Breastmilk and Cheerios

Moving

2011-05-15T05:40:00.001-07:00

Dear all,

I've been away for some time and APOLOGIES!!! I guess working, taking care of Adele and trying to keep up with the madness of living in the city caught up me.

Now, I am VERY pregnant, with only a couple months left until another little one joins our family. I am finishing off the year, completely uncomfortable, but marveling in the fact that it is spring here! I love the city when the cherry blossoms are in bloom, it's not a sweltering 90 degrees with humidity or 15 degrees with snow. I love that inbetween stage called spring.

I have a ton of friends/family who are having babies this year....It seems to be a fruitful time for the year of the rabbit. Go rabbits! My sister is having her first, two of my best friends just gave birth, and there are countless others. I feel as though spring brings out all the pregnant ladies that are hibernating in NYC winter.

My husband has the opportunity to switch jobs, a smart move for his career, but it would mean us relocating to SOUTH CAROLINA!!!!! Ah! I always thought our next move would be to California, where I'm from, or Europe, where I would like to spend more time. It's such a good opportunity for him, and he's sacrificed for much for our family, that I feel obligated to go. I guess I never truly realized how much a I prize my independence and how reluctant I am to let go of a field that has been truly rewarding. I love my job. I love working with kids and helping their families navigate the crazy world we call education.

I can't help but wonder if I am making a huge mistake if I move and leave all my career connections here. I am hesitant to supplant myself and my family in a foreign community at a time when we are adjusting to a new baby.

If I really face the music, I know that part of my fear stems from my pride, my ridiculous belief that I can do it all. If I am truly honest, I have to admit that the last two years of working and juggling taking care of Adele has been difficult. I am constantly feeling torn between the two and I can't imagine what it will be like with a third.

That said, it's still hard to give up what you know, what's familiar and routine for you.

We're still negotiating terms and we still need to fly out to see if I can imagine myself living there. It's a huge change, but I am thankful for the possibility even if we end up turning it down. Here's to a very eventful year, full of crying babies and imminent change!

The Joys of Divorce

2010-04-30T01:36:00.001-07:00

My eight-year-old student tells me that she's moving to England next year, but that she'll be moving back for school the year after. She fails to mention that her parents are getting divorced.

I'm not sure if she knows, but I'm thinking she has to suspect something. Divorce doesn't often come without signs and trauma of some sort. Screaming fights, chilling silence, frightening absences, something to indicate that all is not well in Pleasantville.

I love this girl; she is imaginative, sincere, sweet, a regular cupcake in the world of tutoring. I couldn't ask for a better student. Except...she has a tendency to make things up so I can never quite gauge the truth about whether she did ALL her reading, or why the vocab cards are tossed over the ledge, which is not surprising given that her years of living are still in single digit range.

Some of her lies are great:

"I see fairies in my country home. Real life fairies."

"A lot of boys like me at school. Here are some cards...Rosanna and April, those are boy names."

"My brother's girlfriend makes edible jewelry, all out of gummy candy....No, it doesn't melt because she smushes them to make them hard."

There are so many more. I have to resist the urge to laugh.

I wasn't laughing, though, when she described her upcoming move as "fun, no big deal" because I know her abilities for myth-making, and stretching her reality to fit her needs.

Today, I took her to the park to meet Adele after the tutoring session. I care for both these girls in very different ways while realizing that they have such contrasting lives. Stella, comes from a family of money that coats just about everything they touch, a family that can provide her with every material happiness imaginable. Adele will, most likely, never have such a luxury, but she will be loved in a secure home with endless attention from her parents.

Only in New York City can two completely different girls meet and play for an afternoon in Central Park.

I wish Stella the best and will sorely miss her.

This afternoon, she asked, 'What's the meaning of your daughter's name?'

'Light.'

'Pretty. My name means star.'

'Very pretty too.'

'They go together!' she yells. 'Starlight.'

With that, I smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

Another NON flight from Hell

2010-02-10T05:12:00.001-08:00

We were scheduled to be in Mexico today, vacationing under the hot, sweltering sun, but no, instead, we find ourselves caccooned in the great blizzard of 2010. This is AFTER the hell of yesterday.

We get to the airport to find that, yes, indeed Adele needs a passport, that the government travel website erred when it said a birth certificate would suffice. We missed our original flight (the one that would have safely taken us to our resort) and spent the entire day running around Manhattan trying to get stinky a passport. This morning, we woke up to a clear sky, but were ultimately dismayed when we saw CANCELLED in our flight status email.

Thank you Jet Blue for letting us know at 3am when you said you'd let us know by 4pm the previous day. We lost our hotel deposit (ghastly sum) and have no hope of retrieving it.

Tears would flood out of my tired, bloodshot, twitching eyes, but I'm beyond that now. I accept the fact that I cursed when it comes to flying.

Our honeymoon was supposed to be taking place right now, but instead, I am staring at what looks like sideways snow.

Flight from HELL

2009-12-17T16:47:00.001-08:00

I could write an entire book about flying with babies and the assholes that I come across during these endeavors.

This last trip was unbelievable because it taught me that while time passes and we age, not all people mature into reasonable human beings. No, there are exceptional people out there who defy the ability that experience and time usually perform; the shaping of an immature adolescent to a (mostly) rational, considerate adult. I digress.

The flight from Los Angeles to New York is about five hours which is an hour and a half shorter than the reverse trek, but this trip felt arduous, long, unbearable....for a few reasons.

First, I was peeved, not in a good mood, so irate you could sear tuna on my skin. We went through security and were questionned very thoroughly. Why? you may ask.....I will tell you why and this is the reason I was so pissed.

Security man (hereafter referred to as 'dude'): 'You packed your own bags?'

Alex: 'Yes.'

Dude: 'You're in big trouble.'

Alex looks over at me as I'm strolling the baby across the ten-by-ten square that now feels like a prison. He looks as though he's lost all color from his face.

Dude pulls out two long steak knives from an inner compartment.

Me (internally, suppressing the desire to scream this): What the fuck is that? I cannot believe he is stupid enough to pack knives? Wait....why would he do that? Shit! We might get cavity searched!

Alex: 'Those aren't mine.' He looks like someone just told him he won a beauty pageant. In other words, stunned.

Dude: 'How did they get in here then?'

Alex: 'I don't know. HONESTLY, I really don't know.'

He looks like he might cry and I think the guy takes pity on us, that is, after he pulls over his boss, the security chief and another woman. Surprisingly, they let us go.

In disbelief, as we're walking toward our gate, Alex remembers that we packed the knives in the inner compartment, the one he never checks, when we moved two years ago. What?! We flew ten times with those knives in our carry-on. Now, THAT is scary.

While waiting to board, he tells me that all the poo and pee in his body almost exploded out of his body when he saw the knives. I wanted to strangle Alex for not checking the bag's inner pockets, but then again, it was my bag, the one I bought in Geneva the summer I fell in love with him.

So, we get on the plane and all I want to do is sleep. I sit in my seat as Alex puts away our bags. A woman crawls over me to get to her window seat and tells me, 'I hope you're staying in that aisle seat. I really don't want to be next to a baby.' Wow. Bitch.

Me: 'Well, I'm sorry. That's not possible. My husband and I will both be carrying the baby.' I wanted to flip her off, but seeing how we were to spend the next five hours together, I shut up.

She kept sighing like it was her job...'OOOOh, ugh, oooough.' You know those sighs, the ones that sound like they're being wrenched from the body. That coupled with the mumbled bitter comments.... I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up, but I was too busy consoling Adele as it was nearing her bedtime.

Her behavior was so egregious that the flight attendant came to our row, signaled to her and said, 'Excuse me, I'm going to have to move you.'

'Why?' she asked

'Frankly, I'm tired of hearing you complaining. I'm a mom too and I don't appreciate it.'

She moved this woman, a mid thirties, obviously single, bitter sorry excuse of a person to a different row where she could torment her new victims and torment, she did. I overheard her asking a man to switch seats so she could be next to the window. I'm glad the man said, 'No, who do you think you are?' which finally shut her up.

Ten minutes later, the woman in front of me starts screaming, 'I need to get off the plane!'

(Mind you, we're about to take off.)

She is talking to her boyfriend on the phone, 'What do you want me to do? Get off the plane?! I can't!'

Alex whispers, 'Jersey, judging by the accent.'

The older couple sitting next to her, dressed in plaid, tries to pretend that a crazy woman is not sitting right beside them.

'Oh fuck! Shit! I need to get off' she motions to the stewardess. 'Get me off,' I can hear her fake nails clawing at the seat belt.

I whisper to Alex, 'All the crazies are on this plane tonight'. He laughs, but the dark circles under his eyes and the sweat that's accumulating on his brow makes me feel sorry for him.

This flight was absolutely chaotic, miserably seated with crankies, and had only just begun. No matter, I realized that being a parent requires patience, not for your child, but for all the insane, unstable people that surround you, sometimes for five hours, thousands of miles above the revolving earth.

Funny Things Heard in Central Park

2009-11-09T12:03:00.000-08:00

Every morning, I stretch my limbs and take a nice stroll in the park. The number one reason for moving into our current abode has to do with the 843 acres right across the street. I love the fact that I can walk out the door and see green, not the green of Wall Street moolah, the the actual shrubbery, trees, foliage that exists abundantly in most other places.

There are definite crowds that mill around the park. There are the nannies (which I've mentioned here, here, and here), runners, tourists, lovers, born-and-bred NYers complete with accent, children, athletes, you name it, they all frequent the park at some point. I feel as though I could blog about each one of these groups on separate occasions, but one aspect links them all together; the incredibly bizarre things I hear.

During my daily walk, I always here the most unusual snippets of conversations. I am not one of those crazy skilled runners, the ones who tote four mini water bottles strapped onto their hip, or squeeze gel food into their mouths. I am the very casual walker who listens to music, not to pump up my energy, but to calm me down, to allow me to unwind from the day's chaos. I walk leisurely, with every bone in my body. Since just about everyone passes me, I cannot help but pick up on their dialogue. Sometimes, it's mild, 'Oh, did Janice tell you about the party?', or 'Billy thought he got an A. Wrong!' Other times, it's downright absurd or hilarious. It's most likely because it's taken out of context, but sometimes, I can't imagine how the word would make sense in any context. Here are a few examples that stand out;

'Get through that fucking hole! See it! Go!Go!Go!' (one bicyclist to another)

'Mom, you said I could pet the squirrel this time!!!' (a teenager to his mother, both tourists)

'I need to go back. He made my fucking breasts lopsided,' (One plastic woman says to another)

'Was that Elizabeth Hasselback?' (A woman says to her friend)...'You mean Hasselbitch? Yeah it is!' the friend replies. (The View host was actually there, strolling her newborn son.)

At other times, the conversation that gets injected into my daily walk seems too intimate, too vulnerable;

'So you gonna leave him? You should, you know. You can't keep letting him get away with that....Shit. Sleeping with other guys is not okay,' (a friend telling the woman to leave her closeted gay husband)

The thing I love about New York is that one any given day, there are crazy uninhibited personalities, conversations, dialogues, moments that filter through my life. Going for a simple walk across the street turns into a voyage into people's psyches; their insecurities, fears, and triumphs.

I always listen to music on these walks, even with the drone of conversation and occasional punctuated comments inbetween, so there is not much chance for someone to hear my thoughts, but oh....if they could listen to my head.

The thought of all the conversations with other people and the ones we carry out in our heads, all contributing to a symphony of voices, curses, laughter, and whispers makes me realize how lucky I am to be a part of it all.

To Rant or Not to Rant

2009-11-02T05:50:00.000-08:00

I came home yesterday, fatigued, drained, spent from my job. I tutor as a profession. I am pretty damn good at what I do, but it leaves me extremely tired and sometimes irate. Never because of the children, but somehow the commuting and being away from Adele makes me more sensitive, much to the dismay of Alex waiting for me at home.

He always cooks me dinner. Last night; an homage to my heritage, he cooked kimchi marinated tilapia, steamed kale, spicy squid, and rice. Some of you may have just gagged, but I love this stuff. I love how Korean food makes you TASTE, feel, sweat, and really experience food. Fortunately, so does Alex. He not only appreciates it, but he cooks it for me, following my dad's detailed instructions over the phone. I am blessed. Somehow, in this cosmos of amorous pairing, God paired me with a Southern Scots-Irish man who knows how to make kimchi infused anything.

Mid-meal, he casually tells me about his day, all the fun activities that the twosome did while I was gone. Most of the events were ordinary, but he said one thing that caught me off guard.

'So, a little girl went up to Adele today', Alex begins.

'At the park?' I mumble, my mouth ungracefully filled with food.

'Yeah,' he replies, apparently not disgusted at the sight of me ravaging my food.

'Did they play?' I prod.

'No. Guess what she said?' he says casually.

'What?' He's peaked my interest.

'She said, 'She has squinty eyes!' and pointed to Adele.'

'WHAT the fuck?' I say as I almost choke on my spicy kale.

'Are you serious?' I probe.

'Yeah, but she's just a kid.'

'I don't fucking care.' Fury emanates from my mouth.

'You should've said something,' I chide.

'What was I gonna say? Her dad was right there,' he defends himself.

'Oh my god, he wasn't mortified. He didn't say anything?!'

'No. I mean, we made eye contact. He was probably embarrassed.'

'I bet. He didn't say anything?' My liberal ass, California-raised self can't believe his nonchalance.

'Well, maybe he talked to her later,' Alex always gives people the benefit of a doubt which is nice but sometimes annoying.

'If you live in Manhattan, you better have that talk before the kid is school age,' I continue to fume.

I understand that it wasn't intended to be mean. I understand that the situation may have been awkward, but as a parent of a mixed-race child, I demand that parents wake up and clue their children in to the various differences that exist among us.

Growing up, I am haunted by a couple memories. Most of my childhood is filled with the usual warm, fuzzy feeling that one conjures when nostalgia overcomes them. All my haunted memories come from racism, usually from children. As we get older, we learn to either celebrate our differences or mask our intolerance. From my experience, children often imitate what they learn at home.

Racism at asians is usually directed at the eyes. There are plenty of psychologists and scientists who could point to why this is the case, but no matter, it's always directed there. Wake up world! Asian eyes are different, yes, but they are beautiful. Please put those fingers away, the fingers that stretch the corners of rounded eyes to mock the beautiful almond shape of much of the world.

If Adele were a little older, she would have known what was going on. She would have understood the connotations of the scene. For that, I am grateful. She has yet to delve into human habits of categorization and simple ignorance. For her sake, and for any other child who does not look like she walked out of the pages of Aryan Vogue, please educate your children, tell them what it means to be different, watch them grow into aware, kind, compassionate individuals who think before they say.

Say You're One of Them

2009-10-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

The rays of sun fall upon Adelle as she swings in her baby chair at the park. I took this picture a couple months back, midsummer moment captured by my phone, a glimpse into daylight and beginnings.

I've been reading a book by Uwen Akpan, 'Say You're One of Them', a hit with the world since it was featured on Oprah's book club. I am always skeptical of reading mass bestsellers because I tend to be attracted to books that are less known, more complex in narrative and characterization. Essentially, I am a literary snob. Once in a while, I am humbled by something the public has chosen well.

I read on the train, in the midst of hustle and bustle, careening cars on rusty tracks, filled with people, often shoulder-to-shoulder with New York's 'finest', and trying to propel myself into a world that will take me away from the chaos of the city.

I find myself in a different chaos in this book. Every story is about tragedy, but there are seeds of triumph in most of them, a hope that lingers and allows the reader to want the best for that character, his or her world and the Africa that hosts them all. My favorite so far is Fattening for Gabon, a chilling tale of child slavery. What shakes me most is the betrayal that exists in this narrative, an uncle selling his niece and nephew, two children who were already victim to another tragedy; their parents' AIDS, and the continual redemption, remorse, and complexity that remains even after I read its last sentence.

Every night, I find myself climbing the subway steps to the street, making my way from one maze to another, and my hearts aches for these stories, these children who are now heard through the pages that leap into my heart.

FALL

2009-09-28T10:54:00.001-07:00

I smell fall around the corner. This time of year reminds me of many things; crackling orange leaves, school year mania with my students, falling in love, and now....having my baby Adele, walking into my apartment with her bundled in my arms, wrapped tightly in a swaddle contraction, and hearing the words 'It smells like baby' from a five-year-old boy in the hallway.

She is turning one next week and I can't believe that my baby is becoming a toddler. She can now point and tell me what she wants. She can dance to her favorite song, 'Old McDonald'. She can chuck food halfway across the room with her dainty wrist. She barks (no joke) and growls (yes, it perturbs me a bit, but what can I expect when I let her watch Baby Einstein Animals?) like it's her job.

Looking at her tufts of light brown hair, her (now) pond colored eyes, and her lithe (less chubby) baby figure, my heart aches for those moments when she was content staying in my arms for hours, for the nights when I slept with her nestled in the crook of my arm, and the smell of violet lotion on her newborn skin.

Then, Alex breaks me out of my reverie and reminds me of the all nighters, the scream fests, the yeast infections, staph infections, and all around postpartum pain....I snap out of it. I am glad she can entertain herself. I am relieved that my nipple is no longer her sole comfort. I am freaking ecstatic that she can sleep for twelve hours straight. Hallelujah! This year of sleeplessness and groggy existence has finally come to an end.

New Neighborhood; Little Israel, Spanish-speaking gangstas & Crazies, Part II

2009-09-09T14:01:00.000-07:00

I need to clarify my title for the last couple entries. The neighborhood that I currently live in borders the projects and the more affluent community, which consists of many yuppies and Jewish families. There are, of course, many mixed asian-white couples in our hood, as there are in most Manhattan neighborhoods. The other day, I told Alex (as I watched the fifth asian-white couple in a three block radius), 'I wish we weren't such a trend,' to which Alex replied, 'I think the trend's here to stay.'

Growing up in the Bay Area, I wasn't immune to mixed families. In my high school alone, there were more and more half-this-and-half-that people than I could count. I loved it! It gave me hope that race would no longer be an issue in, say, a couple generations from now when color lines blur. However, any time I step outside my safe bubble of ethnodiversity, I was slapped in the face with the realization that most people stick to their own.

You would think that in a city with almost every ethnic group represented in its borders, that people would mix and mingle, creating more and more mixed children, more and more interesting communities with two or three cultures in one household, but I've found that many people, even in a place as big and bold as Manhattan, are more comfortable sticking to their own.

At the playground across the street, I have an identity crisis almost everyday. I know I go there for Adele, but I still feel out of place. Do I sit with the (often hispanic or black) nannies and their red-haired chargees or the yuppies (often much more established and older)? While I contemplate this, I begin to wonder if there are others who feel as estranged as I feel.

And there are.... A woman smiles at me. I can't figure out if she's the nanny or the mother. She looks very young and her child has blond hair while she has darker coloring. I'm sure this is the same thought pattern that is racing through her head about me. I sit down next to her, Adele climbing all over the bench and reaching for the baby's toy. Of course, this breaks the ice and we start talking. Turns out, Janice is a young mother like me who also feels out of place. 'Everyone thinks I'm the nanny.' I don't say that I wondered that too. Instead, I nod. She continues, 'Everyone here is either a haitian nanny or an older white lady. I just don't fit in.' I feel like clapping and shouting 'Hallelujah', but instead I demurely state, 'I get what you're saying.'

A few days after I meet Janice, I return to the park with Alex and Adele, happy to enjoy the park on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Mid-swing, I look over at Alex and ask, 'Something's different about the park today....What is it?' Alex laughs and simply answers, 'All the white people are here.' Sure enough, I look around and I see WASP families, all perfectly manicured with paisley hats and polos, walking Brooks Brothers advertisements and I don't recognize any of the faces. I make eye contact with Alex and mouth, 'Why the sudden flood?' He mouths back, 'Nannies are off on Saturday. Parents take their kids to the park to feel less guilty about leaving them home during the week.' I gotta hand it to Alex. He says what he thinks, with no hesitation and not so much as a facial twitch.

This brings me back to my first day in Manhattan. I was embezzled out of an apartment (which I will blog about later, I promise) and found myself crying in Central Park. The only distinct memory I have from that day that didn't have to do with testifying against a nasty, heroin addicted crook is noticing all the nannies in the playgrounds. Nannies outnumbered parents 10;1 and it made me sad. I made a promise to myself, that even if I were to make it big, get rich, and have more disposable income than I know what to do with, I will not fall into the super cliche of having a black/hispanic nanny taking care of my mixed child. If anything, I want a young, white manny, preferably one who likes Chaucer, to flip the stereotype slightly on its head as he strolls my little Adele around.

New Neighborhood; Little Israel, Spanish-speaking gangstas & Crazies, Part I

2009-08-02T06:13:00.000-07:00

First, I've got to apologize for the delay. Moving, they say, is stressful enough to rank right below the death of a child/parent. That tells you something. Considering I've lost a parent at a young age, I can safely say that moving doesn't come close to that type of stress, but I get the point. It is damn aggravating to search through your stuff, get rid of half of it, move, and decide that you should've gotten rid of more useless things.

Being a packrat, it's hard for me to let go. It's always some sentimental reason or some use I'll have for it in the future. I can never just chuck it the way Alex does. He tosses about half my shit into plastic bags, most of which he doesn't ask me about since I'll invent some reason for holding on to it. If I don't see it, I can cope with the purging of accumulated baggage.

Baggage is exactly what it is.... I read an article that talked about how ridiculous it is that we pay for storage units. According to the author, 'How much shit do we have that we have to pay extra to store it?' I won't look down on people who rent them because, quite frankly, we considered getting one to store all of Adele's many baby trinkets. However, being the nerd that I am, I did the math. $50 x 12 months equals $600/yr x 3yrs = $1800....Hmmm, is all her baby stuff worth almost two grand. For that price, we might as well get all new, more bulky, more advanced baby crap.

Moving with a ten-month-old child is like juggling knives; although possible, it's highly likely that someone will get hurt. I don't think I can count the many times I stopped Adele from putting a piece of sticky packing tape into her mouth. We ended up getting a sitter to distract the baby from the disaster we called our apartment.

Once moved in, Adele cried for two days, bewildered about her new surroundings of boxes and bins. I think there was a crawl space for her between the pillars of luggage and laundry. To her, it must have seemed like midtown Manhattan.

Slowly, we unpacked boxes and made our space liveable, but we still had a couple strange occurrences.

For instance, no one told us that our next door neighborhood (being a coop, he's not more than three feet away) was insane. I mean he is certifiably nuts. Our super told us that if he doesn't take his meds, he can be rude and downright mean. Our first day, he squatted on the lobby steps and watched us move. I thought he was the super at first, but Alex told me, 'No, he's our crazy neighbor.' I thought he was kidding at the time.

That day, although a little strange, he was nice--holding the doors open for me, saying 'Howdy neighbor' and all. The next morning, I get in the elevator with him and he gives me the meanest look. He mutters 'bitch' and considering we were alone, I am pretty sure he was talking to me.

Michael Jackson R.I.P

2009-06-26T08:38:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson is synonomous with eighties pop, red leather jackets, moonwalks, jerry curls, and my mother. She loved the way he moved his feet, flicked his hair, rotated his pelvis (sounds more naughty than it is) and the howl that he makes when he struts his stuff.

His death saddens the world as everyone gasps at the way his life abruptly came to a halt. I can't help but think of his family, especially his four children, during this time. As in the case of Natasha Richardson, the shocking nature of his death is too reminiscent of the way my mother died.

It's especially difficult when I remember how much my mother loved MJ. She imitated him poorly, but had crazy dance moves all the same. When I think of my mother, I think of certain images, icons, memories than transcend the present. MJ's death is another reminder that the remnants of my childhood with my mother is coming to a close.

I remember one particular winter day near Christmas when I was a young child. It was one of my earliest memories. We were spending the night at my cousin Danny's house in San Francisco. We watched the Charlie Brown special and then the music video, Thriller, premiered on television. I couldn't sleep that night from the images of monsters, crazy dancing, and the transformation MJ made from a shy teenage boy to a dancing maniac. I slept without realizing how much of an impact he would make on the world. The cute kid from Jackson 5 was all grown up and about to transform the entertainment industry. I woke up to a world where MJ was at his finest.

In recent years, he has been the butt of many jokes. His lightening skin tones, narrowing nose, and bizarre parenting choices have provided a different form of entertainment for the world. Everyone has seemed to forget his idiosyncrasies in order to remember what is really important about his life; his contributions to the music and dance worlds.

Everyone Falls Sometimes

2009-06-19T19:28:00.000-07:00

Adele: 'Waaaaaahhhh!'

Me: Oh FUCK!!!

No one wants to wake up to a screaming baby, especially when she's your own. In a daze, I search the premises to find Adele. No where in sight, I scour the room and find her on all fours, screaming from the apparent drop. She looks up at me with helpless eyes, tears streaming down her face, and I want to gouge my infected eyes out as self-inflicted punishment. I feel like the most horrible mother alive.

CATCH-UP; I was nursing her in the middle of the night. Although I always take her back to her crib after her night binge eating, I fell asleep from four consecutive days of sleep deprivation as I try to prep spoiled rich brats on their final exams while trying to mother my eight-month-old baby.

I pick her up and ja-jang (a term coined by my sister which means rocking, shushing, swaying, doing-whatever-is-necessary). She calms down and gets sleepy. I feel her sweaty body and want to drown myself in her tears. Is this what it means to be a parent; to feel your heart in your quivering throat every time your child gets hurt? I'm seriously reconsidering having another child if I can't master my own fears/anxieties/guilt with raising this first one.

I don't notice the blood right away. It's only when I attempt to nurse her that I spot blood trickling down her nose. Oh god, I feel sick. My child is bleeding and I didn't even notice. In my hysteria, I couldn't see that her nose was badly scraped. Though it's just a scrape, my vivid imagination and poor eyesight lead me to believe that she's hemorrhaging. I'm too scared to turn the light on so I wait until she finishes and gently examine her under the glow of the closet light. Her eyes, eyelids, eyelashes are drenched but look unscathed. Check. Her forehead seems okay too. Check. It's only her nose.

After putting her down, I tiptoe out of the room and start calling everyone I know. Freaking out, I call Alex about ten times, each voicemail more high-strung than the one before. I call the restuarant and his manager tells me he has left.

'Fifteen minutes ago. He's probably on the train now.'

'Oh... Adele had an accident and she split her nose. I need to talk to him.'

'Call 911,' he says in a deadpan voice. Fucking frenchie. I want to kick his ass and put some feeling into that annoying accent.

I hang up and ring Ms. Barbara. Mother-in-law tells me it's okay, to keep tabs on Adele's lucidity. I am surprised she didn't tell me to rub garlic on her nose or bathe her in acidophilus.

My dad is next on my list.

'Dad. Adele fell off the bed.'

'She okay?'

'I think so, but I can't tell. It's pretty dark in there.'

'Is she still crying?'

'No.'

'Then she's fine.'

'How do you know?'

'Because if it was bad, she would be crying a lot.'

'What if she's internally bleeding.'

'What?'

'You know, bleeding inside.'

'No, not from a drop like that. You fell from your bed many times.'

'What?'

'Yeah, it's fine.'

Okay, so my dad may be the wrong person to talk to since he seems to think falls from my annoying ass medieval style bed are no big deal. The next morning, I realize, that he was worried sick and couldn't sleep the night. He called me at 5:30 am his time.

'Dad you sound tired? Why are you calling me so early?'

'Couldn't sleep.'

'Worried about Adele?'

'Yeah. Is she okay?'

'She seems fine.'

'Babies fall sometimes.'

'I know. I just saw blood and freaked out.'

'It's okay. Don't worry too much.'

'Thanks Dad.'

Adele and I have survived many things; irritating hospital staff, yeast infections, eye infections, impetigo, and now, bed falls. I have to remind myself that babies will get hurt sometimes and that once in a while, I may be the cause of that injury, whether or not it's because I didn't pad the entire bed area in pillows or, when the time comes, because I say a harsh word to her sensitive thirteen-year-old self.

Being a parent is superhard sometimes. As she tries to cruise around, balancing herself on any object suspended on the floor, I feel my hand and heart extended out to catch her potential falls. Nine times out of ten, I catch her. I have to remind myself that part of growing up, is falling down sometimes.

Garlic and Scotch

2009-05-16T19:03:00.000-07:00

'Put a clove of garlic in your vagina tonight. That'll heal the infection for sure,' Ms. Barbara assures me. According to her, garlic heals everything. Put a little on a wound, swab a little garlic oil in your ear for infections, take a few capsules to ward off a cold. When in doubt, use garlic.

The first time I was confronted with this extreme belief in garlic's healing power, I was definitely more open to it. When I found out I had Group B Strep when pregnant with Adelle, I took at least six capsules to try and kill the buggers. Apparently, the hospital wouldn't let me take another test to see if the bacteria had gone away. My mother-in-law's logic; 'Get rid of GBS so that I will not get antibiotics during labor so that I will not get yeast infection.' As crazy as she sounds, that is actually what happened.

So here I am, taking garlic like nobody's business at three, five, seven, nine months and it doesn't even matter because the hospital won't let me test for the bacteria again. As a last minute resort, Ms. Barbara practically begs me to consider putting the garlic in my vagina. At first she tried to get me to put yogurt up there, 'Yogurt with acidophilus of course.' Then, it was the probiotic capsules, 'Just insert one about a couple inches deep. Heat should melt them.' I tried to appease her by telling her that I would definitely do it that night, whatever hocus pocus she wanted me to try, but every time I looked into my fridge, the yogurt and probiotic containers seemed to be hiding from my hands and especially from my vagina. I couldn't muster up the courage to tell her that I couldn't put foreign, edible objects into my private parts.

'Tie a string around the garlic clove. Peel it first of course.' God, I hope so.

'You could insert a hole to pull the string through, but it might smell.' No shit Sherlock. I bet Alex will cuddle up with me tonight. Not.

'Anyways, put the garlic in there overnight and the heat will soften it up some.' Just what I need; garlic puree in my VJ.

'When you wake up, just pull it out and throw it away.' No, I'm actually going to use it in a broth.

Ms. Barbara isn't the only one who believes in a magic food. In the case of my dad, it's a magic drink...scotch. My dad believes that scotch can heal anything, cure all, and has the ability to make any pain go away. The first he does after taking a seven hour flight to visit us; he pulls out the bottle of Chivas Regal and pours a shot for everyone. The sentence 'Dad, don't you wanna sit down or wash up?' doesn't seem to make it through his head. He barely looks at me as he pours another. When Adelle was colicky, he told me to rub a little scotch on the inside of her mouth, when she was teething, he told me to dip her chew toys in the golden liquor. When Alex had a bad hangover (not surprisingly from drinking with my dad the night before), my dad tells him to make some ramen and drink some scotch.

My father doesn't consider himself an alcoholic, but a scotch aficionado who must, one day, pay a pilgrimage to his beloved's native land. The only place he'd really enjoy in Europe is Scotland where he would be gorging himself on every variety of scotch. I'm sure he would fit right in with all the whiskey loving, beer guzzling Scotsmen. He might even learn a new remedy scotch offers. Perhaps that's why my dad gets along with Alex so well. They both handle their liquor pretty damn well.

If Ms. Barbara ever offered my dad a clove of garlic, I'm sure he'd eat it. I think he's the one person who would understand her and believe in every single healing property of garlic. Then, I'm sure he would chase it down with a little scotch.

Postal Service

2009-05-04T11:31:00.000-07:00

Alex tints my world a different color. There are times when I forget how much I love him. Then, there is a moment, a word, a gesture, and I remember why I love him so much. 'Listen to these lyrics,' he tells me. I glance at the Ipod dock and see Postal Service. I could've guessed as much by the voice and melody, but for the first time, I really paid attention to the lyrics;

"I'll be the grapes fermented,

Bottled and served with the table set in my finest suit

Like a perfect gentleman

I'll be the fire escape that's bolted to the ancient brick

Where you will sit and contemplate your day

I'll be the waterwings that save you if you start drowning

In an open tab when your judgment's on the brink

I'll be the phonograph that plays your favorite

Albums back as you're lying there drifting off to sleep...

I'll be the platform shoes and undo what heredity;s done to you...

You won't have to strain to look into my eyes

I'll be your winter coat buttoned and zipped straight to the throat

With the collar up so you won't catch a cold

I want to take you far from the cynics in this town

And kiss you on the mouth

We'll cut our bodies free from the tethers of this scene,

Start a brand new colony

Where everything will change,

We'll give ourselves new names (identities erased)

The sun will heat the grounds

Under our bare feet in this brand new colony

Everything will change"

Loving someone comes with many strings and this song is simply highlighting the possibility that those strings are not necessarily cumbersome without reason. Sometimes you tether yourself to someone to show that her existence matters. Often, I wonder how different our world would be if we remembered this on a daily basis. More often than not, I forget, but once in a blue moon, words through the mouth of a lover or singer makes their way to my ear, gently pounding on the valve to my hardened heart, making it possible to hear love in a chaotic world.

Trip Home

2009-04-21T05:48:00.000-07:00

I should clarify the title. It wasn't a trip home for me but for Alex. His family had not seen Adelle since she was born. We were long due for a visit.

Packing was a nightmare. Adelle's belongings take up most of one suitcase. We have to squeeze the rest of our shit into a tiny carry-on. Alex packed everything with apocalyptic efficiency; I was afraid to rearrange anything for fear that the bag would explode. I was useless that morning since I spent most of my time on the phone, trying to talk to our cracked-out broker about the Upper West Side apartment we were bidding on. Our broker is one aggressive chick. As Kathy Griffin says, "She'll cut a bitch!"

Getting to the airport wasn't a problem. It's always the ordeal at the airport that makes my head feels like its splitting. I've blogged about it before and it's always the very last thing on earth I'd rather be doing, even over changing ten poopie diapers in a row.

Going through security with a baby is a premier juggling act. Someone should include this event in the Olympics. Holding onto a baby while taking off your shoes requires major balancing skills. Emptying pockets, putting everything into plastic bags and arranging all your belongings into plastic bins while other people are hurrying you along, is a skill set that a modern mommy must master.

Flying there is a breeze. She's in a good mood. Morning person, like myself, she occupies herself with our trinkets and her toys before dozing off to sleep.

Driving from the airport to Alex's rinky dink hometown is a two hour drive and, by far, the most stressful part of our trip. Adelle likes the car for the first hour but HATES the second. We stopped a total of six times, each time, my mother-in-law telling me to nurse her when, in fact, it was just pissing her off. Imagine someone trying to shove a nipple into your mouth every time you complain.

Okay, so we finally arrive at his house that looks like a mansion on a hill. His parents own ten acres which his mother still gripes is not enough land. Given that we just purchased a 700 sq ft apartment for the same amount of money, we're a bit jaded with real estate prices.

The whole week flew by; relatives left and right, babies galore, and scrumptious dinners were rampant during the trip. However, there are a few things that stood out to me.

Adelle went into people shock. Formerly accustomed to living in a tiny apt with her parents and only seeing strangers in limited quantities of time, she officially freaked out when she met the clan of relatives. Number thirteen in a line of copious grandchildren, she hardly knew what to do with her half asian self.

Leo, my favorite nephew of the trip, charmed me with his big eyes, crazy facial gestures, and surprising affection for Adelle. He is also quite an entrepreneur.

After his cousin's birthday party, we were left with a tray of uneaten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Hating to see the food go to waste, I dared Leo to an eating challenge.

"If you eat half that tray, I'll give you ten bucks."

"What bout ten (mini) sandwiches?" Like the maverick that he is, he bargains.

"Ok, if you eat ten, you get the money. Pace yourself."

He sits down and starts chomping away. Five minutes later, he catches my eye as he holds up his fourth sandwich.

"Jo, this is four."

"Okay," I reply, confirming that I saw his evidence.

The next day, he sits down and finishes his last sandwich. He doesn't know that I would've given him the money even if he didn't accomplish his task, but he proudly waves his hands and signals that the challenge is done, finito, finit.

I pay him the ten dollars and his eyes gleam with curiosity and pride. He is really a cute kid.

He tells me that he's going to save the five dollar bill for something special. I want to eat this kid up.

The next day, we go to the local park. There are kids in every crevice and nook of this playground. Leo is playing happily with his cousins until the ice cream truck comes along. The 'Pop Goes the Weasel' anthem blares across the field and kids come running. I spot Leo among them.

Later, his mom tells me that he almost splurged on the ice cream temptation, but decided against it. Wise choice, young Jedi.

While I was nursing Adelle in the car, I also had my first 'red neck' experience. I find that term a bit degrading, but how else would I describe the following experience? With my boob halfway out of my shirt, I hear a rough Southern accent. "Boy, you git on back here and hep your mama wid da bags." As the little boy ran back to the car, his papa slaps him on the behind. I turn and look towards a man who has a hat tilted askew with his hand down the front of his jean shorts. Without warning, he changes out of his shorts and into a pair of low slung jeans. Last I checked, the space between two cars did not qualify as a changing room. I try not to look at his pale behind, but its moon shaped image is reflected on the car window to my right. I almost gag.

I involuntarily jerk from the shock and Adelle unlatches to belt out in enormous hungry/cranky/tired protest.

To my horror, the guy hears the commotion and walks to the front of the car. "Whas dat hollerin bout?" he says as he peers inside. At first, I try to be as still as possible. (For some reason, my mind rationalizes that if he can't hear me, he can't see me). Meanwhile, milk is shooting out of breast, Adelle's face is getting hosed with milk and the guy is still staring. What the fuck? This guy is either a pervert or completely stupid, probably both.

I look at him with total annoyance and he finally gets the hint. He does a fake limp walk back to his picnic bench. Why do men do this? How is imitating semi-paralysis supposed to be attractive?

With less noise, I attempt to nurse her again, but she is pissed off. Adelle is the most finnicky eater out there. Ever a gourmand, she must have the perfect temperature, mood, position, and amount of hunger in order to nurse. Yes, I am partially to blame. I think she gets her pickiness from me.

The rest of the trip goes well until the trip back to the airport, but that deserves another entry.

Apartment Shopping

2009-04-07T07:07:00.000-07:00

There are few things more stressful than moving. Death and divorce are the only two things that rank higher than relocation, according to a national poll about stress. I believe it, considering I moved at the height of my pregnancy from an Upper West Side apartment where I was subletting from an extremely cheap, grouchy, old man who decided (suddenly) that he would extort me for all I am worth (not much). 'Uh yeah, I think I'm gonna double your rent next month.' The asshole was paying a couple hundred dollars in a rent-controlled apartment and illegally subletting it to me for twelve hundred. Do the math. The guy wasn't starving as he enjoyed his home in Massachusetts and carried on this subletting scheme for years. Not to mention the incredible stipulations:

1. Every month, he could come and use the apartment whenever he wanted. I would have to stay with a friend or rent a hotel.

2. His decor was absolutely barf-worthy and I think I upchucked a couple times during my first trimester. Case and point: The man had wooden cat dolls dangling from the shelves and floral print EVERYTHING.

3. His parents lived with me via urns in the bedroom. Alex discovered this one day when asking me about the two big pots in the corner. 'Oh, those are Jack's parents,' I say without flinching. Damn, I had grown used to his freeze dried parents' presence in my bedroom. Gross.

4. He left all his shit in the apartment, old records, books, clothes, and oh, lube. It looked like it should preserved in the Museum of Ancient Sex. The worst part is that it looked like it was half empty. I think I just puked in my mouth.

There are countless other quirky things that made this exchange quite disturbing but still amusing. I'll probably write about them all one day, but for now....Six months pregnant, we decided it was time to leave.

We moved to Woodside, Queens. It was closer to my work and also much cheaper than anything we could afford in Manhattan. This is where I got in touch with my Korean side, or more actually, I was slapped with it in the face every time I walked out the door. There are Korean churches, stores, cafes, and people walking down every street in this neighborhood. I love that I hear Irish and Korean accents just about everywhere I go. The mormons in this neighborhood kill me. I see them targeting apartment buildings with their pamphlets in hand...they need to get the point, Koreans are staunchly Protestant, Irish are usually Catholic. The only people who are going to take their damn pamphlets are the kids who are stupid enough to answer the door.

While being here has been great for the birth and post partum, we are itching to move into a place of our own. At first, we looked at Jackson Heights, a historic neighborhood that features a multiethnic demographic that make politically correct PBS specials look WASP-y, beautiful prewar buildings, and a growing YUPPIE populace. However, we are rethinking this move after running into an asshole named Michael Fucking Lavagne.

There is one brokerage with a ton of listings in JH. The agent I spoke to on the phone was a pleasant, jovial (and if you met him, you would agree that 'jovial' is the perfect word to describe him) man who appeared trustworthy (the more I am learning about the real estate business, the more I am convinced that it is a SLEAZY business). When we showed up to view the first apartment, his boss was there to supervise the meeting.

Just to paint a picture; This guy was dressed in a dark green wool coat, silk scarf, top hat and cane. He looked like he should be showing apartments to people in the 1950s. Today's brokers usually wear casual slacks or even jeans. This guy had pretentious written all over his heavily tanned face.

'Hi, I'm Michael.'

He almost crushed my hand during the handshake.

'Take a look around.'

He then precedes to engage in a phone conference with another client.

After looking around the apartment, trying to imagine ourselves in someone else's home, he interrupts our conversation and says,

'Look, I'm not gonna beat around the bush. You might think that we're hurting, but we're not. We have more listings than all the other brokers put together. So...we're not gonna sell you this apartment if we think you won't pass the board.'

I guess he cut to the chase.

After finding out our credit scores and income, he says, 'Yeah, I don't know if this apartment is the right fit for you.'

Later, I find out that we can afford something much nicer than the piece of shit he showed us, but at the time, he came across as bullying and plain rude. I wanted to take that cane and shove it down his tweed pants.

Since then, we've come across many brokers who are characters from a twisted real estate storybook. Joan, or Joanie as her friends (all of Jackson Heights) call her, is Alex's new girlfriend. Quite fetching at 85, she hauls her butt all over the city, taking this bus or that, and trying to make a deal when she should really be taking it easy in her Florida timeshare like every other retired person in the city. When she shows us apartments, she never remembers where she put her keys, usually can't see the keyhole so Alex has to help her, and is out-of-breath when we reach the top of any walk-up. Despite of all this, we love her. She has been the most helpful, colorful person we have met in this dry, scummy business. She loves Alex, loves his southern charm and his soft mannerisms and that is why she is his new girlfriend.

Our newest encounter with brokers is a man that has spent WAY too much time in the tanning bed. He looks like should be advertisement on late night television for a product that saves overtanned skin. 'Only 9.95 plus shipping and handling. One smooth application and your bad tan comes right off! Call now and save.'

His name is Bob and defines douchebag. A smile permanently plastered on his face, his whitened teeth glow and sharply contrast with his fake-and-bake tan, and he oozes fakeness from his ironed shirt sleeves and pleated pants. He always lights up the dark apartments with every light in the apartment, trying to disguise the fact that the place is a dungeon, and makes crazy statements that try to pressure us into buying. He talks about his kids as pawns in a game to make us trust him. The sad thing is that he probably succeeds at winning people over, but Alex and I can see through his douchebaggery clear across the artificially lit room.

Apartment shopping in New York is much more than simply finding a place to call home. It requires an extra skill set, one that hones you into the lies and truths of each broker's spiel and deal. More than anything else I've found, I have discovered that every apartment has a story and you'll be lucky to find a broker who allows you to find that on your own, without the distraction of fake tans and bully tactics. There are few out there, but every once in awhile, you find a Joanie in a sea of tweed.

The Gym of Fabulosity

2009-03-29T05:44:00.000-07:00

Going to the pool is a rare occasion these days. With a six-month-old baby at home, I can barely manage to take a shower and dress myself, much less afford the time to go to the local pool.

The pool is a meeting place for many people in our neighborhood, especially for those individuals over sixty-five. They've seen me at the height of my pregnancy, wobbling around the locker room, towel in hand, trying to lower my fat ass gracefully into the pool. They've cheered for me in the pool when I would unintentionally race the macho men who think they can outswim me. For the record, I am a fish.

On the rare day I find time to go, I always choose to go in the afternoon, when the morning and evening crowds can't get in the way of my serene unwinding. The other day, however, I felt as though someone intentionally threw a couple of crazies my way.

Instead of the calm, light crowd I had grown used to, there were suddenly four people in each lane, all vying for time to swim. I had come at the worst possible time, but it was too late to go back. Jumping into the pool, I join three men who are also in the FAST lane. They look at me suspiciously as if a small asian woman couldn't possibly dare to join their rank. I lower my goggles and pass all but one of them. Never underestimate a woman by her size.

After thirty minutes, I leave the pool and the competitive men, and head over to the shower. This is a community center so I forego the luxury of a private shower stall in order to go to this gym for fifteen dollars a month.

I wish people knew that talking in the shower may not be the most comfortable situation for most people. Some women, however, talk as if they're fully clothed, sunbathing on a lawn. While shampooing my hair, I hear a strong Irish accent. (FYI: Woodside is filled with Irish and Korean immigrants. They don't have much in common except for their love of drinking. Enough said).

'You lactating?'

'Excuse me?'

'Oh, I recognize you from before. Looks like your chest is full.'

'Uh, yeah. I am.

'How old's the baby?'

'Six months.'

'That's it. I haven't seen you in ages.'

'Yeah, I've been busy. Breastfeeding's a full time job. I'm either feeding or pumping.'

'Oh, I believe it. I remember those days.' She continues scrubbing every part of her body and, five minutes later, resumes the conversation.

'You don't mind me asking you a question, do you?'

'No...' Where is she heading with this? I thought.

'You said you have a lot of milk, right?'

'Yeah.' Seriously, what is this woman talking about?

'Mind if I ask you for some?.... For my son?'

AWKWARD!

'Uh...how old is your son?'

'Oh, he's six.'

'Same age as Adelle.'

'No girlie, he's six-years-old.'

What the $%^&!!

'When I know a lactating woman, I always ask for some milk. Very good for kids, ya know.'

'Do you feed it in a bottle?'

'Ah...no, don't be silly.' She's calling ME silly??

'I put it in a cup. Sometimes hot cocoa or I sneak it in his mac and cheese.'

Her kid is going to be soooooo scarred.

'Well, if you get a chance, I'd appreciate any for him. He's always a little sickly in the winter.'

I nod, not knowing what to say. She doesn't seem flustered at all.

Vigorously scrubbing her face, she says, 'Just leave it at the front desk if you don't see me.'

Now she's taken it too far. She wants me to bring my pina-colada colored frozen breastmilk to the gym and leave it with the guys at the front desk. I can just imagine their reaction, 'Uh...okay. I'll just put it here next to the donuts.'

The woman wrings her hair, tosses me a smile, and leaves the room. I close my eyes, relieved not to be talking about donating my breastmilk to a first-grader. A few seconds later, I hear a weird crunching noise. The woman next to me, (my sister nicknamed her 'shark' because of the way she swims; hands cutting the water like fins) is eating, of all things, a tomato! Water streaming down her entire body, she is chomping into a large, unripe tomato.

She catches my eye and asks me if I've eaten lunch. I nod. She says that she's starving and holds up her tomato. I'm surprised she didn't ask me if I wanted a bite. Maybe she had some mozzarella in her soap case.

Eating should be prohibited in the communal shower. Imploring people for breastmilk should also be a no-no. But I guess for fifteen bucks a month, you can't really expect much.

For Natasha Richardson and My Mother

2009-03-19T04:16:00.000-07:00

I dreamt about Natasha Richardson last night. Alex told me that she died yesterday and my heart ached for her family, so much so that these anxieties and compassion invaded my subconscious.

She was the exact age my mother was when she died in a freak accident. Forty-five is too young to die. Kids barely grown, your life is ahead of you, you've come to that comfortable place where you know who you are, where life should get somewhat easier, more rewarding. It should not abruptly end in a random, meaningless accident.

And so, my heart aches for her children, her husband, her mother, and everyone else around her who feel the impact of her death, her loss, her love and her life.

I'm sitting here writing, trying to stay stealthily quiet as my husband and baby sleep in the next room. There exists, for me, a new vulnerability as I cannot imagine my life without these two people. Tragedies like the one the Neesons face force us to remember how fragile life hangs, how our hearts float in a tender space between tragedy and loss. In that hollow of wholeness, lies our peace and our happiness, but it is threatened by the unpredictable, the many permutations of chance that could crush our present bliss.

A year after my accident, I decided that I would take chances, live life to the fullest because I was acutely aware of life's fickleness. I went to England, studied, made friends, traveled around the world, moved to New York on a whim, starting writing a book, fell in and out of love with someone in Paris, worked in the lives random families, and finally met my true partner, a man with whom I can finally trust to catch me when I'm down.

Having a baby completely changed my spirit for adventure. There is a caution I feel, heavy against my heart, that prevents me from going on the same excursions and living as whimsically as I did before. It is now, that I realize how I have not completely gotten over my mother's death. The thought of losing someone else I love just about kills me.

I am slowly starting to trust more in Alex, in myself, in God, but there are moments like these, when the world feels senseless and my heart feels burdened, that I have a hard time accepting the axom; 'everything happens for a reason.' Sometimes, it feels as though there is no reason good enough to lose someone who shaped your life.

Here is a poem by Rilke that I have put in a chapter of my book;

Roads leading nowhere

between two meadows,

as if detoured from their

end by design,

roads that often have

nothing to face

but the season

and pure space.

Originally written in French, the words don't have the same power that they do in their original state. However, it conveys exactly what I think about random tragedies. Nothing makes sense and nothing appears as though it has a design, but time forces us to deal with what comes ahead, the 'season and pure space' of life. I pray for Liam Neeson, his boys, and their family and friends, on getting through that next bit of road.

Playgrounds and Playdates

2009-03-13T17:36:00.000-07:00

It was sixty degrees a couple weeks back, a record high this blistery cold winter. Everyone came out to don their latest hoochie outfit or new toy. Cars, skateboards, strollers roamed the streets while pedestrians leisurely walked in the midday sun.

Adelle was in a fairly good mood (i.e. not-screaming-her-head-off) and we decided to venture outside. Most of the time, we cloister ourselves in our 600 sq ft apt so we protect her from the elements, or more accurately, protect others from her incessant fussiness.

We could see the hoards of kids with their look-alike parents swarming the playground. Alex steered the stroller to the benches where other parents with babies were hanging out. There was an immediate 'checking out' when we approached our designated bench. Parents were scoping us out as we plopped ourselves down on an empty bench. The playground, I realize, is just as much a place for parents to socialize as their kids.

I felt like I was on a first date. As Alex undressed Adelle from her Siberian outfit, a woman with reddish colored hair smiled at me. It almost made me blush. She picked up her baby's arm and waved it at me. I felt vulnerable without any chubby arm to grab so I feebly waved back. Her husband also smiled but his was far less charming.

As I walked around with Adelle, I noticed that parents were checking us out. Call me paranoid, but I am certain that they were sizing us up as possible companions. The red head finally came our way and introduced herself. 'I'm Donna. This is Seth,' she says as she forces her kid to say hello. The kid is a cutie. Red haired like his mother, he dashes a smile toward Adelle. She looks back at him with disinterest and looks the other way. It's already begun...our little heartbreaker.

The little baby boy keeps looking at her, vying for her attention by moving his arms around, trying to touch Adelle. She just holds onto me tighter. Perhaps she's intimidated by his bib, 'Let's do lunch. It's on me.'

Meanwhile, Donna coos at Claire. 'Oooooh, you're so cute. Yes you are. Sooo cute.' Then in human speak, she addresses me, 'Yes, your daughter really is beautiful.' This is not the first time someone has said this to me. Of course, I'm biased; she has my DNA and every parent thinks their child is da shiiiiit. How else would you explain the Jean Bonnets of this world? To her credit, Adelle is stunning. She has almond shaped blue-gray eyes, dark hair, and pouty lips. She draws more attention than anything I have ever made or done in my entire life. Boys...watch out!

I know Donna is waiting for a reciprocal comment, but I've always been a very bad liar. (Lying to my mother about eating donuts with powdered sugar on my nose, circa 1985) Her baby looked disproportionately huge. He looked like the baby version of the MAD comic book kid, except ginormous. He was charming, but not a stud by any means. Looking for my response, I spew out the first thing that comes to mind, 'You baby has long eyelashes.'

Donna doesn't seem too pleased, but she continues the conversation. She gives us advice on preschools and toys ('Oh, you must get the exersaucer!) and shudders when we mention that we bought a walker for Adelle. 'Oh, you should return that. They're terrible. I read they delay walking and besides, they're really dangerous.' She might as well have pointed her fingers and said, 'Baaad parents' while slapping our wrists.

Yes, I've read that they're not the safest, but considering that we live in a small apartment, the size of some people's closets, Adelle has little room to bump into anything. Besides we're on her like hawks, monitoring her every move with our peripheral first-child-paranoia vision.

As for her other concern....Adelle is going to walk sooner than later. The girl could lift up her head at birth and bear her weight on her legs by three months. She's like her papa. I, on the other hand, didn't walk till I was almost a year and a half. According to my mom, I was afraid and lazy, like my dad who didn't run till he was five. The first male grandchild to a family with five girls, he was pampered beyond belief.

Adelle looks around, staring at the other babies and burrows her head into my chest. Meanwhile Harry, Donna's husband, suggests that we met up again in the park. Alex looks at me in our unique couples' speak and I know that we are NEVER meeting up with them. Harry looks like my dad and his techie job doesn't score huge interest points with Alex.

I had better luck with Adelle at her first playdate. My friends Nina and Emma had two babies around the same time. Actually, they were born two weeks of each other. I decided that it was time they meet. We live in Woodside which is in Queens, which feels like it is about a million miles from Manhattan. Raining that day, we decided to rent a Zipcar and drive into the city. Our nearest Zipcar location is a couple train stops away so it is not as convenient as it sounds. The trains were messed up, (when are they not?) and we ended arriving late. With a baby, this is more often than not.

Adelle loves the car. I wish we had a car just to put her to sleep. When we finally arrive, she looks at the new babies and mothers with curiosity. She hasn't quite gotten to the point where she understands that there are other tiny human beings out there.

These babies are about twice the size of 'dainty' Adelle. They are supercute, with rolls and creases, dimples where babies should have dimples. Adelle looks like a lanky version of these healthy kids. She gets it from her daddy.

I need to take off my jacket so I hand her over to my friend. Adelle immediately looks at me with anxiety, but doesn't start screaming until I pick up Harry. My goodness! The girl can belt. I was perversely touched that she cried, a sign that she knows who her mama is.

She looked at her fellow babies and kept looking back at me as if to ask, 'What universe is this? There are other babylings out there like me?' Perhaps it was too much to take in for one week. She suddenly went from a world with giants to a world where there are others out there like her. She was good for the most part. She only cried at the end when she was hungry and tired, something she would have done at home anyway.

I should take her out more. It's hard when you feel it's too cold, or when you need to rent a car to see friends. Maybe I should just hold her in front of the mirror in different outfits and pretend that she's seeing her friends; babies that smile when she smiles, that laugh when she laughs. Or better yet, maybe I need to overcome my extreme paranoia about germs on the subway, my laziness at getting her dressed and out the door, and fear that she will scream the entire time we're out.

Adelle taught me an important lesson this week. I don't need to protect her in bubble wrap and wipe every surface that she touches. Babies are bound to get exposed and contaminated. They are expected to puke, pee, poop on themselves and their parents. I guess the hardest thing about being a parent, even at this age, is learning how to let go.

Adult Assholes

2009-03-07T07:41:00.000-08:00

I think it was Samantha from Sex and the City who said that children are little assholes. At the time, there was a screaming baby in the restaurant where the fab four gab about men, sex, and love.

I agree with this sentiment to some extent. Children are practicing what comes naturally to them, screaming for what they want, which is interpreted as asshole behavior. My mother once told me something I will never forget. 'Ninety-nine percent of the time, you are great. Really fun. The other one percent, you are an asshole.' I think I was eleven when she said this.

I could buffer my mum's statement by saying that she was an immigrant, that she didn't understand the complete connotations of the word asshole, but then, I'd be lying. She knew exactly what it meant; not the anal aperture one associates with going number two, but that whiny, rude, inconsiderate, and sometimes, plain evil person that roams the society, looking to create havoc on the lives of others.

So, yes, I understand Samantha. Crying, whining children are annoying. Some of them probably exhibit real asshole personas, especially when they don't get their way. However, most children, like people, deserve a little compassion. It's difficult to communicate when you're an adult at times. Imagine being two, barely able to speak, and getting frustrated with the idiots around you who try to pacify you by doing the exact wrong thing; changing a diaper instead of feeding, feeding instead of hugging, hugging instead of.....and the list goes on. It's hard to ask for things even when you have the words, much more so when you can't even form a complete sentence.

Most children I encounter are pretty rad individuals. Without fully understanding rejection, many of them launch into conversations with complete strangers, ready to show them their new toys, favorite words, and weird body tricks. They fascinate me and not just because I'm a parent, but because they truly don't have many of the anxieties that plague adults.

Yes, some of them are truly annoying, but looking at how their parents react, I can't blame them. During an outing to the local supermarket when I was seven, I remember seeing a mother hit her child on the head for grabbing a pack of gum. Kids grab! That's what they do. It's an instinct. This mother just lost it. 'You fucking little piece of shit. I told you not to do that.' Okay, mama! We all get it. The kid disobeyed you, but what about speech instead of a smack? We're not animals. We can communicate without gruff physical gestures.

This blog entry was inspired by an article I read in the times. It's about a man who travels with his infant and his tips on how to cope with the ordeal. I blogged about it before, but he did have some helpful suggestions. The comments to his article were unbelievable. Adults stating that children should never travel. In his words, 'Society expects you to be considerate and refrain from bringing your child to certain places at certain times...If you can't live with those inconveniences, please don't have babies.' Okay, asshole, we get the point. You don't want babies near you at dinner at a nice restaurant, but what about Denny's or the local diner? We can't cloister ourselves in our cramped-ass apartments to satisfy your need for peace. YOU should be the one to stay home. Another jerk wrote, 'If being a parent is the culmination of your lifelong desires, just do the rest of us a favor and stay home to enjoy it.' First off, parenthood happens. It's not always planned and it doesn't necessary have to be the culmination of anything other than unprotected sex. I'm not saying parenthood isn't great, but it doesn't have to completely define you. People can be both an artist and animal advocate, so why are parents forced to just be parents? His logic errs. In his universe, only people that fit his bill should be allowed to partake in society. If that isn't selfish, I don't know what is.

The point of this entire diatribe is that children are assholes (often) because they don't know any better. Adults don't have any excuse. Living in a society means cooperating with others, whether or not they are five or fifty. There are more perils than a child in a public space. Perhaps looking outside one's own comfort zone would ensure that adults have a better perspective about what really matters. Why are people bullying little children and their parents when there are much bigger fish to fry? It doesn't make sense. But I guess that is the number one rule of asshole behavior; nothing that comes out of their mouths ever makes much sense.

MPM or Milk Producing Machine

2009-02-27T20:14:00.001-08:00

I'm starting to refer to myself as MPM, or 'milk producing machine'. It's an apt term for someone like myself, a woman who pumps at least four times a day and feeds her child when her breasts are not attached to shields and tubes. Yes, this is the term that best fits my 24hr job, that of a human dairy cow.

When did breast feeding get so expensive? They lie when they tell you that it's cheaper than formula. The pump alone costs three hundred dollars and all the nursing pads, kleenex, and nipple lube thins out the wallet pretty fast. Our grocery bills have doubled. Alex has to cook all the time to satisfy my insatiable hunger, the little demon inside my belly that roars its ugly head anytime I release milk, is not content with the normal three-meals-a-couple-snacks regiment that the hospital proposed. My hand is constantly dipping into some bowl, holding a fork, picking up chopsticks, and rummaging through cupboards and the fridge. There are fingerprints on every single surface that contains or serves some function related to food.

Alex has found remnants of my food foraging on little Adelle. Coming home from work one night, he picks her up and scratches at her onesie. "What are you doing?" I ask, one eye barely opened as I lift my head up from the bed. "What is this?" he asks. "There's a dark spot on her onesie and it smells." Crap. I know exactly what it is...."Oh, sorry," I mumble, "it's pasta sauce." I suddenly recall trying to eat spaghetti with one hand while holding Adelle's rotund torso with the other. I guess I must have flicked some of the sauce on her outfit during my binge session. I look at my shirt. There is a mirror image of the same stain on me, underneath my bulging chest.

My bra has officially become a catch-all for my new full time job. It harbors everything from crumbs to chocolate chips (which melt into chocolate puddles) to blueberries to pasta shells. On occasion, I've even found a broken tortilla chip in there. The space between my boobs (Hereafter referred to as my spoob. 'Cleavage' has too many sexual connotations and my breasts are anything but sexual right now) is constantly getting caressed by pieces of food and food paraphernalia. (On occasion, I have used my spoon or chopsticks to fish something out).

I am thinking of getting a stool to place in front of our fridge. I am constantly there, opening the door, moving things around, and sometimes even partaking in an impromptu meal, pairing a few carrots with some deli meat or hot dog. It sounds bizarre, but trust me, to a lactating mama, anything can seem appealing when hungry enough.

Currently I'm eating almonds, salt and vinegar chips, seaweed strips, cereal, popcorn and soy ice cream (yes, it IS as gross as it sounds), all jumbled together, in a hodge podge mix, sitting in my gallon-sized bowl.

Most women gain weight during pregnancy and slowly but surely lose it while they breast feed. Not me. I lost all my pregnancy weight within a week of giving birth (don't hate me just yet) but gained all of it back within the next several months of breast feeding. I didn't know it was possible, but considering all the food I consume, it makes sense.

Curious to see if I was alone, I searched for forums about weight and breast feeding. I found one worth mentioning, a place where women moaned and groaned about how their waistlines were expanding with every month of lactating. Yes! Misery does love company and I exalted in the fact that I was not such a freak. There are others out there like me.

Needless to say, I can't diet. I've never been successful at limiting foods I love. If it weren't for the yeast infection and Adelle's extreme reactions to certain foods, I'd be dining on twinkies, dark chocolate and twizzlers. Now all my angst against being in a dietary prison is taken out on the helpless carbs I can indulge in....Those poor spelt crackers don't stand a chance against this mama!

I asked Alex if he notices how hungry breast feeding makes me....His response, "Uh, yeah. Considering you hover (I love that he used that word) around the snack bowl before, during, and after you feed her." Hm, honest Abe tells me the truth. My dad is also fairly honest when he talked to me the other night about this issue. "You haven't changed at all. You've always had a snack bowl. It's just gotten bigger, that's all." Thanks Dad. You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.

I want to wring the necks of these lactating bitches online who say things like, "I lost all my weight with breast feeding." "It only took me a few months to get to my pre pregnancy weight." And my favorite, "My husband thinks I'm sexier than ever." I almost gagged reading the last one.

So, here it is; my verdict on breast feeding. Breast feeding is good for the baby. It is a bonding experience for sure. However, it is not cheap. It is not the cure all for getting post pregnancy figure back. At times, it makes you feel like you belong in a factory, bottling the milk that comes out of your engorged tattas. Though I must admit, if faced with the choice again, I'd still do it. Masochistic? Yes, but I'm also lazy. It's my only ammunition against getting a good night's sleep. There's nothing better than being able to stick the boob in her mouth when she wakes in the middle of the night, watching her suck hungrily and getting satisfaction out of my body, nestling her little self against my soft flesh and falling asleep.

Staph Infection Part Deux

2009-02-26T13:58:00.000-08:00

As I've mentioned before, there is no hell on earth like a doctor's waiting room. I imagine that the waiting room in hell can't be much worse than what I experienced today.

I should've had an inkling something would go wrong when I received a phone call this morning that my appointment was changed to 9:30 this morning. Mind you, I checked my voicemail at 10:30, after a sleepless night.

"Uh, I'm calling to confirm your appointment for 9:30. I went ahead and changed it so that you could get it over and done with. See you in a bit." She left the message at 8:42am. Is it possible to say that you confirm an appointment if the other person doesn't respond?? At the time she called and "confirmed" my new appointment, I was in la-la land with Adelle's head resting on my arm, drool collecting between the folds of her cheek and my elbow pit (the fold on the opposite side of the elbow. Sounds gross, I know, but how else would you describe it?) I was lost between a dream where I was maniacally chasing after triplets, trying to get them all to sleep and a dream when I was trim and fit, laying on a beach in Cabo. Oh yes, stuck between a nightmare and a fantasy of some sort.

At 10:30, I had just crawled out of bed, a boob exposed from nursing in the night, my hair disheveled from Adelle's angry-tired fists, and my feet in the opposite slippers (No wonder they felt so weird). I was a classic case of tired mom. I somehow retrieved my phone from the seat cushion after I heard ringing. At first, I thought the sound was imagined, until it started getting louder. Afraid it would wake the baby, I started rummaging through my purse, jacket, and finally followed the noise to the couch. My phone was lying there next to an old cheetoe and popcorn kernels and my old insurance card (Damn! I had been looking for that for ages!) The receptionist didn't seem bothered by my bewildered state. "You want me to come in now?" "Uh yes, I'll tell the doctor you had issues with the baby." For once, it had nothing to do with the baby. I can't blame the receptionist's ineptitude on a five-month-old child. I wanted to say, "Thanks for scapegoating my little Adelle. She can't be at fault for your ridiculous incompetence." I thought the better of it and held my tongue, something I am going to do all afternoon.

She tells me to come 'right away'. Without telling her that I look like a victim in a horror movie, I tell her that it's impossible. "I need to pump (and eat my face off) before I come down." "Alright. I'll tell the doctor." Who knows what she'll make up to the doctor, but frankly my grumbling stomach prevents me from pursuing this train of thought.

I hadn't eaten the night before which was a big mistake. My stomach was grumbling to the point where Adelle might awaken from the tremors my body was producing. While I pump, Alex makes me a huge fattie omelette, the kind that smells and looks good, its edges hanging over the already-huge plate. I eat that in two minutes. Still hungry but too embarrassed to eat any more, I grab some chocolate covered pretzels and head out the door.

Walking there is a breeze. I've switched doctors since I absolutely detest the other one. (Boy, do I have a story to tell you about him!) My former doctor, let's call him Dr. Quack, tells me that I need surgery for my nearsightedness. He mentions a procedure that is the new LASIK called LASEK and assures me that I am the appropriate candidate. I go home and google (of course) and I realize that I am the absolute wrong person to get this done. When I raised my suspicions to the new doctor (Dr. Frigid), he tells me that I'm right. The surgeon would have to cut away most of my corneal layer for me to see correctly. So much would be cut away that I would be left with a wobbling eyeball, so unstable it may collapse. Great. Just what I need....collapsed eyeballs while trying to breastfeed. Dr. Frigid also tells me that the old medicine (given by Dr. Quack) is antiquated and that there was no need for me to go blind. I should've used simple bethla-blahblahblah drops. I'm grateful to this new doctor, but he is the coldest physician I have ever met, one of those guys that should be typing in data into a machine rather than dealing with people. Doctors should be forced to take a social aptitude test.

I walk in the door and take off my heavy jacket. I hang it on the IKEA like coat rack and the entire structure falls apart. Everyone in the waiting room looks at me, but no one helps me reassemble this shitty coat rack. The receptionist smiles at me and motions for me to sign in. She keeps looking over my head and I realize that she's smiling at Joy Behar on the View who's cracking a joke on the flat screen TV behind me. (Is this where my money is going?) She asks how the baby's doing. "Great" I answer and sit down. I know the wait will be as long as last time so I brought my Baby 411 book. She notices it from across the room and asks me about it. I don't feel like giving her a synopsis so I say "Great" again. Everything in this damn overheated office is just great. The waiting room is filled with people who can't see. Everyone has those plastic glasses, the kind that remind me of 3D movies, except they're all watching women gab instead of flying dolphins. I'm the only person under 70 in this room. If I'm here now, imagine what my eyesight will be like when I'm 70?!

After two hours of waiting, reading, peeing, texting, web surfing, email checking, and daydreaming, I get called into the back room. The physician's assistant is a round, exuberant woman who has the thickest pair of glasses imaginable. She has black ringlets that seem just as excited as she is. "Sit down!" She practically yells. I'm blind, not deaf. She goes over my chart and tells me that I'm not a candidate for the LASEK surgery. I'm wondering if everyone is hearing my diagnosis since I have the urge to cover my ears, something I do when I walk under the loud ass 7 train. She tells me to go back outside and wait to be called again. What a tease!

I finally get called. Dr. Frigid announces, "Park, Jo. Come on in." I gather my jacket, purse and book and squeeze my way past all the other waiting room prisoners. I want to say 'Suckas!' but resist the urge since I may be coming out here once again.

I look for a place to put all my crap and just settle on putting in on the ground. I'm a bit of a germaphobe so I quelch the thoughts of eye juice and other bodily fluids that may be on the floor.

He looks over my chart and asks about my progress. I tell him that my eyes still feel dry. A 'Hmm' comes out of his mouth as he swivels around on his stool and comes so close to my face, I thought me might kiss me. He looks deeply into my eyes and does the most unromantic thing ever, he flips my eyelids. Gross! I want to freak out, but I don't want to be a baby, especially since I just had one.

"Grab on" he says. "To what?" I want to ask. I hold his arms. "No, the sides of the machine." Embarrassment doesn't even begin to describe what I felt. This machine looks like R2D2 except fancier. I peer into the light (I'm beginning to think this is a rather spiritual experience) and follow his finger as he moves them from side to side. Am I getting hypnotized too? He probes and pokes, swabs and wiggles, and then he asks if he could take a break. What? In the middle of an exam. "Okay," I respond like an idiot. What else am I going to say?

He gets on the phone and precedes to talk to another opthamalogist. "Yes, she's a fine specimen. A hole in the left eye. Six o'clock....You think I should prescribe that?....No, I don't think she'll go blind, just yet." Holy crap! Was this guy diagnosing me right now? I hold my tongue. "Okay, I'll get the lab results to you this afternoon. How was the '90?" What? "Did you and your wife drink it last night?...No, that's okay. I prefer the Muscadets from Loire." Crap, this guy is shooting the shit about wine while I lay semi-prostrate in my Inspector Gadget chair. "Yeah, okay. I'll get Marisol's results to you today." Oh, so he wasn't talking about my blind ass. As long as it's someone else....No! I'm kidding, well, half kidding.

He takes out a big plastic chart of the eye. It's pretty cool, but I am beginning to wonder if this is my fifth grade science class all over again. DIAGNOSIS: He points to the eyelid and tells me that my glands are plugged. TREATMENT: He tells me to put a warm washcloth on my eyes for five minutes and then wipe my inner eyelids with a Q-tip. When will this be over?

As if reading my mind, he asks how long I will be lactating. Of course, he couldn't just say breast feeding, right? Had to say I was lactating. 'For a while' I respond and he give me a look that said, "Didnt I just tell you stupid bitch that your eyes are clogged and you almost went blind yet you still want to breast feed? What's wrong with you?" I mutter my defense, "Good for baby."

Head hanging low, I walk out to the waiting room area and book my next appointment. The receptionist lifts up her poorly colored hair (People with black hair should never bleach their hair! It looks orange) and tells me to come back in April. Yeah, like I'm going to remember that. She says she'll confirm the appointment the day before which doesn't really reassure me.

She starts talking to me about babies and I use this opportunity to tell her I need to get home and breast feed my hungry Adelle. "But I thought you pumped?" she asks. "I do, but she doesn't take the bottle well." "Ohhhh, you gotta make her take it. I breast fed my kids till five and they took bottle. Otherwise they get too attached to mommy." This woman is talking to me about attachment issues and she's the one who breast fed her child till he was in kindergarten. What?!

"Great," I say for the millionth time even though it makes no sense. I grab my coat, zip up, and walk out the door. I trip on the half step that lays just beyond the door and land on my hip. My ankle hurts and I wobble home. Why, I ask you, would they have a half step (not large enough for human feet) outside the door? At an eye doctor's nonetheless? How does that make any sense? To all my lawyer friends out there during these harsh economic times, LAWSUIT!

I come home and Adelle is screaming, probably because I look like Quasimoto, limping hunched over, and moaning. She's so hungry she's hysterical. I strip down faster than you can say 'naked' and latch her on to my too full breasts. She sucks and milk spews out like a pressure washer, the white substance making perforated lines across her face. She snorts milk and screams even louder. We panic and run around, trying to appease her. It reminds me of when the smoke detector goes off and you feel like you're going crazy from the beeping noise. You open the windows, fan like a crazy person until it stops its irritating pitch.

She finally calms down and nurses. My heart aches. After this miserable day, seeing my Adelle's face wet with tears and snot melts me. All hell can break lose, but I still have a little piece of heaven right here.

Unconditional Mothering

2009-02-20T14:00:00.000-08:00

"Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not."

-James Joyce

Joyce is known for his epic novel, Ulysses, and his incredibly difficult and enigmatic work Finnegan's Wake, but I remember him more for his audacity in life. He boldly said things that appalled people, but I like him all the more for it. He's known for his strained relationship with his mother, his impossible love for his wife Nora, and his love/hate relationship with Ireland. Despite the difficulties he faced with his mum, he still understood how deep a mother's love runs.

The Sleeping Dragon

2009-02-19T19:54:00.000-08:00

Adelle is asleep. She has been a little pill today. I wonder how many parents feel like their lives revolve around their babies' sleep schedules. It's not uncommon for me to tiptoe around the house at 2pm, taking phantom steps around the crib, careful not to make a sound.

I've read a dozen books about parenting. I subscribe to parenting magazines and surf the web for miracle sleeping tactics, but they all stupefy me. I swaddle, wrap, rock, shhh, and it all goes to hell once she kicks back her head, arches her back and lets out the most ear piercing scream possible. From there on, it's an uphill battle to slumber. I'm usually panting, motion sick, and dehydrated by the end of it all. She, however, looks angelic, absolutely beautiful with no evidence that she has ever let out a yelp. Then, I question if I imagined it, until I notice the spit up stains and strands of my hair tightly gripped in her hands.

Maybe she just lives up to label on her bib, 'high maintenance'. Although, knowing her, she'd probably just say that she is particular.

I want to write a book about babies like mine. The title would read...."She's just not that into IT", a cheesy, lame reference to the movie/book about men who lead women on. In the manner, I have come to terms with the fact that Adelle is a prize fighter in a bitter battle against sleep.

I love how my Korean relatives rationalize this tough period of crying, sleeping, burping, farting, pooping (sometimes outside of a diaper...Why do babies tend to pee/poop when we're changing them?), and temper-tantrum-throwing. 'Oh, she cries a lot. That means she be a good toddler. You see. If she cry now, she won't cry later.' WHAT? What kind of logic is that. Another one of my favorites, 'Oh, she Park family baby. They all cry. Just the way it is.' So, you're telling me that all babies with the last name Park (about a million) cry more? How does that make sense? My dad has the best one so far. 'She's gonna be a good singer. See, your sister is a good singer because she cried a lot. Good practice.' 'Uh, Sally doesn't sing that well, Dad.' He explains, 'Yeah, but she likes to sing a lot. She's always singing.'

They say it to give me hope. They know that this time will pass. I know it too, but it's hard when I'm worn down, day in and day out.

The woman at the Korean market confirmed this as I was paying for some cold noodles. 'You sick?' I nod even though I got over my cold weeks ago. 'You don't look so good. Too yellow. Drink some water. It makes the yellow go away.' Can you believe this? I didn't ask for a pound of kick ass when I paid for my food. Of course, she only gets away with this because she's asian. I felt like saying, 'I am asian. You don't think that has something to do with it?' (For the record, I asked Alex and he told me that I didn't look more yellow than normal. Ha! I'm laughing while writing that). I love her remedy, 'Drink water', as if the water is going to flush out the color in my face. I'm not a bucket of paint. You can't water me down.

Apparently, it's not just this woman who thinks I look bad. My dear friend came over last night and asked if I was okay. I mean, I must really look bad with all these questions. He motioned to his eyes, said I looked drained. I did remind him that I almost went blind and have been sick for some time, not to mention the fact that I am a new parent. I should be excuse from looking good for at least a year.

By the way, celebrity moms should never be allowed to whine. It kills me. I love how Gwyneth Paltrow complained about how hard it is to be away from her kids during movie shoots. First of all, you have nannies to take care of your kids even when you're there. You make millions of dollars making movies while my sister who works at a public school makes shit when she deals with twenty hellions everyday. You have time, money, and help so that you can practice your yoga/pilates/other-crazy-Madonna-inspired-exercise while you eat your macrobiotic diet that probably costs more than my entire salary. Oh, and I love how they get their tummies tucked while they get a c-section because it's more efficient, killing two birds with one stone and whatnot.

When I want to get an honest opinion, I can't ask Alex. Of course, he's going to lie. Who would risk the wrath of a postpartum chick when he just fib his way into safety? Only an idiot would do that. And, trust me, given his blunt nature, there are moments when he is an idiot and tells me the truth. I think he's learned his lesson. For all you men out there, lie lie lie!!! Be kind and tell her she looks amazing, like she did before the baby. It's the least you can do given the almost ten months of pregnancy, childbirth, and aftermath.

To top it all off, I'm officially going bald. I finally go to get my hair cut and the hairdresser looks at my hair and tells me that there are chunks of it practically racing to fall off. I tell him I had a baby. He looks at me with sympathy before saying, "Oohhh, okay. Yeah, you're going to lose more. Normal. It's also why your hair looks so dull." Geez, thanks.

I should get to bed. Don't want to wake my sleeping dragon. As I write about the changes I've been through, the havoc my body has experienced and is experiencing, I will say that I am still amazed that I have Adelle. I rock with her in my arms, look at her pouty lips, and feel her hands clenching my robe. She needs me. I've got to enjoy this time when she wants me to comfort her, hold her, kiss her, and unconditionally love her. Before I know it, she'll be thirteen, hating me for being her mom, slamming her door in my face as she yells something mean. It happens.

For now, I enjoy the moments of peace between the screaming sessions, cataloguing her angelic poses and facial expressions in her slumbering state, for a day when she'll no longer need me to fall asleep.

Baby Blues

2009-02-11T10:41:00.000-08:00

Postpartum depression warrants discussion. Brooke Shields thought so when she felt dissed by Tom Cruise's comment about her baby blues.

I don't know whether I could classify my vacillating mood swings as PPD, but I do know that I have crazy, erratic mood swings that make Kristie Alley's yoyo dieting look tame. Poor Alex. The guy has to deal with this on top of a screaming baby and loud neighbors. One day I'm gonna turn into the normal woman he met, the composed person who knows how to keep her cool even amidst hormonal rushes. Until then, watch out!

Apparently, it's something that even doctors can't ignore. When I asked my opthamalogist the reason for my staph infection, he tells me, "The hormones a woman produces during pregnancy and breast feeding affect many things, including the production of proteins on the surface of the eye." So, if breast feeding's hormones can throw my eye out of whack, it makes perfect sense that hormones can make my mood change instantaneously.

All I know is that it feels like PMS times a million. I'll be fine one minute, cooing with the baby, looking lovingly in her eyes, and then, bam!, I feel overwhelmed and irritated, not with Adelle but with something trivial, like the fact that I missed my morning walk. Poor Alex is the only one around, looking at with me befuddled eyes, as I enter my rage. My sister coined a term, 'fire in the eyes' for people who turn crazy mad. I think it's an appropriate nomenclature when talking about my emotional temper tantrums.

I promise I was never like this before, which is probably why Alex looks even more confused. It's also probably why he's willing to stick it out. Depending on memories of me as a sane partner is the way he deals with it, but I tend to forget that, beneath this emotionally turbulent exterior, I once was a pretty kick ass chick, one who could control my moods far better than the I do now.

On this Valentine's Day, I've learning that forgiving myself is just as important as loving Alex and Adelle. The french have a saying that I adore;

Comprendre, c'est pardonner.

To understand is to forgive.

So simple, but it speaks right to the heart. Forgiveness is only possible when one truly understands the circumstances. As I look at my little baby and realize that I have nurtured, birthed, and breast fed this baby (despite a yeast infection), that I walk with her, sing to her and soothe her until my limbs go numb, I can forgive myself. More importantly, I hope I am starting a habit that will influence my daughter. Women are the hardest on themselves and I want her to understand that everyone is capable of giving and receiving forgiveness, most of all, herself.

MISSED-communication

2009-02-09T12:24:00.000-08:00

Technology can be great. It's what allows me to work from home, connecting with students miles away, all from the convenience of my home office. But it's also a way to conveniently distance yourself from uncomfortable situations too. Why is it that some people feel more comfortable going on match.com instead of actually approaching someone at a bar? Does the comfort of technology afford us the experience of dealing with people whether we like them or not?

Case and point:

Alex and I experienced a little surprise eating lunch today. Trying to jungle Adelle with one hand and scoop up slippery vermicelli noodles with the other, Alex tries to quiet his buzzing cell phone. It makes that irritating sound whenever he gets a text.

"Who texted you?" I demanded.

He shakes his head. "I don't recognize the number." He starts to laugh and reads the following text aloud. I almost lost it; I was laughing that hard.

"Yo if ur stupid ass want 2 fight mii we gonna fight cuz briana told me that u want 2 fight mii and dis is ragina 4 the record"

We couldn't resist. Somehow our fingers started responding..."If u come near me i'll tear ur weave down bitch".

'Ragina' didn't waste any time in her response:

"Yo ur friend dropped her phone we I was jumped her I put ur # in my shit so u and ur friend cece is gonna get washed up and I'm serious I no ur face and so imma fucc u up".

After trying to decipher the message, we realize that she obviously has issues with this girl, whose number she (mis)writes down in order to tell her that she's gonna 'wash up'. (I'm gonna have to remember that one. 'Alex', I say later that afternoon, 'I'm gonna wash you up if you're not careful.')

More than her desire to fight, I notice that Ragina couldn't actually muster up the energy to tell this mystery girl her feelings. It took more effort to pick up her companion (Cece)'s phone and record a number to later vent her feelings. Very passive aggressive if you ask me.

Kids learn young. They absorb everything so can we really blame them when they merely mimic what adults are doing everything, hiding behind the mirage of text messaging and comfortable distances?

I used to date a guy who communicated almost all his thoughts and emotions through texts. I had to practically learn a different language just to understand what he was saying. 'Mt me law-b EO @ 11. C u ltr'. In English, it reads, 'Meet me in lobby of Employees Only (lounge) at 11. See you later.'

When he found out I was a writer, he gave me an apprehensive look. He admitted that he used to date a woman who wrote an article about how his text code. I could understand why. It's interesting that a successful, attractive, educated man needs to hide behind his blackberry (though I assume he has an iphone now) to tell a girl that he digs her. It was only after we stopped dating that I realized how much he liked me. The stream of text messages kept flowing as the dates were coming to an end. 'When can I c u again?', 'R u n town? Miss u', 'Did I do somethg wrg? Sry,' 'I want to c u. Miss ur face.' Despite the fact that I'm virtually married with a child, I still get them from time to time.

I admit I do the same. Instead of dealing with crazed parents with tighter-than-ghetto-girls'-jeans schedules on the phone where they can ramble on and on, I tend to text succinct units of thought. I don't want to spend my day coordinating the minutia of their lives on top of trying to get their kids into the ivy leagues. Sorry, I'm not paid enough to do that.

Technology is wonderful. I am sure that if Ben Franklin were alive, he'd be one kick ass texter, sending messages of his brilliant inventions to his investor friends. However, there is a time and place for real human interaction; confronting someone, telling a girl you like her, etc. that seems to get lost in the sea of SMS.

The French government declared that text messaging is ruining the quality of french language. It is banned in schools for that reason. I'm beginning to wonder if they have caught onto something that I'm just beginning to realize; texting is no substitute for the richness of words, the rawness of human encounter, the subtlety in personal interactions.

Staph Marginal Keratitis

2009-02-04T08:52:00.000-08:00

Most of you will probably never have to deal with staph marginal keratitis. However, most of you have probably waited in a doctor's office, crammed with sick patients, who are all vying for five minutes with the specialist on hand. It's not fun whether or not you have a hungry, breastmilk dependent baby at home, but it is especially harrowing when you're constantly watching the clock, checking your much-too-full breasts, discretely (or not so discretely) checking your nursing pads to see that they're not soaked, and praying to God you don't leak when you hear the crying baby in the next room.

They told me that there was no one in the waiting room. "Come," they said. "There's no one here. You'll be seen right away." So...I strap on my boots, wear my hideous down coat, and put on mismatching gloves and hat to beat the clock. Instead of feeding my little turkey, I sneak out and bolt it to the opthamalogist.

It's fifteen degrees outside and I realize that I forgot to wear my pants. I'm in paper thin tights and my knees feel like they are actually freezing. I'm a sad sight. I suddenly feel like Malvolio in Twelfth Night, when he dresses himself in yellow stockings and prances around the castle. With my yellow-gray striped rainboots and big black blanket of a jacket, I look like an ugly bumble bee, one that's gone blind.

I don't normally walk in a straight line (one leg is longer than the other). I tend to veer towards the right. Now, however, I am a big mess. I can barely see. The combination of the wind and my poor oozing, cherry-red tomato eyes, I can only make out my bright boots and the glare of ice on the road.

I've never been able to ice skate or roller skate or do any gliding of any kind on slippery surfaces, but suddenly, I am sliding and gliding all over the icy pavements in my blind state. People actually pause to look at me on the street. A few kind souls stop to ask if I am okay. I try to smile but it ends up looking like a sneer since I can't feel my cheeks.

I try to find the office building. I call the office three times because the street numbers don't make any sense. If you have ever lived in Queens, you know what I'm talking about. I enter an apartment building that matches the address I have in my hand, but I can't find the doctor's name on the list of residents. I look again, wondering if I'm missing it because I can barely read. Just as I am about to dial again, a blast of hot, moist air shoots through a vent and completely fogs up my glasses. Now, I am really blind. I can't see a thing. In a panic, I take off my glasses and get hit by the swinging door. Instead of receiving an apology from delivery man, I get a grunted "Are you blind?" thrown my way. I couldn't make up this stuff if I tried.

I step outside and dial the number. They tell me it's next door. Two addresses that are exactly the same? Have you heard of such a thing?

Needless to say, I'm annoyed. It doesn't get any better when I see a huge reception room filled with patients. "Uh, I thought there was no one here. That's why I came down." No recognition. Instead, "Uh, I didn't tell you that. You must've spoken to someone else." "I just called your office about five times in the last half hour. I recognize your voice. You told me that it was empty. I have a breastfeeding child at home. I can't wait for an hour." She looks annoyed. Rolling her eyes, she tells me to fill out some forms and has me sit in the corner seat.

I am sweating. I realize that I haven't taken off my down jacket and now my breasts are really uncomfortable. I return the paperwork and spot the doctor. "Excuse me, I really need to get going. I'm breastfeeding (hoping that my girls looked like they were filled with milk) and I need to get home soon." Doctor, surprisingly, has sympathy. "Fifteen minutes. Can you wait that long?" He looks at my breasts as though they were going to spurt out milk any minute. "Yes," I respond with relief and sit down.

Everyone looks at me with wonder. Most people were speaking another language and they were engaged in their own conversations until I spoke with the doctor. After that, they seemed to notice my presence, my disheveled hat head, the breast milk stains on my shirt, the ripping stockings, and the crazy funky glasses I only wear in the privacy of my own home. Maybe I'm just paranoid but I could've sworn I heard the word "loco"....

Thirty minutes later, I am still waiting. A woman finally comes out and asks me come with her. Yes! I follow her and do everything she asks. I put my head in one of those gadgets and get crap misted into my eyes. I do the eye chart test. OVBDA, and other nonsensical letters stream out of my mouth until the technician declares that I have terrible eyesight. No shit sherlock. That's why I'm here.

I have to wait again! What a farce. I'm back in the reception room with everyone else. I wait and wait, checking the tiny clock on the microwave....(Why is there a microwave in the waiting room?Are people here that long?) Doctor finally calls my name. I follow him into a room where more liquids and utensils are prodding my eyes. He tells me that I have something serious. "You could've gone blind if you waited another day. Good thing you came to me." Uh yeah. I did almost wait another day. With a baby, it's hard to get anything done. "I'm the best one who could help you. This is my specialty. You would've been really in trouble without me." What is this guy doing? He's trying to sell me something that's already been sold. "Give it up doc! I came to you! What more do you want?" I want to shout. He keeps it up. "Wow, really, this could've been bad." I ask what I had. He won't let me finish my sentence. Instead, he shushes me! He won't even give me the name of the infection. I keep asking until he finally gives up and writes it on a piece of paper. I'm gonna google this shit for sure.

I get home and immediately type it in. He's no specialist! It's a common infection that any opthamalogist can treat. This medicine man wants me to worship him for curing my eye when all I needed was an ointment for three days. Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful that he helped me, but did he seriously have to act like a magician-Christ figure when he diagnosed me? He practically wanted me to kiss his feet.

He forgets to tell me one important thing....You go blind for two hours after you put the ointment in your eyeballs. The first time I applied it I thought I did something terribly wrong. "Alex!" I shout. "I can't see. Check the box! See what the side effects are." I stumble to the couch and try to keep the ointment from oozing out of my eyes. He reads, "Burning, stinging, blurred vision," except that this is more than blurred vision. I literally can't make out huge objects in my room. It's a palette of colors smeared across my cornea. I feel like Monet, except that I can't paint.

Try nursing a baby with no sight. It hurts. She keeps latching onto the side of my breast, giving me a hickey on my tatas. Ouch.

I look pathetic and I am pathetic. I run into everything in our cramped apartment normally. Now, I'm just one big disaster waiting to happen. Alex has to follow me around with a trashbag since I drop just about everything on the floor. I don't even realize it. He's taken this opportunity to feed me things I normally detest. Ground meat, bumpy foods (don't ask), and other things he sneaks into meals I can't see.

I'm waiting, wishing, wanting this infection to go away. I'm counting down until I can stop taking the medication that blinds me. Until then, I am feeling my way around life, trying to smell, touch, and hear my surroundings, something I didn't think I would do until I was at least eighty-five. All the while, I can hear Adele laughing, her little chubby feet pounding my thighs as she dances, and I can smell her baby soft sweet scent as I hold her, the only little person who doesn't notice that her mama can't see.

2009-02-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

Today is the Fourth Annual Bloggers Silent Poetry Reading. In the spirit of this day and my literature background, here is a poem by my favorite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke.

Moving Forward

The deep parts of my life pour onward,

as if the river shores were opening out.

It seems that things are more like me now,

That I can see farther into paintings.

I feel closer to what language can't reach.

With my senses, as with birds, I climb

into the windy heaven, out of the oak,

in the ponds broken off from the sky

my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

Post any poem that moves you...

Going....on a jet plane...

2009-02-01T06:15:00.000-08:00

If you ever have to fly with a baby, I suggest a better, more civilized form of torture. I'd rank swimming with a bunch of sharks or diving with a sinus infection to be a more enjoyable way of spending seven hours.

In the case that you do have to embark on such a journey, I'd recommend the following things:

1. Bring earplugs--For you and everyone else on the plane. It's the least you can do if you have a colicky baby like ours, who persists to scream even after her voice is hoarse.

2. Order 1,2,3 cocktails--It not only takes the edge off, but the baby have absorb some of the soothing liquor through evaporation. Just don't be surprised if she becomes an alcoholic later in life.

3. Put baby in a front carrier--The bastards at security made us take our sleeping baby out of the car seat when we went through the metal detector. Geez people, have you no decency? Can you not look into our faces and see that we are bedraggled, subsisting-on-two-hours-of-sleep-per-night parents? I think people plotting to take down a plane would have more composure than we did on that day.

4. Bring a tape recorder of a vacuum cleaner--Sounds absurd, but it's a miracle. The people at the airline counter couldn't believe their ears. "Two bags. Okay, attach here. Frank, do you hear that noise?...It's a buzzing. Where is that coming from?" I finally realize that they're talking about us. "Oh sorry," I fumble. "It's us. It's the tape recorder in the car seat. It keeps her calm." "Oh," they look bemused, but let us pass. Everyone looks at us like we're lepers. What's new?

5. Baby Tylenol--It's good for earaches, but it also has a nice side effect. They get oh so sleepy....We made the mistake of not doing this on our flight to Portland, but we changed our minds after we talked to the pediatrician and she confirmed that this was okay.

6. Lots of diapers and wipes--For some reason, she always poops more when we're out. Maybe it's the nervous hershey squirts. Alex has changed her on his lap when we are no where near a changing table. Thank goodness planes are equipped with a table above the toilet seat....uh, that can't be too sanitary...

7. Running shoes--If you have a baby like ours, you will be hopping, walking, trotting in the aisle, trying to calm her down. Your feet will start to swell and you will wish, with all your might, that you brought your Nikes instead of your Manolos. Fashion goes out the door!

Labor & Delivery...

2009-01-29T06:29:00.000-08:00

The only thing worse than birthing pains is the incessant background noise of my mother-in-law arguing with just about everybody in the hospital, (i.e. the most horrible place on earth according to her). The anaesthegeolist almost swore at her. I could see the f-bomb seething at his mouth. He gave her a look that screamed, 'Get the fuck out of here biotch, before I inject this huge ass needle into your behind to make you shut the %^&* up.' I guess I should clarify what predicated this hostile situation.

6:30 am. My mother-in-law (hereafter referred to as Ms. Barbara, a southern way of addressing your elders) and sister-in-law (Lily) arrived at our cramped NYC apt after driving for thirteen hours from South Carolina. They both wanted to attend the birth, but Ms. Barbara was delaying it because she wanted to attend two other births in her hometown. FYI: She is a doula and 'lives for' homebirths. Needless to say, she was extremely disappointd when she found out that I was planning to deliver in 'God forsaken, germ-infested place where doctors think they're gods and disrespect the family's wishes'. She's only a little biased against the medical establishment. (I hope you note the sarcasm. This is a woman who sends me email newsletters and petitions to stop killing babies in utero almost every week.) Point being, after many rounds of phone calls, telling her that the baby was practically waving 'hello' down there (I was 4 cm and 100 percent effaced), she finally got in the car and drove, all the while crying of course that she was missing the births in SC. Coincidentally, one woman gave birth while Ms. Barbara was on the road. I knew that if I didn't deliver that baby in 24 hours, all hell would break loose. I wouldn't stop hearing about this for many years to come. In fact, when she arrived, I think I heard her say, 'If I had just listened to what God was prompting my heart to do, I would've been there and not missed the birth.' Little did she know that at....

9am. My water broke. Correction: At first it was a trickle. I thought I was peeing in my pants. After not sleeping for the past two nights, I thought I was actually wetting myself. Degrading since I never peed my pants as a child, I thought. I excused myself and realized that the pads were soaking fast. As I tried to change one more, a warm gush of liquid oozed out down my leg. Everyone screamed the obvious, "Your water's breaking!" Holy shit! I hadn't even packed my things. I waddle over to my bed to try to stop the ensuing flood, but just as I was hoisting myself (and yes, at 40 wks, you are indeed hoisting yourself) into bed, all the liquid I had been storing seemed to be rushing out. I felt like a sea creature in Moses parted Red Sea as the waters were coming together again, swallowed by the surrounding water. Anyways, my sister put it best when she said, 'Dude, it smells like an aquarium in here.' My entire apt was one giant slip-and-slide as my amniotic fluid ebbed and flowed about us all.

10am. Contractions start. They're not so bad. Someone is timing them, but they all start blurring for me. One miserable contraction to the next. Alex is running around, trying to get everything prepared, checking in on me, smiling with a concerned, excited look. I love him.

11am. Fuck. They hurt. Fucking asshole shit. I'm resisting actually saying this is front of Ms. Barbera, but we'll see how long this lasts. 'Relax' they chant. 'You're doing a good job. Just breathe'. I don't feel relaxed as I hunch over a chair, about to vomit from pain. I used to wonder what it feels like to be in labor. Honestly, at first, it feels like super intense cramps...no one likes to revisit that time of the month, but imagine that pain...times a hundred. I had just watched 'The Business of Being Born' (excellent documentary on homebirths) and most of those moms looked like they relaxed, grunted, and shot a baby out of their vagina in two seconds. The mom I liked best was the midwife who swore, got angry, and demanded that they put her out of her misery. Yea for realism!

11:30. In car. Contractions are 2 minutes apart and I can barely hold myself up. Stuck in traffic. Of course, what's New York without traffic? O crap. Am I going to have this baby on the Queensboro bridge? I am breathing, panting, trying to relax. The key word is 'trying'.

12:00. Hospital reception office. I want to strangle the disgruntled receptionist who keeps looking at me like I'm a freak and won't lift her fake nailed finger. HURRY you lazy ass! I'm in labor. Stupid questions like, "Are you in labor?" bombard me as I try to squat on the ground to alleviate the pain. She asks me to fill out forms I've already filled out. What an ass. Finally, someone competent comes in and sees what's going on, puts me in a wheelchair, and admits me.

1:00. I have IVs and random other things injected in me. They don't follow my birthplan. I am really starting to go crazy. The pain is shooting in my back. It turns out that I have back labor. It feels like incessant stabbing in my back. I can't even feel the pain in my stomach but my back feels like there's glass rubbing itself down my spine.

1:20. Anestheologist comes in and introduces himself. Ms. Barbara gives him the staredown. He represents all that is wrong with the country in her eyes. He numbs the natural pain of childbirth and drugs up the mother. What's so wrong about that? Anyways, I think I can manage at this point. How much worse can it get?

1:30. My OB comes in and says hello. She thinks Alex is adorable and loves us. Tells us that she will not be here for the birth. Family engagement. I try to bribe her. Seriously, I try to bribe her with money. I think I offered her 20,000. That's how delirious I was. I would've probably chained her to the stirrups if I wasn't bound by tubes and my enormous pain.

2:00. In bathroom. Squatting on toilet. Clenching anything around me. Looking around like a frenzied animal. Trying to relax. Failing. God, it hurts so bad. My sister's face also tells me that I'm in a lot of pain. Fuck!

2:05. Ms. Barbara keeps telling me to take a walk with her. Is she crazy? I can't even stand up. I am grunting, moaning, you name it. She wants me to take a bath to relax. I can't even imagine another five minutes of this.

2:15. The doctor says I've progressed only 1 cm since labor began. Fuck! Get me the epidural!! Alex asks me to reconsider and get in the tub. I hit him and ask him if he's the one in labor. Don't mess with a woman in labor!

2:17. My OB comes in again and asks how I'm doing. I look up from my birthing ball and faintly whisper one word...."Epidural". After the birth, she tells me that I looked like I was in the worst pain, a look of complete agony.

2:20. I get the epidural and I am in love with Dr. What's-His-Face. I would marry him except that I'm pretty sure he's gay. Ms. Barbara is crying outside because I got the epidural and ruined my chance for natural childbirth. If I didn't feel the glorious course of drugs running down my body, I think I would've said something, but at this point, I really don't give a damn. I am in heaven.

2:40. My legs are numb and hot, but no pain in my back. Yipee. People keep telling me to try and sleep, but I'm too excited to meet my baby.

3:30. Ms. Barbara, Lily and my sister go down to the cafeteria to get something to eat. Oh, I wish I could eat something right now. Not supposed to in case of surgery. I keep asking nurses if I'm gonna get a c-section because I got the epidural. Those books brainwashed me into thinking that an epidural always leads to a c-section. They laugh because as my doc said, the baby is practically falling out of me.

4:15. Alex looks at me lovingly. I feel bad for hitting him on the arm earlier. I apologize and he forgives me. He tells me that he cursed at his mom for giving me a hard time and stressing us out. I'm touched, but I know he'll have hell to pay later. Still, I'm glad my baby daddy stood up for me.

6:00. Waiting for my doctor's colleague to come. She is supposed to be here by now but there is traffic. Of course!

6:20. Young man comes in and says he is going to examine me. I decline. Uh, I guess this isn't an option. He says he has to. I relent. Sticking his gloved hand up my numbed vagina, he asks me to relax. Funny. There is a reason why I have a female gynecologist.

8:00. Time to start pushing. I can't feel my legs but they assure me that I can push a baby out. "Push like you're making a bowel movement." That doesn't reassure me much since I had a hard time making any bowel movements during pregnancy. If that's a sign of what's to come, I'm doomed.

8:10. Ms. Barbara brought olive oil to rub on my cootchie. Apparently, it's supposed to stretch out my vuh-jay-jay (scientific name: perineum) so I don't tear. Ouch! Honestly, they could be rubbing salsa down there and I wouldn't flinch...though I imagine the smell might be a little nauseating.

8:17pm. Doctor comes in. By the way, she looks like Doogie Howser, child doctor prodigy from the 80s sitcom, (did I just date myself?), and rolls right up to my straddled legs. Alex is right beside her, dressed in scrubs and gloves because he wants to catch the baby. I think he's brave. I don't want to see anything down there. "Mirror?" No, thank you. They lined plastic on the floor beneath me and all over their shoes....What exactly are they expecting? A flood?

8:20pm. I push...once, twice, three times and she is born! It happened so fast. All I remember is pushing until my head felt like it was about to explode and people saying they see the head and whoooooaaaa!, the entire body just slid right out. Alex had no time to catch her so the doctor had to catch our superfast tornedo of a baby. She came out like Superwoman, with one hand up. Cool beginning to life, but it also made me tear. When I say 'Ouch!' this time, I mean it!

8:27pm. My Adelle is finally here. She is 7 lbs, 10 oz, with brown hair and blue eyes. She has the receding hairline of her daddy and the shape of my eyes. She doesn't cry at all but looks around, stunned to be in this world. Is that normal? I suspect that she will be this curious her whole life. Ma petite cacahuete, my little turkey, oolee aegee yah, you are here to stay!

8:30pm. She starts sucking at my nipple. Damn! She's a fast learner. Her hair's not even dry and she's already eating. Nothing's really coming out, but she seems to like it. She looks at me with immense curiosity and I think I have to get used to this. I'm probably going to be her source of entertainment and food for years to come.

9:00pm. I am in awe. I am so tired but I cannot sleep because I want to be near this precious new addition. They tell me to try to pee. Uh, do they know that I can barely feel my legs? I guess I'll have to try.

9:20pm. We are in our new, private, expensive-as-shit, room. Sorry, but I don't want to hear another crying baby in the middle of the night. I have to get used to hearing my own.

10:00pm. They wheel baby off to get bathed. Alex goes with her. After watching too many Lifetime movies, there's no way I'm letting anyone take off with my baby without supervision....You know, just in case they mix up my little one with, say, another half-south-carolinian-half-south-korean child.

11:30pm. The drugs are wearing off. I need to go to sleep. After a few minutes of staring at my baby girl, I pass out. Good night.

YEAST...Can't Live With It, Can't Live Without It...

2009-01-20T13:23:00.000-08:00

I never looked so skeptically at a piece of bread. Over the last few months, I have been raging an all-out war against yeast. Most people think of yeast with less emotion than I do. They may even consider the term with a smidgeon of fondness as they smear their favorite spread on a soft roll. I used to be in this camp until I developed a yeast infection in my breast. Since then, I can't so much as look at a piece of bread without cringing.

I won't deny that I was and am a carb addict. At any given time, I will tote around a 'snack bowl' as all my dearest friends and family have termed it. Yes, this bowl, is as big as a salad bowl but it's filled with everything except salad. The items rotate but they include at least four or five different things. Staples: Popcorn, rice cakes, dried seaweed strips, almonds, crackers, and chocolate. For some reason, I never tire of these things. On a typical day, it's not surprising to catch me refilling this bowl over a dozen times. Yes, I know it's sick, but unless you're a carb addict, you have no idea what it's like to crave your favorite snack. I could literally eat two steaks and still want my snack bowl afterwards. With breastfeeding, it's impossible for me to give this snack bowl up. It's the one thing I can wake up and eat without preparing and it allows me to go back to sleep without feeling too gross. If anyone is breast feeding, has breast fed, then you know what I'm talking about. The hunger that consumes you is ridiculous and all consuming.

So despite the fact that I have this unbearable hunger, I have to limit my food groups because of the damn yeast infection. It's spread to my milk ducts and sends shooting pains throughout my breast. They suck. After researching endless hours on the internet and meeting with several breast feeding specialists (yes, they do exist), I can tell you that almost everything has some form of yeast. Here's a list of top ten forbidden foods:

1. Wheat--Yes, the thing that's supposed to be good for you is BAAAAADDD for yeast.
Anything with wheat including bread, crackers, etc.
2. Vinegar--Kill me now! I love balsamic vinegar and this has been the hardest to give up. Anything with vinegar is off limits; ketchup, BBQ sauce, mustard, soy sauce, and the list goes on.
3. Sugar--absolutely the hardest to give up. Before the yeast infection (hereafter referred to as YI), I would eat, on average, at least 2000 calories of sugar. Yes, I know it's sick, but I have a major sweet tooth. Sugar and sugar derivatives make me happy. Like heroin for some people, it takes the edge off for me. (I can't believe I just compared sugar to heroin, but I bet if you looked at the chemical processes inside the brain, it'd be similar). I can pinpoint my full blown yeast flareup to Halloween when I consumed entire bags of chocolates and twizzlers. I went through at least 4 candy bars and 10 packs of random candy a day. Sugar feeds yeast and so those little buggers were 'making a little love' and multiplying from my sugar binge. Even fruit is off limits....oh, what has my world come to?!
4. Mushrooms--I love mushrooms. I love them in soups, on pizzas, in stir fry, raw and they are now off limits. Mushrooms are a fungus so it makes sense that fungi feed yeast which is a fungal infection.
5. Peanuts--Believe it or not, they're made in factories with mold. Mold = FUNGUS = BAD!
6. Cheese/Dairy--I'm already lactose intolerant, but now I can't even eat yogurt which was the one dairy item that I could tolerate. (Thank you Asian genes for not allowing me to indulge in pints of Ben and Jerry's).
7. Flour--No flour of any kind. This also feeds yeast. No noodles, rice, pitas, basically anything baked.
8. Wine--Made with yeast....My fiance is a sommelier. Can you imagine the temptations in my kitchen!!!
9. Soy--Apparently, soy is a heating agent (as described by a natural medicine doctor) and can aggravate YI.
10. Kimchi, Pickles, and anything Fermented--My grandma would have a heart attack if she knew I couldn't eat kimchi. For those you don't know, kimchi is fermented spicy cabbage that absolutely wreaks but tastes divine. Anyways, it's not as though I'm eating it everyday, but still, there are moments when a bite of kimchi with ramen would just hit the spot.

The list above is only some of the restricted foods. (Can you believe there are more??) These are the ones that are hard for me to follow. I have the least amount of restraint when it comes to food, but the one visual image that has helped me is imagining the yeast doing a happy dance inside my breast everytime I eat something yeast friendly.

There are moments when I break down, when the scrumptious piece of Alex's toast beckons me beyond hope, when the possibility of cereal with cold milk is too hard to resist, but those moments are few and far between. As I look at my little Adele, it's hard for me to take a bit of my Godiva when I know that a raging YI in me makes it harder for her to eat and be happy.

She is my new deterrent. If I can't do it for myself, I try to do it for her. It's hard being a parent. There are sacrifices that we make before they are born (no booz, bad sex, swollen poofy body) but it's the sacrifices after they're born that make me rethink singledom. Those days of following my own desires, not giving a rat's ass about anyone but myself, seem far away. I don't always succeed at this altruistic new 24 hr gig called motherhood, but I know I give my best 'go' everyday. I try to remember this as I have guilty tears streaming down my face as I finish off a very sweet, sinful toasted english muffin with raspberry jam. yum.

Sexy Back

2009-01-19T06:44:00.001-08:00

A hot summer day in London, stripping each other naked, as we made out to Justin Timberlake's hit song. This is how I will always think of this song, even if there's spit up dribbling down my not-so-sexy back. I'm slowly reclaiming that part of my life, even if it is one five-minute-tryst-while-the-baby-is-in-her-mobile-hope-she-doesn't-remember-this event at a time.

Sex after baby requires skills that, unbeknownst to me, comes with birthing an eight pound watermelon out of your vagina. Time is always an issue: where to find it when you are both struggling to get through the day? Location is another: on the bed with laundry that hasn't been folded or on the couch with boppies, blankies, binkies and other baby paraphenalia? When those two elements are in place, what about the mood? Slow foreplay is out of the question since said baby may burst into blood curdling screams for no reason.

I usually resort to dirty talk. The whole "Get naked biotch" and rough grab at the crotch may be a less-than-elegant approach to seduction, but with five minutes left, who's gonna be picky? Certainly not Alex who is hungrily looking at my breasts which have been usurped by our child for the indefinite present. I don't understand how men can still muster up the courage to fornicate with a milk-producing, hormone-raging, post partum ticking time bomb....I'm guessing it has something to do with a deeply ingrained instinct to survive and fornicate...Is that too base? Maybe it does have something to do with the bond created by being intimate. Perhaps men aren't merely physical beings. Then again, looking at the overabundance of tits and ass on TV and film, there is a strong case for the biological need scenario.

However, I will make the case for my dear fiance. He is not the typical drone hubbie who looks at porn and gets stimulated by the fake-and-bake look so rampant in L.A. and NY. He is one of the few good men who really does care a rat's ass about intellect and personality, who actually looks at a woman's face when he speaks to her, who actually cares whether or not she can carry on a conversation without using the words 'like', 'um', and 'whatever' as verbal resting points.

I will say that things are looking up, largely due to the fact that Alex is as patient as they come. Even though we aren't having sexual escapades on the couch with JT as our amorous soundtrack, we are still drawn to each other, regardless of whether or not we can prepare a perfect moment. In fact, I find that what we have now is refreshing. There is no need with frivolities, just a need for each other. And that, in and of itself, makes it perfect.

Sleepless in New York

2009-01-19T05:42:00.000-08:00

My baby is decidedly against sleep. She dozes for about thirty minutes at a time when we can manage to "get her down" (our military code for getting her to sleep). Mind you, this is only after walking around like a maniac around our cramped New York apartment, jiggling and wiggling like a human trampoline, singing random ass Korean/French/English songs (which degrade into chants because my voice can't carry a note), rocking with her in our too-cheap-falling-apart overstock.com rocking chair until our knees go numb and our backs feel like there are needles embedded in muscle layers (a backward take nodd to the ancient practice of acupuncture), and praying like a crazy person that she'll stay asleep while you transfer her to the crib.

All of this reminds me of a primal dance, a two-step with the ancient practice of wooing your baby to sleep at the center. In the doctor's office, I 'll glimpse that baby who coos and gently falls asleep on her mother's lap while sucking her thumb, who withstands the noises of civilization (other crying babies, loud doors, creaking steps, harsh Long Island accents, trains rushing by, passionate spanish/italian/russian) and fall into a deep womb-like trance. Such is not the case with our little turkey. She resists the lull to sleep with an all-out attack on her drooping eyelids and our incessant methods with her flailing arms and buckling legs, her ear-piercing screams, fists that grab at anything near her (often my poor mangled hair or Alex's chin) and her rolling tears. Our little turkey fulfills the label on her bib, 'high maintenance' to a tee.

If bibs could prophesize, I would make some that read, 'good napper', 'gentle crier', 'minimal stinker', 'no thrower-upper', 'won't-choke-during-let-down-nurser', 'won't-scratch-boobies-during-nursing'. And if these bibs worked, I'd make her wear them into adulthood; 'won't-go-through-hate-my-mother-stage', 'will-date-the-class-nerd-instead-of-rebel-boy', 'inspired-by-jane-austen-instead-of-gossip-girl', 'loves-radiohead-over-hannah-montana', the list could go on.

For now, I'd settle for a 'will-let-mommy-and-daddy-sleep-for-at-least-ninety-minutes' bib.

New Year, New Family

2009-01-05T07:42:00.001-08:00

Just a year ago, I was spending New Year festivities with my sister in a loft apt primely situated in Hollywood. Just twelve months ago, I had no obligations to anyone but myself and my then-boyfriend who loved me for the crazy spazz that I am.

We started that night off with a quiet dinner and some good wine. I remember trying to find something to wear that even remotely spelled out New Years with glitter, gold, or something mildly slutty. I had to settle for a zip-up dress with boots. That was my hipster version of New Years debauchery. I remember climbing into my cousin's z3 and sitting in (what else?) L.A. traffic for about an hour when we could've walked faster in our tight-ass dresses and mile-high shoes.

My friend Mike (who was so kindly hosting us) offered us champagne and hors d'oevres when we arrived. I called Alex and wished him a drunken Happy New Year. He was well on his way towards fulfilling that goal as he sloshed his drink around with buddies in an East Village pub.

Surreal is the only word to describe it. For the past year, I had been living in my Upper West Side, subletting an apartment from Mr. I-haven't-decorated-for-25-years (Hideous, I tell you! Wooden cats and floral prints galore). During that year, I had met and fallen in love with my fiance, coped with the stresses of my job, and traversed to Europe for the summer. I had stepped on and off a plane/train at least a dozen times around the world. Yet, here I was, sipping champagne in the other metropolis, the arid wasteland of Joan Didion's Play It As It Lays (still one of my favorite books) and looking at the ball drop in my beloved New York, with a deep desire to kiss my love and instead settling on clanking glasses with a long lost friend.

"Happy New Year!" Alex says amidst a roar of chaos beyond the phone. I shout, "Happy New Year too!" but suddenly feel as though I was screaming across the ocean. He feels so far away and I suddenly want to whisk myself off to his side. I think it was at this moment that I realized how much I love him.

Dec 31, 2008, Midnight. Just a week before I became pregnant. I can't fathom how it was only a year ago. I pinch myself this New Year's, as I look at my 3 month old child and realize that we've created, birthed and are raising this little person. Goodness, we are parents. As I say this, I hear my little hellion roar. I'm off. The days of sipping champagne are on hold, but I guess there are worse things than looking at your baby, fulling understanding the deep, unrelenting love of motherhood, and kissing the creases on her chubby little wrists.

Funky Title, I know...

2009-01-05T06:57:00.000-08:00

I guess you could call it power of association. Upon creating the site, the first two words that made its way into my brain were 'breast milk' and 'cheerios'. I can understand breast milk since I feel like my whole life revolves around nursing and pumping, pumping and nursing. This is a twenty-four hour job that no one mentions when you're laying in a hospital bed, telling the nurse your preference for doing the best thing for your baby. No one informed me about a lot of things.

Where should I begin? I'll start with pregnancy. Most people know about the cravings, the pickles-and-ice-cream state of hunger, but no one ever mentions constipation. Bowel movements, and lack thereof, became dinner table conversation topics. Walking, eating fiber, and relaxation were all great for the baby's development, but they were secondary to the real reason I was walking my ass through Central Park and eating the produce section of any grocery store within a five block radius. The real reason is simple. I had to go!

Another thing not mentioned...shooting leg/hip pains. These things feel like grenades launched in the pelvic area. They happen so fast. Walk walk walk and boom, I'm down. No rhyme or reason. Going on my daily walks were as painful as sex (I'll get to that later). I tried to calculate and time my explosions, but I wasn't always successful. Sometimes, I would get to the park restroom with just an iota left of restraint. I would often prairie dog it for about 15 min into my walk. Pregnant women should just carry a portable toilet seat.

Sex sucks. The whole reason I ended up pregnant was because of sex; hot, sweaty, can't-get-enough-of-you, do-it-five-times-a-day sex, sex that makes you want to call in sick, that type of sex. From the moment the stick turned pink, I couldn't muster the energy to have sex. At first, it was the terrible morning sickness. Eventually, it was constipation and then just feeling absolutely disgusting and uncomfortable trying to maneuver my GInormous belly around the bed and trying not to crush my svelte fiance. The vaginal yeast infections (none of which I had before) didn't help matters either.

Post-partum sex isn't any better. The process of birth should come with a warning label. No one tells you about the blood, the drugs, and the way your vagina looks after giving birth. Just looking down there turned me off to sex and any consideration for doing the dirty absolutely shut down after experiencing my first trip to the toilet. The blood curdling screams were only after going pee, imagine what I did when I had to poop.

Sex does eventually get a little better, a little more comfortable but it resembles nothing of the passionate trysts we had daydreamed about during pregnancy sex. I think Alex had to imagine me during the height of my sexiness to get through the rounds of sexual foreplay with a forever-hungry, sweaty (at the peak of summer in NYC) soon-to-be mama. I am hoping that it will one day. I already starting cleaning off my french maid outfit, although, quite frankly, I think he'd appreciate anything that wasn't a loose button-down soiled shirt with sour breast milk stains.

I should get to sleep. They always say to sleep when the baby sleeps. Who came up with that? I can't control my sleeping habits more than my 3 month old baby who refuses to sleep for more than 15 min at a time during the day. But like all of parenting, I'll try.