatives in the US, except for one of my dad's cousins, whom I've met only a few times.

Taking stock of one's family in this fashion is an eye opening exercise.  It's unsettling to assess your family through a utilitarian lens, but after I did, I felt a disappointment creep in.  Perhaps it has something to do with my history of having grown up as an immigrant, where our nuclear family was alone in this country for so long, where we were repeatedly told that we had no one but each other in times of trouble.  Or a result of living in a country unfamiliar to my parents, where the role of the parents and dependents were inverted at times, and the assimilated children sometimes took the leading role in navigating this foreign land.  But the thought that I couldn't turn to anyone in my family on a matter as important as this made me feel angry.  My family felt defective -- as if we've failed in one of the basic functions that a family should be and do for each other.  Yet again, we couldn't be the kind of family I wanted us to be.

Obviously, it takes two to have a bad (or a non-existent) relationship, and it is unfair for me to put the blame squarely on them.  After the anger subsided, I felt sad, as I often have in the past, about the failed relationships in our family.  It pains me that my sister has never met my children.  And my brother and his family have met my three year old son once and never met my 11 months old daughter.  For some reason, we failed to weather life's stresses together, perhaps because there were too many or because we lacked the skills to manage them.  But whatever the cause, we were now drifting in separate directions, without the means to reach out and tie our rafts together.

I had been raised with traditional Korean values.  Growing up, there seemed to be an invisible ring around our family, separating those in the family from others.  Friends, no matter how close, were not family and would never be.  Blood was holy, and we were never to elevate outsiders above family.  But in this process of choosing a guardian for my children, I seem to have no choice but to look to outsiders.  That has been a giant mental hurdle for me, and a part of me feels reluctant to accept it, even though it is obvious that I have no choice.

It's sad to think that my original family could be erased from my children's lives.  The relationships are so tenuous now;  how much more attenuated would they be if I were no longer in the picture?  Would my East Coast parents visit more than sporadically, and how would they deal with the logistics once my children were living with another family?  Would my children even realize that they have an uncle and an aunt on my side of the family and that they have cousins?  Who would tell them that their history wasn't always of this country, that they could stake claim to another land, another people?  These questions give me a headache, and the answers seem obvious -- and painful.

The irony in all this is that we have incredible friends.  Friends who would eagerly step in and help out.  Friends who would treat our children as their own.  Friends who pamper our children the way my own brother and sister have not.

So when Jeff and I sat down to select a guardian for our son, we started by ruling out my family.  It is a hypothetical situation, and yet, it feels so final, so determinative.  But you can't plan your children's future on some far-fetched hope of reconciliation.  And that seems to be enough of a bridge for me to make my mental leap.

After we closed the door to my family, we opened the door to our friends.  There, on the perch, we scanned the crowd and started to sort.  First, we ruled out all of our single friends because we were worried that they may no longer be able to commit once a new spouse entered the picture.  Then we ruled out our friends who chose not to have children because we didn't want to impose a different lifestyle on them than they had chosen for themselves.  Also, now that we were parents, we understood how radically one's life changes with children, how so much is centered around them.  And we wondered if our friends without children could understand how much they were agreeing to give up even if they graciously agreed out of the goodness of their hearts.

After that initial sorting, we did a little more fine tuning.  So and so may not work out because they don't want more than one kid.  So and so may not be good because he has a medical condition and we shouldn't add more stresses on their lives.  So and so may not want to because aren't they already overwhelmed with four kids of their own?

Then, Jeff and I talked about our remaining friends individually and made a mental list of several friends who fit the bill.  As we discussed then one by one, we found ourselves saying things like, "Oh, yeah, so and so would be great.  They are such good parents." or "Oh, I bet they would do it.  Such good people.  And I know they would take good care of them." After we had gone through our friends in such manner, we had several candidates.  Among them, we selected one couple simply because we like them so much -- and because they are incredible parents to their two children.

When we next met with them, we popped the question.  When we asked, I found myself scrutinizing their facial expressions to see if they were really saying "yes," or just saying "yes" because they felt they couldn't say "no."  But the minute we asked, they said, "Of course!"  And followed with, "I can't believe you even asked us.  It would be such an honor!"  Their response warmed my heart, and I couldn't believe that they were so enthusiastic in their response.  We asked them to think about it for a couple of days, and they said, "We don't have to think about it.  The answer is still yes."

Later, I followed up with an email to them and let them know that if anything should happen, they would of course get all of our assets to pay for the expense of raising our children.  And they responded that they would do it even without the assets.

A couple of years later, when I became pregnant with my second child, we asked them the question again to see if they would agree to be guardians for our second child as well.  And again, their response was an enthusiastic "yes!".

We recently spent a week visiting them in the Bay Area.  They moved their son into his sister's room for the week so that our son could use his bed.  They fed us breakfast every morning, and incorporated our son into their own children's routine, including sharing a cup of homemade smoothie every morning and taking a bath together in their big tub at the end of the day.  When the week was over, my son whined that he didn't want to go home.  He wanted to play longer at M and K's house.

As we drove away, Jeff and I talked about what good parents they are.  Ridiculously well organized and diligent, they are one of the few couples we know who make us feel like total slackers.  How fortunate we are to be friends with such generous souls.

They aren't blood kin.  They aren't even Korean.  But they are willing to stretch themselves to make room for our children in their home and their hearts.  Knowing that makes a little bit of that fear inside me subside.  And makes me want to return the favor to some other parent reluctant to burrow in a cave.  

Our Little Baby Girl

Just a Headache

It is the middle of the night.  Not sure when.  Maybe around 3 or 4 in the morning. One of those visits home during a break from college.  I wake to the sound of wailing -- of crying and screaming -- a mix of all those.  I throw off my comforter and jump out of bed, open the door, out to the living room, where I see my mother crouched on the sofa in front of the window, rumpled in her pajamas, her hands covering her head.  The wailing, crying, screaming streaming out of her.  Tears falling out of her eyes.  In pain, she is in pain.  She is wailing, crying, screaming in pain.  What, what's going on, what's wrong?  I ask as I approach.  My father and brother, still in their pajamas, stand by the side of the TV as she sits alone.

Her head hurts, my dad says.  It's okay.  Go back to sleep.

Mom, what's wrong?  Are you okay?  Where does it hurt?

As I approach, she flinches, as if afraid to be touched.  She continues to wail, cry, scream.  She does not answer.  Cries and cries.  More tears dropping out of her now closed eyes.  Her arms wrapped around her head.  Crouched on the sofa, her feet bare.  Rocking like a caged monkey.

I step back, afraid to cause her more pain.

Go back to sleep, my dad repeats.  She'll be okay.

Okay?  What do you mean she'll be okay?  She's not okay.  Look at her.  How long has she been crying like this?

Not too long.  It'll go away.  Don't worry.

My father and brother continue to stand there.  She'll be okay, they repeat.  They do not budge.  Just stand there as if they are waiting for their sandwiches at the deli.

Throughout, my mother is wailing, crying, screaming.  Face scrunched, mouth open, tears dropping.  Gripping her head, her arms a vise.

The sound of her pain fills the room.  It is a maddening sound.  I am trapped in her cry, a cry I cannot stop.      

Dad, we have to take her to the hospital.  Something is wrong.  We have to get it checked out.  Let's go.

Just go to sleep, my father says again.  It's just a headache.  Go back to sleep.

I look at him, my eyes widening.  What do you mean it's just a headache.  Do you hear her crying?  It could be something really bad.  Why are you just standing there?  Let's go to the hospital.  Let's go.  Why are you just standing there?  Mom, let's go.  We have to go to the hospital.

My father and brother continue to stand there.  Shoulders drooping.  Expressionless.

I'm screaming.  Do you hear me?  Get the keys.  Let's get in the car.  We have to go to the hospital.  LET'S GO.  LET'S GO.  Why are we just standing here??  LET'S GO.  I'll drive her.  I'll drive her myself.  Give me the keys.  Where are they?  I'll call an ambulance.  I'll pay for it.  How much can it cost to get this checked out?  We have to take her to the hospital.

They are silent, my father and brother.

And I'm screaming and crying.  Tears dropping down my face.  Me clutching my head whirling in the madness of it all.  LET'S GO.  LET'S GO.  WE HAVE TO TAKE HER TO THE HOSPITAL.  Mom, let's go.  Let's get in the car.  LET'S GO.

And as I'm screaming, crying, and wailing, my mother looks up and pauses long enough to whisper, "It's okay.  Go to sleep.  It's just a headache."

On Anger

I've never seen myself as an angry person.  In fact, I thought of myself as the opposite -- even keeled, controlled, cool headed.  I don't know if it's still the hormones or this role of being a parent, but I find myself on the edge of anger more often than I had ever been before.  The kind of anger where I clench my teeth and claw my hands.  Where I contain the urge to bash my fist into the wall.

The odd thing is I don't know where it comes from -- this anger.  Stupid little things set it off.  Seeing a stray piece of the dog's fur on my baby's mouth.  Coming back to the car and finding the adjacent car parked so closely that I can't fit in my baby's car seat.  Discovering that my three year old had again rolled and run around in his poopy diaper, so much so that the poop had oozed through the elastic and caked around his little thighs.

In those moments, I literally seethe.  Throw my arms in the air.  And clench my fist.  And release a little Argh.  Or even a God damn it!  Even in front of my three year old who is sure to repeat it with his next breath.

It is easy to forget the anger.  To pretend it hadn't overcome me as it had.  To find my voice of reason and later retell the event to a friend or to Jeff as if it were some humorous or notable episode.  To see it as just a fleeting scene that leaves no mark.

But it isn't quite so easy.  The other day, I saw my three year old -- after I had refused his request for some sugary snack -- throw his hands up in the air, as I sometimes have, and scream out Argh!  They are little video cameras, these little people.  But it's not only their witnessing.  It is also that they can sometimes be the object of my anger.  When I berate a three year old for again failing to announce that he had pooped, how does that information process in his brain?  In my reasonable brain, I know that he is three.  But in my anger, I rail about the conversation we previously had -- about how he should poop in the potty, how he should tell me when he poops, how he should know better -- expecting him to know better than a three year old could.

Everyone experiences anger, I know that.  And it can be a useful emotion -- one that alerts you and others of the gravity of the situation at hand, one that signals that you mean business.  An emotion that can be a crutch for when other emotions seem overpowering.  But what worries me is that my anger arises over such trivial matters.  That my emotions seem out of proportion to the situation at hand.  And it makes me suspect that the anger arises from something other than the immediate situation.  I'm sure if I read some books on the subject, I could educate myself on this subject.  (And if anyone has any recommendations, I'd love to read some.)

It makes me wonder what junk resides in the well of my mind that it should so overpower me.  I've been thinking for a few days that I should just write about every past incident that made me angry -- I mean, really angry -- or upset in the past.  Maybe that's one way to exorcise some of these demons.  I've heard that re-living an emotionally gripping episode from one's past can often take away the power of those events.  So I'm going to try to do that -- find some time to write about those unhappy incidents in my past.  If this blog seems skewed in portraying an angry Asian girl, that's what's going on.

Studying Again

I'm starting to study for the GREs!  In someways, it feels silly to be preparing to go back to school at my age, but in another way, it feels liberating.  I think I decided more than a year ago that I am quitting the practice of law, but I have yet to file for inactive status with the California State Bar.  I have thought about doing the paperwork, but for some reason, I am hesitant to do it.  Maybe because it feels so permanent?   But when I think about studying something else and going back to school to do it, I get so excited!  I am thinking of going for a masters in psychology, as I wrote a while back.  Since I wrote about it back then, I have done really nothing about it.  But I am finally getting to a point where I feel comfortable entrusting my little baby with a baby sitter.  So today, we had a baby sitter come and play with little S while I cracked open my GRE prep book as I paddled away on our elliptical.  I started with the vocabulary section because that is the one section I feel comfortable with.  It is the last section that I need to study, but I am too intimidated to look at the math section.  I don't know how I am going to re-learn all that I need to in order to take a standardized test!  Maybe I have to take some prep course.  Or teach myself on Kahn Academy.  But either way, I am going to ace this damn thing and put myself on the right career path once and for all.   

Vertical Time

For the first time today, the house is silent -- except for the occasional soft purring from my 8 week old who sleeps a few feet away from me. My two year old is nowhere to be heard, at least until he wakes and charges into another day with his shouts, giggles, and stomps.

I wonder how best to use my undisturbed time. Exercising is at the top of my list, especially since I need to lose 30 pounds of this pregnancy fat. until I feel waves of drowsiness from my limited sleep last night. Then sleep seems the next best choice, but I don't want to squander my minutes of freedom. My pile of unopened New Yorkers seems tempting, but then I remember my blog -- and how I've neglected it. And missed it.

I've missed writing. And reading. And talking in more than short spurts between chasing a 2 year old around the house and tending to my newborn. In general, functioning like the kind of grown up I was in my 20s and early 30s.

As much as I love my children, I sometimes miss those days. When I could read a book or a magazine and work out and enjoy a cup of coffee in uninterrupted sips and get a good night's sleep -- all within 24 hours. But most of all, I miss connecting with people on a certain level, which is what writing allows for me -- and having long engaging conversations in a coffee shop -- the kind I indulged in as a college student. Talking and thinking about the grandiose subject of life and how best to live it. I get it in short spurts these days. Or if I do have a conversation, it is about how to potty train or deal with tamper tantrums.

I then vow to figure out a way to make more time for it -- and for me. I think about how best to squeeze it in before my head plunges into the pillow, heavy with all the frenzies of the day. Or to maximize the time during my toddler's nap to have more me-time. How to free myself from the array of menial tasks that dominate my day. How to fit everything in when there are only so many hours available. It's like trying to beat time at its own game. But I usually nod off before I can even formulate any cogent thought.

I then remember my husband's suggestion that life can be segmented vertically. That I don't have to try to fit all in one time frame. I don't have to learn to manage a newborn with a toddler, start a new career, catch up on all of the world's events, learn to cook, and figure out my retirement plan all at once. Or at least not two months after popping out a second kid. I can hold off on starting the new career for another year -- or five. And work on all the self improvement issues that have been on my list for the past decade or two.

I can't help but wonder if I've already used up the time to indulge on myself -- and to ponder life's big questions. That my 20s and early 30s were the times to do that -- and I am now passing through the time to live out the life that I was supposed to have figured out. I hope not.

When I was pregnant with my first child, a friend advised that the easiest way to be a mother is to give in to the demands of motherhood. That motherhood is so overwhelming that we should give in rather than fighting it. I now see the wisdom of that. To submit to the demands of the day -- at least for the time being -- and not to try to do more than that. To be easy on myself. To give myself the permission to be less ambitious.

The thing to remember is that this is only for a limited amount of time. In just a few years, my little ones will soon be off in school. They will no longer need me in the same way, and I can have back some of the freedom - or burden - of focusing on myself.

I imagine that in my old age, I'll probably look back on these days and think of the afternoons when I held my baby and nuzzled her. When I marveled at the string of words coming out of my little boy's mouth. When I was allowed the time to indulge in my children -- and they were there to be indulged in.

There is a lesson to be learned about the trite maxim of living in the moment. It is a lesson I have yet to learn. But maybe this little break from the day was what I needed to be reminded of all that I have left to learn.

In the meantime, I'm just going to try to refrain from wanting too much. At least for now.