Bonding

EB turned eight a few weeks ago, and I had the opportunity to spend a mommy-EB day doing all of her favorite things – painting at a local painting class, going wall climbing and watching Big Hero 6. At one point while EB and I were painting, she turned to me and said with a bright smile: “I love spending time with you.” The words simultaneously jarred and melted me. It felt great to hear the words because I felt the same way. But it also reminded me of how little mother-daughter bonding time I had when I was EB’s age. And at that moment, I longed to have the same experience with my mom.

It’s not that my mom loved me any less than I love EB. Part of the reason is generational. Ask folks who were born before the 80’s, and they will marvel at how much we dote on our kids nowadays. We didn’t have any “scheduled” fun –we were expected to entertain ourselves. We were told to go out and play until dinner time. Things were just different back then. But the other major reason why Mom and I didn’t do what EB and I do today is simply this—when I was eight years old, my family and I had just immigrated to the U.S.

Instead of going to painting classes, Mom was tied up trying to learn English and make sense of a vastly different culture. Instead of conquering the climbing wall, she grappled with the basics like driving and grocery shopping. Mom was not the best driver (yes, the stereotype is true) and she committed to rote memory the directions from our apartment to the grocery store. During one of our shopping trips, she missed the turnoff into the supermarket. Instead of driving ahead and legally turning back around, she quickly looked behind her. And seeing that there were no other cars nearby, she frantically threw our car into reverse and backed up over 200 meters on a one-way, 45-mile-per-hour freeway, just to get into the parking lot.

And it wasn’t as if I was sitting at home, pining away for bonding time with my parents. I was grappling with scary, exciting experiences of my own. I took intensive ESL classes when I first started third grade, and I struggled with just about everything. Pronouncing the word “apple” was especially hard for me. Instead of saying it with a short “A,” I kept pronouncing it with long “A” – “ape-le”-- just because it sounded better to my ears. For months, I stubbornly refused to pronounce it the right way, until I noticed that kids from the class would giggle every time I said the word wrong.

In the end, bonding happens when we have a shared experience, large or small. So I guess, just as EB and I spend purposeful bonding time together, my mom and I bonded in our own ways. Together we marveled at how big everything was here in our new country– the food, the supermarket, the houses. We were both scared and bewildered but at the same time, excited at the strangeness of everything. And every little thing we did—learning to drive to the supermarket, learning to pronounce “apple”—was a collective adventure that we faced together.

Getting on Santa's Good List

It's that time of the year. EB has been busy writing notes to Santa, trying to ensure that she is on his good list. She does not have much to worry about, being the good egg that she is.

BBoy on the other hand, has been a big ball of explosive tantrums. To be sure, he's had moments of sweetness and redemption, exhibit below.

We will see what the Santa brings tonight. Will it be a lump of coal? Will it be the yellow car that he's wanted? Only time will tell.

Thankful

Spent the day with these little munchkins today. 

I am thankful for their laughter.

.

Thankful for their silliness.

Thankful for their mischievousness.

And yes, even thankful for the tears and tantrum.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Mother of the Year

This past October had been a particularly hairy one, filled with work trips, weekend work obligations and lots of illnesses all around. In-between juggling work schedule, trying to squeeze in a girls' trip, nursing sick kids and being sleep-deprived, I committed a couple of cardinal sins. My confession would sound something like this if I were a Catholic: Forgive me, Father for I have sinned. It’s been over four years since I have been to church. I inadvertently fed straight-on peanuts to my allergic-to-peanut daughter. I mistook another child for my son. 

This unfortunate string of faux-pas began a few weeks ago. I was on a conference call when I saw K trying to reach me on my cell.
Here is the text message exchange:
     Me: On a call. What’s up?
     K: Nurse just called. EB’s snack had peanuts in it.
     Me: Oh sh*t.

Apparently, I completely missed the fact that the freebie Emerald’s breakfast packet that I got from a golf event had peanuts in it. I was in such a hurry when I was packing EB's snack that this was all I saw:

And somehow I missed this:

Luckily, EB’s peanut allergy is not of the anaphylactic sort. The school sent her home, and EB ended up vomiting a few times. All was well afterwards, but the poor girl ended up missing her school festival that afternoon. Which made me feel horrible. Guilt, upon guilt.

A couple of weeks after the peanut incident, I took BBoy to his school’s Halloween festival. The scene was a madhouse—sea of parents and kids, elbows and little heads everywhere, cacophony of giggles, whining, excited shrieks ringing in your ears. I got dizzy barely ten minutes into the event. But BBoy was beside himself with excitement because he got to wear his “yewow power wanger” costume. He buzzed around, collecting candies and proudly showing off his superhero power.

At one point we waited at a throw-the-ball-in-milk-jugs line that ran four heads deep. When it finally got to BBoy's turn, I fished my iPhone out of my pocket and positioned myself to take an action shot: “B, smile!” I urged. But the darned kid just ignored me so I tried a couple more times: "C'mon, look at Mommy and smile!" At that point I looked up and noticed that BBoy’s costume looked a bit different than I had remembered. The mask looked different, and so did the shoes for that matter. I looked harder at the boy. “B!...um, B?”
That was when I heard his teacher’s dumbfounded voice behind me: “Umm..that’s not B. That’s Joe-Schmo” (or whatever his name was. If I'm not going to recognize my own child, I'm certainly not going to remember this random kid's name).

Crap.

I realized that from the time that I moved to the front to the time that I pulled out my camera, B had managed to run to a different game station, and standing in front of me was another boy wearing a yellow costume.

That was definitely not a mother-of-the-year moment, but I say this in my defense -- all yellow superheros look the same.

This Little Guy

As a parent of both a girl and a boy, I am amazed at how much harder it is to potty train the latter sex. Biologically speaking, it would seem as if boys have all of the advantages--they can do it sitting, standing, ready-aim-fire...whatever suits their fancy. But whereas we were able to potty-train EB in less than a month, we are now going on month #6 with B.

We have tried bribing. We have begged. We have even threatened. But I have come to a realization that there is, simply, one thing that is keeping this little guy from using one of his five, strategically placed potties: He just doesn't give a damn.

With EB, all we had to do was go on a diaper hiatus, and she hated the feel of wet clothes so much so that she was almost an overnight convert. BBoy, on the other hand, just goes whenever, wherever. After all, why bother stopping what you are doing when you can just let it flow? 

Here is a case in point. A couple of weeks ago, K went to the daycare to pick up B, and saw our son dressed like this:

His teacher explained that B had a particularly crummy potty-training day, and ended up soiling through all of his spare pants. This was the only extra outfit they had left, so it was either Tweedledee or the birthday suit.

We thought it was hilarious. And instead of changing him before heading out to dinner, we decided to parade him around in his outfit of shame the way they paraded around Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter. But instead of hanging his head in shame, this guy walked with his head held-high, flashing smiles at the other diners. And to further prove how little he cared,  he decided to relieve himself as we were walking into the house.

In conclusion: this little guy -- he just doesn't give a damn.

Three Simple Steps to Scare the Bejesus Out of Your Little Brother

Step 1 -- "Invite" a larger-than-life inflatable purple alien it to supper.

 Step 2 -- Quickly hide behind the alien and claim that it likes to eat little boys.

Step 3 -- Success.

Rest in Peace

A little over forty-seven years ago, this lovely lady gave birth to this wee guy that would eventually become my witty, caring husband. Sadly, my mother-in-law passed away tonight after having been hospitalized for 11 days. If the saying is true that every cloud has a silver lining—our silver lining is that we all had a chance to see her in her last few days and say goodbye. Even though she was unconscious throughout, I truly believe she knew that we were there with her.

It was pure chance and timing that we ended up in Detroit during her last week of life. I had a work-related event, and K and the kids decided to join me during the weekend to spend time with family and friends. We knew that my mother-in-law had gone to the hospital due to complications from pneumonia, but it wasn't until after we landed that we were told how much havoc the pneumonia had wreaked on her already stalling system. By the time we got to the hospital, she was unconscious from morphine and drugs that they had pumped into her system. She had deteriorated to such a state that it was a (sad) blessing to see her go.

It’s not news that K’s mom had been sick and her body had been on a steady decline for years. But no matter how much you prepare for it, it’s hard. K has been a trooper throughout, and I can only imagine how difficult it must be for him. 

Although I never had a chance to get to know her too well—distance and generation gap got in the way—I do know that she loved and raised a wonderful son. She fueled his curiosity and passion. She taught him to be kind, for she had a gentle heart herself. She was sentimental and romantic, saving each and every letter and memento. She was a good mother-in-law to me and loved the kids.

May you rest in peace, Peggy Koch. You are loved and will be missed.