Here Where I Have Landed

Virtual this, virtual that

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 07 Apr 2020 15:50:00 +0000

Makeshift virtual school in session

I see another invitation to a virtual class on a Slack channel at work, this time it's on sketchnoting, whatever that is. (Clearly, I didn't attend that one.) This was one among many, many videos shared internally by well-meaning IBMers, who created them to help the rest of us stay positive, healthy, creative, you name it. I'm joining a kickboxing class tomorrow, led by the CMO of North America Marketing (how awesome is that?!) And I had a rare morning open (actually, I had to reschedule a meeting for this) and got to enjoy a virtual class on how to grow succulents successfully, taught by a guy who sat on my floor at work. (Note to self: need to check out the beautiful plants on his desk when we get back to the office.)

But when do we get back to the office? Million-dollar question indeed. Right now, they're projecting early June. My girls' school will delay opening to May 4th. But they've already moved that date three times. I suspect my 11-year-old will never have another class again in her beloved elementary school, and my heart breaks a little for her.

More weeks at home. More virtual this and virtual that. More digging into our well of positivity. (Won't it eventually run out?) We've got this, I announce and smile at my family, projecting a cheeriness I barely possess myself. But what choice do I have? We'll keep to our schedule, continue our daily walks, get our sunshine, find more ways to have fun, and stay connected. And do our best to remember gratitude and grace.

Daily family walk after lunch

Apparently, those are easier to follow when I had a manageable workload. Last week, when several projects appeared out of thin air and dropped deadlines from the sky, keeping my family's COVID-care routine became another burden. There are only so many hours in a day, but parenting doesn't yield to work deadlines. Or vice versa.

But something has to yield, right? Turns out, that something was me.

For someone who takes pride in getting shit done at work and at home, it hit me hard when I realized I was just not going to be able to do it all. I had to swallow my pride and force myself to ask for help at work. And I reluctantly pushed back on a deadline--something I almost never do. I also had to depend on my family to step into the parts I normally played at home.

And you know what? Everything turned out just fine.

It was an important realization for me that, when given the chance, others do show up for you. When given the opportunity to shine, they will, and they do so happily and brightly.

Not only were my coworkers not disappointed in me for admitting I might not be able to deliver, they jumped right in to share the burden. One even took it upon himself to complete my part of the project without my asking.

Unsurprisingly, my husband swooped right in and kept the family engine going. He prepared the meals and kept the girls on task. He kept me fed and hydrated. He kept me sane. And even seated ergonomically so my neck and wrists wouldn't hurt.

My girls would occasionally come by my desk and declare how proud they were of me just to cheer me on. Sometimes, they'd bring me candy. Because they're sweet like that.

It's the little things, they say, but they all add up. On a week like this, it meant the world to me.

* * *

What we're reading now.
I fell in love with Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, when I read it for a college class over 20 years ago. It felt like a good time to read it again, especially when the title so aptly describes these long days of social isolation.

Big Girl is enjoying every bit of her tweendom, especially now that I've allowed her to venture into teen and adult books--at least ones I've read and know she can handle. She's on the last book of the "To All the Boys I've Loved Before" YA series, right on the heels of the "Crazy Rich Asians" trilogy, which she devoured in a week.

She can go for hours

The little one is on book four of the Percy Jackson series. Thankfully, the once reluctant reader is voraciously tearing through those pages, giving us long stretches of quiet time throughout our day. Yes, it's definitely a positive outcome of this dreadful crisis.

What we're playing.
Thanks to a friend who introduced it to my family on a camping trip, we've been into Monopoly Deal these days. It moves a lot faster than regular Monopoly, and there's actual strategy involved. I'm not usually a fan of long, complicated strategy games. I already juggle several things in my head at once, I don't need something else forcing me to think. This game is just complex enough to be interesting, and short enough for post-dinner entertainment. Tonight, I finally won a round. And commemorate it I must. It's my blog, after all...

Someone's not too happy she didn't win, but look at all the properties I got!

The highlight of our week.
Surviving each week of isolation from the world always feels like a win. But after an especially long, hard week a special treat was in order. We unanimously decided to drive 16 miles to pick up our favorite food from Taste of Ethiopia on South Congress. The deserted streets of a once-bustling city on a Saturday evening was not lost on us as we made our way past empty parking lots and shuttered stores to get our food from a shell of a restaurant. Then we (quickly) drove the 16 miles back, our mouths watering from the aroma of kitfo and key siga wot, our bodies tremulous from the excitement for our impending feast. All the while, grateful that this was still possible, yet fearful that our favorite place might not survive this harsh new economic reality.

Yuuuummmmmmmm

Gratitude and grace in the time of COVID-19

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 01 Apr 2020 23:30:00 +0000

Bluebonnet season in Texas

This is Week 3 of social distancing turned shelter in place to contain the spread of the coronavirus. Week 3 of working from home while parenting. Week 3 of homeschooling, as schools remain closed throughout the country. Many of us are navigating uncharted territory, but even then, I feel incredibly fortunate that we at least get to face these challenges together as a family, within the safety of our own home.

We are (knock on wood) healthy, and thanks to my geeky husband, we have all the technologies that allow us to work, learn, connect, and play. And although my 11-year-old will possibly miss her last months of elementary school before moving on to middle school, and my 8-year-old, who has more playdate invites than I have friends, will have to cope with a blank social calendar, my girls have been troopers. In fact, while this situation is far less than ideal, we're doing better than we thought we would. But it takes work to make it work for all of us.

Here's how we're dealing with the shelter-in-place mandate:

1. Remembering gratitude and grace
I wrote two words on the fridge on day one: Gratitude and Grace. It was our theme for this crisis, and we discussed why they were important words for this time. We needed to be kinder to one another, gentler with ourselves, and more focused on what we do have, rather than what we don't.

I needed them to understand why we it's crucial to dial up our empathy and be more understanding. Why we need to let go of normal expectations and work with what we can control, rather than fight what we can't. "Why can't we have bow tie pasta with this dish like we usually do?" "Um. We're lucky we have any kind of pasta at all. The store had none." This conversations is SO ridiculous in so many levels at this time, but they're also kids. So I'll cut them some slack. Grace, remember?

2. Learning the facts
We also had to explain why we're confined to our homes. We shared facts about COVID-19 like the symptoms, statistics of those infected, the death toll, and most importantly, how we can prevent the spread. We put social distancing in the context of their own lives to help them really understand what happens if they make poor choices. Would they want to be the cause of 's death?
It may sound harsh, but we've always spoken honestly with them, and I'd much rather speak openly as a family than have them fear (or spread) distortions of the truth through hearsay. Besides, once they understood that they too had a critical part to play in "flattening the curve", they stopped asking about play dates and complaining about staying home. They get honesty. We get peace. It's a win-win.

3. Creating a structure
On the first day of "homeschooling" (in quotes because it's a reeeeeeally loose definition here), my rule-following, academically inclined firstborn prepared a schedule before I even had an inkling of what "learning at home" meant. So I let her run with it. Since her sister would do anything she does anyway, following this structure was a breeze. I only needed to show them the myriad online resources that their Principal and parenting groups shared, and they'd start every morning quietly tackling Math, Reading, and Science on their own while my husband and I took our calls in different parts of the house, uninterrupted. I would also provide a daily writing prompt so they can both capture their experience of this time and practice writing. This helped pass the time until lunch, and I admit, this does not suck.

From 2pm to 5pm they get free play, which means anything from online gaming with friends to playing outside with our neighbor's son, who they're "exclusive with" during this time. Meaning, they don't have any other playmates other than this one boy, and vice versa. Because coronavirus.

But sometimes I toss all that aside and give them a marathon reading day, which they love because they get to spend all day in their PJs, devouring delicious words. My 11yo can go for hours; in fact, we'd have to extricate her from her book. The little one gets antsy after a couple of hours. She's our maker, so she'll head to her crafts table and begin creating something with her hands instead--and that's pretty awesome too.

4. Easing screen-time restrictions
Screen-time rules made sense when we had a daily routine that involved a full day at school, homework and extra curricular activities. When we had teachers focused on educating our kids. When we could separate school/work/home life.

Now when both parents have to juggle a full-time job and parenting at the same time, all those rules are out the window. Once they're done with the more structured part of their day, they're free to get on Facebook Messenger for Kids to chat and play games with their friends or play video games with our neighbor at his house.

As someone who recently made the decision to quit social media, it was difficult for me to allow them on Messenger. But since it's the only way they can socialize with their besties safely these days, I caved. Initially, I thought they'd spend more time watching TV, but I was wrong. They'd much rather hang out virtually with their besties. Considering how much time they spend with their peers when school's in session, this makes sense; being away from all their friends for this long has to be hard on them. (Plus it's fun for me to hear their sometimes hilarious conversations.)

Learning to make origami Pikachu from an online art class

5. Going outside
This is my favorite part. Every day, the four of us take a break and have lunch together to check in with one another. Then we go outside for a midday walk to get some sun and fresh air, not to mention a little exercise. Even pre-pandemic, I was a lunchtime walker, choosing to eat at my computer so I can spend my lunch hour getting my steps in to meet my daily goal of 10,000 steps. Now I just drag my family with me.

Knowing just how much good that does for our physical and mental well-being, I won't relent on this. Not only does it help my productivity immensely, I think it prevents us from wringing each other's neck a la Homer Simpson for being cooped up in the house for too long.

Plus we get to stop and ~~smell the~~ errr...take pictures with a neighbor's beautiful bluebonnets. It is springtime in Texas, after all. Everyone has to snap those bluebonnet pics.

Springtime sisters

My husband and I also take another walk together after dinner. This time without the girls. That's our chance to connect with no interruptions--and censorship. It helps that we really do love our neighborhood. Being out there, enjoying nature and seeing our neighbors, even if all we get to do is wave and speak from across the street, can be a balm to a really long day. And let's face it: every day can feel like a really long day these days.

---

I'd be lying if I said that the days go smoothly, everyone is compliant, and nobody ever protests. Hah! In my real world, nerves get frayed and patience gets tried plenty of times. But I have immense gratitude for all the things that do go right in our days, and I try to focus on them.

As for the rest of the time, I turn to grace.

Next: See how we're tackling virtual living.

Social distancing virtually and IRL

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Sun, 29 Mar 2020 20:13:00 +0000

The last time I blogged was in 2017. Since then, I'd always meant to write again, but life kept happening and so did carpal tunnel syndrome. It made it that much harder to get back to writing after an already long day at work, on my computer. Instagram and Facebook became convenient substitutes for memory keeping. Share pictures, write a quick caption, done.

And then coronavirus happened. So I guess it took a global pandemic for me to finally blog again. I decided to dust off these virtual blank pages to put some thoughts on them because I didn't trust that I would remember the minutia of our days 20, 30, 40 years down the road. Because right now, when we're forced into a togetherness like never before, it's the minutia that matters the most. When we're counting every hour, every minute until all this craziness passes. When we're forced to figure out how to pass this time of social distancing effectively, and--when I'm ambitious--even meaningfully. Or during those tough moments--and let's face it, there's going to many--how do we do it without killing each other?

What makes this more interesting for me is, at a time when everyone around me is practicing social distancing, I had chosen, two months prior to the COVID-19 restrictions, to avoid social media altogether. I deleted Facebook and Instagram from my phone and opted not to log in from my desktop as well.

It was part of my Self Care 2020 resolution. I decided that, after years of putting my family before me, focusing on raising my girls, it was the year that I would turn that focus on my own needs. I was certain I couldn't do that through the lens of social media, not when I couldn't scroll through my feed without a certain level of "I wish I could..." or "I should've..." or "If only..." or "It must be nice...". Turns out, I'm not immune to the ills of social media that psychologists warn us about, so I opted out altogether for self-preservation.

And you know what? It's been three months and counting, and I have to say, it was one of the best decisions I've made in a long time. Not to sound dramatic, but it felt like a spring cleaning of my soul. Don't get me wrong. I miss seeing my family and friends on my feed. I miss the convenience of being in touch virtually with people I care about. But I don't miss the clutter in my head and the self-doubt that had cast a weighted shadow on my life.

For those who had reached out, wondering about my quiet social media feed, thank you, and I'm happy to report that we're all healthy and safe. All things considered, we're all in a pretty good place, but I'll write more on my family later. For now, I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate this temporary normal. To Instagram or not to Instagram, at at time when our need for social connection is magnified by the mandate against it?

It's becoming exceedingly difficult to distance myself virtually when I also have to do it in real life. Even for an introvert like me, it's getting harder to not have regular contact with people outside my family. Not that I'm miserable, but misery loves company, as they say, so when we're going through the COVID crisis together, it seems only natural to crave a support network, even when they only appear on our phones.

Perhaps blogging is my compromise. Rather than scrolling through my feed looking for company every day, I can collect my thoughts and put them out into the world, hoping that some of these words may find its way to those who need it.

But I suspect that the one who needs these words the most is me. And maybe that's a good enough to start writing again.

We all need to find a way to cope. One way or another.

My posse on our daily walks together. Yes, Little Miss is no longer little.

See how our family is coping during the pandemic.

"Nevertheless, she persisted."

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 04 May 2017 11:38:00 +0000

During one of the five games at a Math Pentathlon tournament, I waited for Little Miss to get back to the bleachers to tell me about her last round. As one after another of her team mates joined us with their news, I saw no sign of her. Concerned, I went looking for my daughter.

I was relieved when I found that she was still at her game, but what I saw surprised me. She was the last person there, with her opponent, as the game leaders and other adults descended upon her table, one by one. I wasn’t allowed in the hall, so I could only watch from behind the glass doors, but I was informed later that she had challenged her opponent’s move and escalated it all the way to the director.

In Math Pentathlon, you’re not just allowed to challenge your opponent if you don’t agree with their move, you’re encouraged to as part of your strategy. If you’re not satisfied with the game monitor’s decision, you are entitled to ask for the game leader’s opinion. And if that still doesn’t convince you, you can ask for a second opinion, which will come from the director.

I love that the tournament was not just designed to help kids enjoy math, it was also meant to teach them essential skills like winning/losing graciously and, my favorite, standing up for themselves. It was important to me that they learned that adults can be wrong too, and kids should be empowered to speak against what they feel isn’t right, not stifled from expressing their dissent just because an adult says so.

And that’s exactly what my Little Miss did. I saw the growing number of adults gather around her as they discussed, and the little commotion it caused as our own school’s coaches were called to the area. I watched as she explained herself to every person who questioned her, and I saw her hands moving animatedly as they usually do when she describes things in details.

I marveled at her confidence.

It reminded me of the time when Senator Elizabeth Warren was silenced by Senate Republicans, preventing her from speaking out against attorney general nominee, Jeff Sessions. In defense of invoking the archaic rule that basically kicked her out of the chambers, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell said, “She was warned, she was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.”

Essentially, it backfired on them when “Nevertheless, she persisted” became a battle cry for women still struggling to be heard, and a rallying cry for supporters and participants of the Women’s March. It became my own mantra.

When I saw my daughter stand her ground that morning, it was a revelation. Above academic excellence, above accolades, above athletic prowess, I want my girls to be kind, and I also want them empowered to stand up for themselves.

“Nevertheless, she persisted.”

In the end, her challenge was incorrect - but it was because she was taught a wrong move by our coaches. Through her adamant insistence, her coaches were also called in and the misunderstanding came into light. They were then taught the correct rules, so something good did come out of it. Little Miss eventually won the game - and went on to earn a Bronze Medal that day - but that was far from why I was proud.

I was in awe of her because at 8, she could do what I never could have done myself at 18.

Those of us who grew up in Malaysia will remember how we were only taught to obey the teachers and never question them because they were always right. Always. In classes, they talked and we listened. We were never allowed to interrupt, let alone disagree. I don’t recall discussions or interactions that led us to our own conclusions. Knowledge was always spoonfed.

So imagine what a challenge it was for me when I stepped into a four-year college in America to complete my undergraduate degree. I was surprised when students spoke - were encouraged to speak - in class, and completely floored when they argued with the teachers. It was so far beyond my comfort zone that any time it was my turn to talk, my palms would sweat and my pulse would race. I was afraid of giving the wrong answers, even when we were merely asked to share our own opinions. And I wasn’t sure I’d have anything to say that was worth anyone’s time so I didn’t say anything. As trained in my early years, I was only there to absorb.

But then I took a class in post-colonial literature with Dr. Nada Elia, an unforgettable and inspiring English professor from Lebanon who exuded so much passion for the subject, that in giving voice to the second-class citizens we studied, she gave me my own voice. She exposed me to the marginalized, and at the same time, inspired me to step out of the side lines. It was from her that I learned my voice mattered too.

I was 19 then, and it wasn’t until grad school two years later that I was finally comfortable enough to interject in a classroom with my own thoughts. For those who know me now, they wouldn’t recognize that quiet shadow of a student I used to be in my first few semesters here in the States.

Over the years, I’d learned the value of speaking up, and as a mother of girls at a time when women continue to struggle to be heard, to be treated equally, I feel it’s my duty to help my girls harness the power of their own voice.

However, as much as I’d like to take credit for Little Miss’ ability to assert herself at the tournament, if you think about it, I really didn’t have to do much - children were born to speak their minds. #FromTheMouthofBabes and #ThingsThatKidsSay aren’t just cutesy hashtags that highlight the gaffes that children make in social situations. It’s proof that, without the filter that we place upon them, their inherent ability to verbalize authentically is rather strong. It’s society that makes the rules that determine if they should.

The hard part for me, as a parent, is to help them navigate between what’s acceptable and what’s not. My job isn’t to teach them to speak up - they already know how. I just need to nurture their innate desire to be heard and create an environment that makes them feel safe to express themselves.

Even when I have discovered my own voice, it’s still a struggle for me to fight what I have internalized from years of being told to conform to expectations - to only accept and never to question. Especially so because I was a girl.

I know it’s different in America. Our children have it a little easier here because free speech is sewn into the fabric of our society.

Back in Malaysia, we weren’t just told to be silent in classrooms. We were never allowed to speak out against the current political leader. We were told to accept the status quo, and if we did need to rail against the current administration, we did so in hush tones behind closed doors.

It’s one of the reasons I moved to America. Even at my young age, I knew it didn’t feel right to silenced. But in my naivete, I thought coming to a country that values equality and free speech would fix everything. Except I was wrong.

Even now, in 2017, I continue to experience sexism and misogyny. I see that women are still expected to act communally and are better respected when saying “we” rather than saying “I” when advocating for ourselves. I have witnessed and lived the double standards that plague women.

But what’s different now is that, far from the girl that I was, I no longer stand on the side lines. I make sure I am heard when I call out the inequalities when I see it. It doesn’t seem that I could affect change with my one voice, but nothing will change at all if no one speaks.

“Nevertheless, she persisted.”
We should all be persisters.

While I certainly hope it would be better for my girls, I am also a realist and a pragmatist, which is why, as tempting as it is to default to a “do as I say” parenting, I spend the time to share anecdotes, provide historical context, and relate to them in a way that empowers them to make their own choices, rather than following a path prescribed to them.

It wasn’t easy for me to unlearn nearly 20 years of being told to just quietly accept the status quo, but I am grateful for the teachers who saw in me what I couldn’t see in myself and helped me find my own voice.

Now, as a parent, I can’t imagine not doing the same for my girls.

PerSISTERS

An Angry Letter

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 25 Apr 2017 14:26:00 +0000

I was considering summer camp options for my girls over the weekend, but what ended up happening was this angry email:

As a mother of two young girls, and as a woman myself, I am fully aware of the challenges of raising girls in a culture that continually entrenches the gender stereotypes that keep our boys/men in dominant roles and girls/women in roles that prize beauty and obedience above courage and intelligence. It starts from a very young age, and we see it, both blatantly and subliminally enforced, every single day. We hope that schools know better and that schools would work harder in ensuring that it's an environment that values both boys and girls, so they know they're valued equally, and that they're encouraged to reach for the same stars, in the same manner. So imagine my surprise when I see a summer camp from RRISD Community Education that offers an art class targeted solely at girls, with this description:

Art: Drawing Fashions, Faces, and Flowers. GR 1-5 by Young Rembrandts

For fashionistas, florists and budding makeup artists, this Young Rembrandts workshop celebrates the beautiful world of girls. Every day students will be challenged and delighted drawing images that exude femininity and loveliness. Students will draw and color faces, stretch their imaginations illustrating whimsical flowers and challenge their creativity when tying them all together in fanciful settings. Prepare for elegance and a heap of drawing excellence! Enroll your child today! I mean, really? FASHION? MAKEUP? FLOWERS? = The Beautiful World of Girls?? Way to reinforce the stereotype in our girls that their world is all about being fanciful and elegant. That they're encouraged to learn about makeup and fashion at first - fifth grades! You know what's in my girls' world? LEGOS. POKEMON. MINECRAFT. MATH TOURNAMENTS. They also want to learn how to be stewards of the environment. At ages 5 and 8, they already know how to recycle and they ask, why aren't there recycling bins in our neighborhood parks? How about an art program that teaches kids to upcycle? Where both girls and boys can work together towards a worthy cause? It's so disappointing / appalling to see that a school district would offer a drawing class aimed at girls, elevating superficial beauty! It shows your inability to understand the implications of such a gender-biased program, and it's an irresponsible decision. I hope you will do better in curating your selections - you can point the blame at Young Rembrandts for offering this program, but in the end, it was RRISD that decided to go with it. Please understand that I don't disagree that little girls like to play dressup and want to be beautiful - but in an academic setting, I would expect you to be hyper aware of your actions. That what you present to our children is what they think the world expects of them, so please endeavor to do better and do right by both our boys AND our girls.---- I sent this email on Saturday to the organizers and copied My Guy, the school district superintendent, and our school principal - basically, anyone who might listen. At 10:30 AM on Monday, the Director of Community Education called me and apologized for the content. She admitted that they needed to do better. That phone call was likely an obligatory gesture to placate an angry parent. They likely deal with this, in one form or another, all the time. It didn’t make waves, and it certainly didn’t move mountains, but that wasn’t what I was after. I felt heard, and I felt reassured that she meant what she said -- that they’d do better. At least they know that they can’t just get away with thoughtless programming for our kids. Just making them aware that someone is paying attention, and as a consequence, they need to put more effort in what they serve our kids, seems sufficient in this matter. The thing is, I’ve played the role of this passive observer for too long. I see an injustice or, in this case, an irresponsible oversight, I mutter some expletives, and I expect someone else to say something. But then something changed in me. I think our current political climate has a lot to do with it.

I am empowered by the Women’s March. I am more aware now of the implications of not doing what I can. Because that’s how it perpetuates, when we all collectively decide that it’s not our fight.

I am emboldened by my own situation at work, where I continue to face sexism, which led me to read Sheryl Sandberg’s “Lean In”. While I’m not exactly a powerful executive, I found myself nodding to everything she said. The data was irrefutable, and the anecdotes from her own experiences both confirmed my own and appalled me. She had inspired me to not just stay on the sidelines but to step into the ring. Gender issues are complex and insidious, but not insurmountable. It’s like chipping away at the iceberg that’s in your way to your destination with nothing more than a pickaxe. But if that’s all you got, then it’s better than not doing anything at all because then, you’ll surely not reach where you need to go. Also, as a parent, if we don’t look out and advocate for our children, who will? Which is why, if you’re a parent, I hope you will call out blatant oversights and subtle messages that continue to reinforce these damaging gender stereotypes in our girls and our boys. As a mother of girls, I have a lot - A LOT - of work ahead of me, which is why I make it a point to call out and talk about social injustice and gender inequality to my girls. Sometimes, it would seem that we have these conversations every week, but I think they need to be aware. They’re 8 and 5, and already they’re expected to live fancifully with flowers, makeup, and fashion. At this young age, when they absorb everything they see and hear around them, they will internalize these messages, and if I waited for someone else to say something, it may be too late. But this isn’t just a plea to mothers of girls to be vigilant. Mothers of boys need to play their part as well in eradicating these inequalities, which oftentimes begin at home when boys are raised with a detrimental “boys will be boys” attitude. To that I say: FUCK THAT. Boys need to learn respect and be held accountable for their actions too. Because we don’t live on an island by ourselves, everything we choose to do is consequential, and our children - boys and girls - need to be made aware of the effects of their role, their decisions. As these boys grow into men, and many of these men become fathers, they need to step up as well. Sadly, men are still predominantly the leaders in our community and workplaces, so it would make sense that they leverage their influence to support those around them who are not bestowed the same advantages. After all, when we lift each other up, we all win. I was talking to My Guy about the insights I gleaned from the book, “Lean In”, and mentioned that perhaps, as a leader of his team, he could benefit from a woman’s perspective on how the odds are stacked against us. He decided to read it, and several eye-opening data points and anecdotes later, he approached the men and women on his team with his idea to start a book club, beginning with “Lean In”, so they could all discuss and tackle these workplace issues together. What I love about this is that, as a white male, he could choose to ride the wave of his own privilege, or he could empower others to rise up with him to fight the status quo. I’m glad and grateful that he continually chooses the latter. In case you ever wondered why I married him, this is one damn fine reason.

Again, someone has to decide to do something. One angry letter here, one book club there. It’s not much, but it has to begin somewhere. We all know the world isn’t going to fix itself. When we look away, the problems aren’t going to magically disappear. But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t actively participate and do our part, however infinitesimal compared to the big wide world of injustices. Even if it seems like our one act alone can’t affect change, let’s do it anyway. Let’s at least be responsible for our little corners of the universe and call out a wrong when we see one. Advocate for one another, especially our children. Stand up for what’s right. As Mahatma Gandhi says, “Be the change we wish to see in the world.” A movement often starts with one voice. Why can’t it be mine? Why can’t it be yours?

image source: https://flic.kr/p/bcUeBX

My Comeback

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 20 Apr 2017 14:54:00 +0000

It’s been one year and three months since I last published a post on the blog. When I’ve been gone this long, it’s undoubtedly difficult to get back to it. My biggest hurdle isn’t the lack of stories. That I have plenty. I think the issue is, where do I even begin?

What warrants a comeback?

Is it the time when I decided to go back to work after a five-year hiatus from my regular corporate job? I was fortunate to land a 30-hour-a-week position that allowed me to pick the girls up from school and continue where I left off as Mommy when I dropped them off at school at 7:30 in the morning. To be able to straddle both roles so comfortably - surely there’s much to say on my return to Working Mom status.

Or what about the time when Pickle, my “baby”, graduated from preschool?

Or when she started Kindergarten (WHAT?! HOW?! Wasn’t it not long ago that I blogged about her birth?) the same time that her big sister, the (not so) Little Miss, started Second Grade and turned a whopping eight years old?

I also had plenty of material when we went on vacation to Florida in November to meet our “new family” - aunts, uncles, a great grandmother, and even cousins! - that My Guy never knew he had until that fateful day when a phone call came from the sister of his biological dad, who delivered the shocking news of his passing the day before. Sad as that realization might have been - that My Guy would never know his biological dad - it was also the beginning of a beautiful relationship with a wonderful family.

Or perhaps I should’ve started when the whole world plunged into darkness, dismay, and disbelief the day Hillary Clinton lost to Donald Trump in her bid for the presidency. I can never forget the utter betrayal I felt from the part of America that slowly revealed itself to me over the months as Trump campaigned on false promises and despicable truths. How could they do this? Why would someone vote for that incompetent, narcissistic, misogynistic nightmare of a man-child? I remember shopping at the neighborhood HEB the day after the elections and looking at everyone at the store suspiciously - Did you do this? Was it you? On a day when America decided that you don’t have to be virtuous, or even remotely kind to be a leader, any act of kindness - a guy allowing me to cross the parking lot to my car - would move me to tears. I went from taking for granted the magnanimity and tolerance that I loved about America to desperately seeking those qualities in anyone, anything so I may eventually restore my faith in a nation that seemed so profoundly lost, so divided.

How about the time when I felt compelled to protest the current administration and joined the Women’s March with my eight-year-old, who asked me what “pussy” meant on the signs she saw around us that day, thanks to the President who had uttered that same word in his repulsive comments about women? There were over 3 million of us in over 600 cities across the world, protesting in solidarity that day, and if I am determined to raise strong, rebel girls who can run the world, not participating was never an option. It was not only our right. It was an imperative.

Like I said, I have plenty of stories. But I didn’t have the right words to encapsulate all the feels. I wavered in my faith in my own ability to capture those events of joy - or despair. Each felt so momentous, so overwhelming because it compelled so much thinking and feeling. And I didn’t think I could do any of it justice with mere words.

But sometimes words are all I have, and they help me make sense of a world that’s not always easy to understand. And I realize that if I keep waiting for the right time, the right words, the BIG things to make my comeback, I may never get back to this at all. And I would miss some of the best parts about living - the little things.

The small, insignificant moments that, when woven together, are truly what shape our lives.

And I want to go back to that.

So here I am, starting over again, not to make a big announcement or make a statement, but to make a small tentative movement towards this next phase of the blog. Or maybe even my life. I don’t quite know where this is heading, but I know that I wake to a brand new day, every day, and I’m grateful for the little big things and the big little things that continue to propel me forward, especially My Guy and my girls.

It’s from this place of gratitude, recognizing the abundance even on days when I feel depleted, that I hope to begin again. Honestly, isn't that as good a start as any?

The tale of two midnights, and other stories

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 05 Jan 2016 06:11:00 +0000

It’s back to school again after a two-week holiday break, and while I think I’m ready, I’m also going to miss having my girls home. For one thing, they play together so well these days that I’m now mostly in their way. Which means I get to feel less panicked about what the hell I am going to do to keep them entertained for sixteen days straight. And another thing is that these crack-of-dawn kids have finally, finally learned to sleep in. No more traipsing into our room before the sun rises; no more “you said to come in after seven o’clock, and it’s now seven oh one!!!” protests to expunge me from my sweet slumber.

For the past week, we don’t see them until it’s well past eight, and on the days they stayed up past midnight (oh yes, I said “days” - more to follow) they slept past nine. It’s a Christmas miracle. Times two!

But let’s backup; it’s been forever since I last blogged, so here’s the quick recap of what I missed for the rest of 2015 while trying to keep up with life:

My best friend and I enjoyed a wonderful getaway to Houston together, although it was mostly a quest for one indulgent meal after another as that’s what we love most when we’re together: eating. It was also the first time in a long time that I got to explore a city by myself (while she was at a work-related training). That time alone, walking aimlessly, enjoying a quiet meal by myself, having absolutely no one to account for was incredibly rejuvenating.

Yes, we ordered all that just for us. What?

Then it was Little Miss’ SEVENTH birthday. When I first started this blog, she was only 11 months old. I’m going to sit here and digest that for a bit. Because what the heck happened??! So here she is, six years later, at her Harry Potter themed party at her request. She is now up to the fourth book, Goblet of Fire, and I love that she loves reading the series as much as I do.

After Thanksgiving, the girls had their ears pierced. It wasn’t planned. It just happened because we were waiting to watch a movie at a mall, and it was a diversion to keep them occupied. Pickle, my four-year-old, courageously and happily volunteered to go first. Looking back, I think it’s because she didn’t know piercing one’s ears meant actually poking a hole through them. We’d failed to mention that tiny detail. Oops! But it went well – she only cried a little, more from the shock of the unexpected pain than anything. Having witnessed her sister’s distress, Little Miss became more reluctant when it was her turn, but after a few minutes of coaxing, she had it done. No tears. Operation Holes in Ears – complete!

Somewhere along the way, we may have adopted another cat. By accident.

Excuse me, I'd like to come in now...

We found him – or rather, he found us – when he walked into our garage one evening, and we kept him for the night to keep him safe from the neighborhood predators (coyotes and hawks and snakes, oh my!) and let him go the next day. Since then he’s been coming back every day. We’d happily keep this sweet, friendly kitty except our cats aren’t socialized with this wanderer yet, and we are now a house divided. Indoor cats versus the adventurous outdoor one. We don’t quite know what to do yet, though My Guy had already named him - Baltar. Because the cat is not neutered, and the first thing My Guy noticed were its rather sizable balls. Hence BALtar, after a character from Battlestar Galactica. If he stays with us, we’d have two out of three cats named after a TV science fiction character. Two out of four in the house, if you count our second child. A house of geeks, what can I say? (See exhibit 12.18.2015 below.)

The holiday season seemed to be a blur this year. We immersed ourselves in whatever holiday festivities Austin had to offer, and every one of them had some kind of spectacular display of lights. Even in the heart of suburbia, where several homes banded together to create light shows synchronized with music and had a fire pit and hot cocoa for gawkers who visited their cul-de-sac. I mean, wow. These people were serious about their lights. The Joneses ain’t got nuthin’ on these folks.

Pajama Lights: it's our family tradition;we explore neighborhood lights in our PJ's

How is this a neighborhood light display?!!

Of course, what's a holiday season without the cookies? Here are my little elves helping me with their favorite, sugar cookies, that they get to decorate as creatively as they like. Pickle is still at the point where creative = as much sprinkles as humanly possible.

For Christmas, My Guy’s parents and brother celebrated with us at our home for five days. It brings me great joy to have a houseful of family during the holidays, and I could tell the girls felt the same. It was a wonderful time of memory making, and it warms me to know that my girls are so very loved.

New Year’s Eve BBQ. Because Texas.

Christmas morning. A little past 7AM. (I’m going to count this as sleeping in!)

Another highlight of the holiday is that Little Miss got to see “Star Wars - The Force Awakens” with her daddy, papa, nonna, and uncle, while I entertained her sister with our own outing. My Guy had previously watched the marathon at the Alamo theater – yup, all 17 hours of it, seven movies back-to-back – and then again with me on the next night. Christmas 2015 would probably be a hazy collection of light sabers and X-wings in his memory, but I have to say that I was happy to see him so giddy and geeked out about this movie.

On the day the grandparents left, we experienced another milestone. It’s not the good kind however, though I have to commend Pickle on her impeccable timing. At least she waited until after everyone left to get an infection on her right pierced lobe. I felt awful that she had to endure such pain, but she didn’t seem too shaken by the event. Like the doctor said to us that night, “she’ll be okay; you’ll be scarred for life.” She might be right.

At 8PM, the whole family accompanied the eager four-year-old on her first ER visit upon discovering the infection at bedtime. This also explains why the girls were in PJ’s.

This was Pickle before the hospital visit:

“Oh my god. I’m so excited! I’ve never been to a hospital before!”

Before

This was Pickle when they were trying to get an IV in her so they can put her in conscious sedation after several other non-invasive attempts failed.

“AAAAAAGGGGHHH!! NO! NO! NO! NO! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! DON’T HOLD ME DOWN! I DON’T WANT YOU TO DO THIS! PLEASE STOP! NOOOOO! AAAAGGHHH”

It took about five adults to hold her down while they inserted an IV. Twice. Because they botched the first attempt due to her flailing. I think every ER staff that night came by to see our screaming kid and probably walked away impressed that something so little was capable of so much sound and fury.

After

This was the first thing Pickle said coming out of sedation, with her daddy right by her side:

In a breathy, loopy voice - you know, the kind that makes one sound drunk: “I love you daddy...I love you soooooooo much daddy… I love you, daddy.”

Oh, this kid. Ever so full of love. Soon after, however, this episode started: “You have five eyes! You have five eyes! You have bive deyes! Dive beyes! … I can’t talk!”

By that time, we were in tears, laughing at our loopy little girl. While ER visits are often stressful, I have to say, Dell Children’s Hospital made the trip bearable, even - dare I say it? - enjoyable because of their sweet, capable, funny staff. Kudos to the team who took care of my baby! And the whole family, really.

This ER trip was also their first experience staying up past midnight. We left a little after 2AM, and we were so obliterated the next day, we didn’t even leave the house. I don’t think we got out of our pajamas either.

Three days later, they stayed up past midnight again; this time, it’s for a much less harrowing reason - to ring in the new year. After a fun impromptu dinner party with a neighbor and her kids that stemmed from a “What are you doing tonight?”-“Um absolutely nothing” conversation, we figured we might as well keep them up until midnight when it was already 10:30 by the time we reached home.

And 2016 began with a couple of kids sleeping in past 9AM. That’s one (terrific) way to start the year, I must say. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the sign of better, brighter things to come.

One can always hope, right?

Our last selfie of 2015, right before midnight

* * *

Happy New Year to you and yours! May 2016 bring you much light, love, and laughter.

To Little Miss, on your 7th birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Fri, 13 Nov 2015 14:36:00 +0000

My dearest Little Miss,

You turn seven today, and while you’ve been anticipating this day for a good long while now, your daddy and I find it hard to believe that you’re only just turning seven. I think I said the same thing when you turned six. And five. Possibly even four.

You can’t blame us as you’ve always seemed older than your real age. Maybe it’s the way you talk - always articulate and so sure of yourself. Maybe it’s the way you fearlessly insert yourself in social groups, not feeling the least bit awkward in joining a conversation you didn’t start, and I often marvel at that. Or maybe it’s because, next to your sister, you’re always going to seem older, teaching her new games (and yelling at her for not staying put for you), and being a rather rigid rule follower, you relish instructing her to abide by our rules at home (which often fails, but don’t worry, it’s not you; she doesn’t listen to us either). You also love showing her how things ought to be done--your way. “No, no, no, Pickle, you are WRONG. Let me do it.” I didn’t say you always have the best delivery, but you have good intentions. Most of the time.

At seven, you are daddy’s girl. You light up when you see him, and you relish the time you spend with this man who can do no wrong in your eyes. You bond over Minecraft, and you ask him questions like “How does a car run?”, which you probably knew he’d be excited to answer.

I’m still the one you run to for comfort though; you fold your lanky arms and legs onto my lap as I stroke your long hair and plant kisses on your head. You still fit in my nook, but barely, and it makes me ache for the tiny girl you once were.

You have a knack for challenging me in ways both expected and unexpected. I have to admit, when you were going through your Terrible Two’s and Three’s, then Fucking Four’s, and later Furious Five’s, I was a little worried. Were you always going to be this way?

I can safely say now that, thankfully, the answer is no. Ever since you turned six, we’ve been noticing a gradual shift in your temperament. You’re more empathetic, less volatile and instead of being this little person who constantly wants and takes, wants and takes, you are starting to give. And that, my sweet, is something I hope will become a larger part of you over time. Because, really, it is in the giving that we find joy, and I wish that in abundance for you.

These days, as you slowly grow into the person you will become, I am in awe when I see you engrossed in a book in some corner of the house (or right next to me as I read mine), completely lost to the world around you, or when your fingers are perfectly poised on the keyboard for Minecraft, or when you are unfazed by trying something you’ve never had before, like raw oysters, or when you’re tackling water slides and carnival rides with such admirable intrepidity, or when you chose to be the lone (Minecraft) Creeper when all your friends were fairies and butterflies at a birthday party because what I really see are the best parts of your daddy and me in you, meshed with qualities that are so uniquely you, and it’s a beautiful thing.

Every day, you inspire me to try harder, not in a Sheryl-Sandberg-leaning-in kind of way, but in a way that allows me to be gentle with myself so you too can someday do the same for yourself. You push me to reach further so I may learn to meet your defiance with kindness, your exasperation with compassion. I am a better version of myself because of you.

My dear girl, I am grateful beyond measure that you’re my daughter, and I love you even more than that.

Happy birthday, my darling.

XOXOXO, Mommy

10 years

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 29 Oct 2015 17:39:00 +0000

Circa 2005

This always sneaks up on me, but today is the six-year anniversary of my blog. (What?!) But I can hardly fault myself for nearly forgetting — it falls on the day after we celebrated our 10-year anniversary on the date we got married last year. Um. Yes. It’s complicated.

Before our little jaunt to the chapel, we were struggling with deciding between two important anniversary dates, one in March and the other in August, and finally decided to put our foot (feet?) down; let’s just combine all of the dates into the time when we finally made it to the altar, and call it a day. Literally. Better for our stress levels, better for our pocketbooks. Done. We’re pragmatic like that.

With Halloween just around the corner, there’s plenty to celebrate this week it would seem, and normally, I’d be all over it. So much to plan, so much to capture. The blog should’ve been overflowing with sweet words of remembrance and love. Except life happens, and I have a sick four-year-old in my hands.

She’s been quarantined at home with me for the past four days. With a mama this and a mama that every few minutes, I can scarcely string a cohesive sentence together before having to tend to the little one and her myriad needs while juggling freelance work on top of that. More water. I’m cold. I’m hot. Honey tea. Snuggle time. No, fresh water! Take my temperature. Honey tea. I have a headache. Stay close. Where are you? Honey tea. Can you play with me?

Don’t tell her, but I let her win sometimes.

I had hoped for a quick getaway so we could indulge in something different – something as far from real life as possible - to celebrate this milestone anniversary. Reality, however, had other plans for us. Ironically, such is real life.

Nonetheless, it’s a good life. It wouldn’t be right for me to lament this one day when I have all the other days for which to be thankful, where sweet Post-It notes, middle-of-the-day dates, “thinking of you” texts, and clasping hands are often a part of them.

We did manage to sneak in a lovely dinner in the city, planned entirely by My Guy, babysitter and all. We got to dress up, where I wore the earrings and shoes that I’d worn for the wedding, and he, the jacket. There were okra, mussels, Brussels sprouts, anchovies, and ramps - all the things that I love, which he had tried and learned to enjoy over the years because of me. He had, at one point in the evening, looked across the table and thanked me for introducing him to things he otherwise wouldn’t have known. He acknowledged that he had indeed come far.

Yes, my love, but so have we.

In all our time together, there were things that happened that should’ve been the end of us. We were almost finished — twice! Yet, we found a way to stay together. We worked incredibly hard and I’m so proud of all that we did to get here — are still doing, every single day. There should have been fireworks, white sandy beaches, and a couples’ massage (or two) to commemorate this milestone. Instead, there were just us, and I’m just as grateful.

Because we can’t be together for this long and fight so hard for what we have and not realize that this “us” is no ordinary thing. Sometimes, it’s the best part of all, and how lucky are we that we already have that?

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

- Wendell Berry

Oh, the things we do for love

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 21 Oct 2015 13:29:00 +0000

I discovered bagna càuda many, many years ago when I was obsessing over Nigella Lawson, the British cooking sensation, who featured the recipe in one of her books. It’s an Italian dip, served warm and consumed similarly to fondue, made with garlic, anchovies, olive oil, butter.

I mean, garlic, butter, olive oil and anchovies? Come on, what’s not to love? Dried anchovies are ubiquitous in Malaysian cooking, appearing in soups, stir-fries, sambal, you name it. It’s not something we love or hate. Like salt or soy sauce, it’s just one of the ways we season our food. But it wasn’t until I arrived in the US that I was introduced to anchovies canned in olive oil. I found ways to use and love those too.

However, My Guy, who was born and raised here, doesn’t quite have the same kind of relationship with them as I do. Naturally, when we met and I learned of his disdain for them, I thought, challenge accepted!

I discovered a killer recipe from Jamie Oliver - back when I used to collect his recipe books - that I thought would change anyone’s mind. A simple dish of pasta, broccoli, garlic, chili flakes and anchovies instantly made it to my repertoire after the first time I made it, and I figured anyone who tasted this dish would fall in love with it too.

Boy, was I wrong.

Looking back, I don’t even know why I picked that dish as the first thing I made for him. I mean, was I trying to impress him or warn him about me? The anchovies disintegrate in the olive oil and butter -- perhaps I thought he wouldn’t notice the stealthy anchovies and would love the dish. At which point, I would get on a pedestal and announce A-ha! See? It’s all in your head! I was (am) convinced that as a nation of anchovy haters, they’re collectively raised to turn away from it before really giving it a chance. Really, I think I was just desperate for him to like something that was such a big part of my childhood.

When he tried it, however, he eyed it suspiciously – what’s the smell? what’s this flavor?

I soon made my confession, and he also admitted he didn’t care for it.

Gasp! Naturally, I thought, “not love my cooking? What??! How can this be? How will we ever be happy together?” before I reined in my crazies. Well, at least our relationship wouldn’t be built on lies. There is that small, teeny tiny consolation.

Despite my foiled efforts to impress him, despite sneaking anchovies in the dish, despite his - in my opinion - lack of sophistication in food appreciation, we’re still together.

But that day wasn’t the end of this dish either. It’s still on the menu rotation at home. He just had to learn to appreciate it over time. In fact, just the other day, he declared, “I’m surprised how much I like this dish.”

Huh. Imagine that.

Over the years, I’ve learned to be mindful of his wariness of anchovies. It doesn’t appear in my cooking as much as I like, but it doesn’t stop me from using it to flavor my soups and stir-fries altogether. I just don’t do it all the time. I’ve stopped trying to convince him that it’s The Best Thing Ever, and because he’s always open to trying new things (which I loooooooove about him), he would eat them and honestly admit that it’s just okay or it’s not his favorite.

I can live with that. From disdain to ambivalence. Progress!

I think this whole anchovy thing was the beginning of a long string of compromises between us. He’s a gamer; I’m a reader. He eats to live; I live to eat. He’s a thrill seeker; I’m a homebody. He’s an extrovert; I’m an introvert. I love running; he loves driving. Still, our relationship works.

After all, isn’t compromise a key ingredient to a healthy, happy union? We all do it, and because we love the one we’re with, we make tiny sacrifices to meet in the middle. Because this middle? It’s pretty damn nice.

I remember we used to have the same argument many couples newly living together have: why can’t you put the toilet seat down? why can’t you leave it up?

Eventually My Guy suggested an alternative solution as a peace offering - that we both close the lid after using the toilet so we both had a responsibility, not just him. Fair enough. And we have been doing that since. (Which turned out for the best in the end not only because it kept the peace at home, it also kept our toilet-water-drinking cats away.)

See? It’s nice. Even hygienic.

Today, My Guy still doesn’t love anchovies, and I don’t expect him too. When I spotted beautiful globe artichokes at Trader Joe’s the other day, I didn’t shy away from making bagna cauda either so I could savor each succulent leaf. Except this time, I decided to experiment on my girls. Will they love it as much as I do?

They were intrigued by the artichoke itself - what’s this funny looking thing? The act of tearing off and consuming one leaf at a time in a particular manner (“use your teeth to scrape the meat off, just like this”) thrilled them. But when we finished the artichoke, they wanted more to go with the bagna cauda. I brought them romaine leaves next, and we polished off the dip.

I guess it’s not surprising that they loved it so much. If they go for raw oysters, tongue taco and fish eyeballs the same way other kids clamor for pizza and chicken nuggets, what’s a dish pungent with garlic and anchovies?

But what surprised me was when My Guy dug in and kept going back for more. I didn’t try to be sneaky this time either; I warned him about the anchovies, but he enjoyed it anyway. He has come a long, long way indeed.

I guess time can do that. Or maybe it’s love.

A curious thing happened

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 15 Oct 2015 19:17:00 +0000

This is the longest I’ve gone without blogging since I started in 2009. At first, it was because I couldn’t find the time, trying to juggle my full-time work at Austin Spark League, a two-week summer program that My Guy and I cofounded with another friend, and full-time parenting while dealing with a mysterious medical condition that often times felt worse for my emotional state than my physical health.When Austin Spark League was over, it was finally time for our first real vacation in nearly a year and my birthday celebration in Chicago. After we returned from a wonderful time with our friends, My Guy went on a business trip for about a week - the last one right before school started - and the next thing you know, with the chaos of school thrown into the mix, I was already feeling the burden of a blogging backlog.

There was so much I’d wanted to capture for the record - the amazing experience of Austin Spark League, going back to the city with which I’ve had a love affair for the past 16 years, celebrating a milestone birthday with my people, Little Miss' first day of first grade.

Wow! So much to say, but where could I possibly start? That’s an overwhelming abundance of memories and emotions that I had to find time to record, but as time disappeared, so did my recollection of these moments that seemed so important at the time. And because I didn't know where to begin, I couldn't.

But then a curious thing happened.

After months of not seeing a Runner’s World magazine in my mailbox, I was surprised to find it among my pile of bills and junk mail yesterday. That’s odd.

I didn’t renew my subscription because I hadn’t been running since the end of April, when I was struck by this mysterious ailment that impeded my mobility -- I could barely walk or turn my neck, let alone run. In fact, I even had to quit yoga, another one of my favorite things.

It took me awhile to reintroduce physical activity back into my life after several weeks of gritting my teeth as I did anything that required me to use my joints. WHICH WAS EVERYTHING.

That’s when depressing thoughts descended on me like a pack of hungry wolves. Or bunnies, if you're not into violence. Doctors couldn’t give me a definite diagnosis, which also meant my prognosis was uncertain. Will I ever be able to run again?

Instead of sinking into that dreaded maelstrom of self-loathing - what the hell is wrong with my body?! I’m strong, I’m healthy, why can’t I beat this thing? - I decided to get moving to battle whatever that threatened to swallow me whole.

I started swimming laps, which was the only thing that gave my pain some sort of relief as the movement helped loosened my joints. Then I slowly added low-impact elliptical exercises to my repertoire. About a month ago, I stopped taking meds altogether - no pain relievers, no steroids - and when I realized I could still function, I decided to give yoga a try again and success! I’ve been back at it since, although I still avoid the headstand. I didn't want to push my luck.

The recovery has been slow, but I doubt hurrying it would take me back to my old self faster. I’m not 100% yet - I still have trouble with my shoulder, feet, hand and hips, but I don’t need help getting out of the car, so that’s certainly progress.

This past weekend was the Chicago Marathon, where a friend who started running the same time I did completed this remarkable feat. I couldn’t be more proud of her accomplishment, although I didn’t find myself wishing I could’ve run it with her. I just felt the pang of not being able to run. Period.

When the magazine showed up two days later, I couldn’t help myself. I flipped through the pages with my coffee in hand this morning, and several inspiring stories later, I arrived at this: why can’t I run again?

If it’s that important to me, surely I can find a way to do it.

And I did!

I ran on the wooded trail outside my gym with the sun on my face. It was a mere 15 minutes of slow, continuous running, but it was a glorious 15 minutes.

It didn’t take long for muscle memory to kick in. Yes, this is what it feels like. I also remembered that we get so much more from running than just burning calories. Today, what I got from it was this: Running seemed impossible during those nights when My Guy had to help turn my body from one side to another in bed because it hurt too much to do it myself as I desperately tried to sleep, but if I can eventually find my way back to running, perhaps I can find a way back to blogging.

So here I am.

And maybe, just maybe, years later, should I experience another setback - as I most likely will because such is life - I can look back on this difficult summer through these words and find the courage and the strength to keep going until I find my way back to myself again.

The surprising things about this summer

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 15 Jul 2015 12:07:00 +0000

I’m going to come right out and say it. This is NOT the summer I had envisioned for us. The girls were supposed to be at summer camp and preschool respectively, and I was supposed to be busy with freelance work. And possibly some house projects.

But then sickness happened, and suddenly, plans veered off course and here we are, having a completely different kind of summer altogether.

When I first realized that I would be home with the girls 24/7 while suffering debilitating pains from my freak condition, I panicked. How the hell am I going to do this?

It’s been a month now, and I think I figured it out. It’s pretty simple actually. I decided to just let summer be summer for all of us.

You know, the idyllic childhood school break that most of us remember from our past - big blue skies and the great outdoors in hot, hot heat with no big plans and no place to be, doing mostly that which is led by our whim? Yes, just like that, minus the great outdoors for my girls, because, according to them, what’s that? Unless it involves a pool.

With my limited mobility issues, I hesitate to commit to anything beyond play dates because the thought of rushing to classes and following a schedule feels exhausting, let alone having to go through with them.

The family command center

I have a family calendar that I try to fill with possible things we can do together around the city, but if something else comes up, no big deal. There’s always the next day or the next week. This laidback approach isn’t usually my style, but as part of my healing process, laidback is all I can afford, and you know what? For both my sanity and my recovery, laidback is good.

Glorious Sleep
Apparently it’s the summer of discovering strange yet wonderful new behaviors for us because the female species in this house have been sleeping in. It is uncommon for the girls to wake after eight, but when they’re crawling out of bed closer to nine, sometimes after, you know this is a fantastic new era for us.

I’m usually a morning person myself, but with my ailment, I allow myself all the sleep I need because a) it’s good for healing; and b) deep in dreamland is the only time I don’t feel pain.
As someone who thrived on little sleep, operating on no more than six hours of sleep every day, this abundance of sleep - Seven to eight hours? What?! - is almost unheard of for me, yet it’s probably one of the best changes that my condition inadvertently brought me.

The strangest part is when I wake to the streaks of morning light that shine through the sheer curtains in my room, feeling fully rested, and I find the house is silent because the girls are still asleep. I then make my way to the porch to listen to the chorus of birds in my yard with that exquisite first cup of coffee in hand, just slightly unsettled by my solitude at this time of the day. No kid to interrupt my reverie, no one’s asking for more milk, more cereal...it’s like The Twilight Zone.

Not that it all goes to hell when the girls are up. In fact, they deserve credit for often starting the day quietly, each in their own way. Little Miss will be in her own fictional world with a book; Pickle either climbs in bed with me for a cuddle or sits in the craft corner, coloring and humming some nameless tune. Or she’d sing Tove Lo’s, “I’m high all the time, to get you off my mind, ooooh ooooh…” At four, she has no idea what she’s singing yet, which makes it that much funnier for those of us who do.

When we’re all awake, My Guy takes a break from his work to make us breakfast. Unlike us, he begins at 4AM or 5AM when his girls are still slumbering and the owls are making eyes at him from the trees in our yard. (No, seriously, he showed me pictures of the three owls that were flirting with him.) Sometimes he would eat with us; sometimes he’d scramble back to his office for his next conference call, which has become such a familiar soundtrack of our summer days. That and NPR from our kitchen radio, my constant companion.

Unless the girls are in the mood for Disney tunes or Katy Perry. But if I’m lucky, we’ll get on the Pandora station set to Vampire Weekend as we slowly ease into the rest of our day.

Passing time
While we wake to unstructured time each day, there’s still a rhythm that involves weekly activities that the girls have learned to expect so we’re anchored by familiarity.

We go to the gym at least three times a week so they can play at the child watch center while I try to rehab myself into better mobility. Sometimes, we’d plan to meet friends at the outdoor pool there or we would randomly bump into them. Now that Pickle can swim, both girls will play in the water with their buddies until they turn into prunes while I enjoy adult conversations with fellow parents.

Sometimes we’ll invite friends and neighbors to our pool at home instead. Or the girls just jump in and spend a couple of hours in there on their own while I prepare dinner and tend the garden. In short, my water babies don’t stray too far from the pool, but with our scorching summers here, it’s a Texas thing to do.

On Mondays, we hit the library for books and attend some kind of performance held there weekly. There was a clown show once, where lucky Little Miss got picked to be his helper. The girls also watched a puppet theater and the Austin Opera perform while learning all about a genre that seems strange to their ears.

Apart from the gym and library, I would plan an excursion - a museum jaunt, the park, a movie - either with friends or with just the three of us. Sometimes there would also be a play date for Little Miss while Pickle and I spend some time together.

At the Thinkery, a children’s museum

These outings, planned or spontaneous, break the monotony of our daily routine at home, although with summer, there really isn’t a real routine. I had envisioned a carefree summer for them, not unlike the one I had when I was a kid, but at ages six and four, sometimes this “carefree” needed some planning.

Like intentionally creating a “Busy Box” - a crate filled with coloring books, word games, mazes, etc. - so they can easily fill their own down time. It’s not like my girls don’t get to indulge in TV. They definitely get more of it this summer, although I try to hold off until later in the day to capitalize on their morning energy, when they’re more likely to try something new, explore, be creative, play together and even comply to my requests.

I am of the “let the kids be bored” camp of parenting, where I neither try to fill their every hour with activities nor do I help structure their play time, because it’s good for them. They’re expected to devise their own entertainment in between Pokemon episodes and the iPad since screen time is still not a free-for-all in our house. The funny thing is, I rarely hear complaints of boredom because eventually, with a little bit of imagination, they do figure it out.

Recently, My Guy introduced Little Miss to Minecraft, and he has since been relishing every opportunity he gets to bond with his daughter in the way gamer dads do. He’ll occasionally take a short break from work in the middle of his day to play with her for a bit or she will get to stay up a little longer in the evening while they build something in the game together. They now share a lingo that’s alien to me, and I think it’s a beautiful thing.

Connections
I guess there is a bright side to my unfortunate disease. I get to slow down, hang back, and notice the little things I otherwise might have missed. Like the connections that are happening around me.

The father-daughter minecraft connection. A secret club between sisters.

This has to be my favorite part of this summer - watching our connections morph from one that’s formed purely out of need to one that’s shaped by desire. I’d spent every summer with my girls since Pickle was born, and each time, I’d been an active participant among them because they needed to be supervised, needed to be close to me. Sometimes I would be roped in to (begrudgingly) play the part of the witch or whatever villain concocted for me because, well, if I had to be there, I might as well join in, whether I liked it or not.

This time, however, my role as mom is secondary to their role as sister to one another. They’re far more likely to go off on their own to create an elaborate scene for themselves, each playing a character of their choosing. When they hit a wall and come running to me for ideas, I do just that - I give them ideas and tell them to “run along now”, which they miraculously do. As a parent to young children, this “run along now” moment used to only happen to parents on TV but man, now that it actually works for me, I find myself getting things done in the middle of the day (like writing this blog!), or, if I so choose, sit back and relax myself, which, frankly, is rare.

I’m just not the sit-by-the-pool-with-a-book-while-the-kids-swim type of person, not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’m just not wired that way, much to My Guy’s chagrin because he’s always encouraging me to relax. I would rather use that opportunity to maximize my efficiency to stay on top of things.

However, it’s not like I don’t notice what’s happening around me even if I choose to check off my task list. The one thing I notice above all else is the blossoming of this sisterhood between my girls. Of course they squabble and fight and tattle. But they’re sisters. As an only child, I’ve been told that’s what sisters do.

But I also see an abundance of love. They’re old enough now to have real conversations, they share secrets that belong only to them, they build a world of their imagination together - even if it’s just to battle one another in a Pokemon arena. Sometimes, when one gets in trouble, the other stands up for her. They’re also starting to band together to make their case against me, but I’m secretly okay with that too.

Sisters first has always been my plan, only they don’t know it. Because, really, what an honor and privilege it is for me to see this relationship, as complex as it is beautiful, take shape right before me.

In the end, sure, it can be annoying to chalk every misfortune to “everything happens for a reason”, but I suppose this is how we, the blighted, cope. It does feel better, knowing that this pain that derailed our plans for the summer actually gave us something even better instead.

It gave us each other.

Just call me Pollyanna: Coping with my still-mysterious ailment

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 25 Jun 2015 08:15:00 +0000

After a month’s wait, I finally saw the rheumatologist about my broken body over two weeks ago. I knew I wasn’t going to miraculously walk away with answers, and I didn’t, but by the next day, test results showed high levels of strep bacteria in my bloodstream. In hindsight, that was most likely what I had that weekend in Dallas when I powered through my sickness to enjoy my first weekend away from my family only to succumb to mysterious and debilitating joint pains the following week.

The doctor prescribed antibiotics to rid the body of the bacteria that he suspected caused what he diagnosed as Reactive Arthritis, and I was put on a higher dosage of pain meds, which, at that point, I gratefully accepted.

OK...I guess that’s better news than something chronic and untreatable, but he wasn’t 100% about the diagnosis either. Of course. So now I play the waiting game to see if the treatment works.

While it’s great that I finally have some kind of plan to tackle this thing instead of fearing the worst for the past few weeks from not knowing, the news isn’t the best either: according to my doctor, my joints will take multiple weeks to heal. Groan… According to Google, “the pain should go away within a year.” Gasp! Yes, yes, I know - serves me right for going to Google. Again. Didn’t I learn the last time?

This protracted healing feels particularly excruciating and annoying to someone who is generally active. These days, I waddle like a penguin because the joints in my hips, knees, and butt are on strike, and I move like a robot in dire need of WD-40 because of the pain in my neck, shoulders, elbows, and rib cage. I feel hopelessly trapped in my own body.

Meanwhile, it’s summer break, and I’m staying home with my girls, operating in slow motion while my girls are in fast forward. It’s been challenging, but I have to give them credit for being so understanding throughout this ordeal. When a friend of mine, an inspiring cancer survivor herself, tried to dissuade me from feeling guilty for not being the mom I want to be for my girls, she said, “this will help teach your kids compassion.”

And I was so pleasantly surprised at just how right she was.

Little Miss is mindful of my impediment and has been quite helpful around the house, offering to put Pickle down to nap or read to her sister so I can rest, or to tidy up an area because I can’t bend. Being a bookworm means she is out of my hair most of the time, reading two to six chapter books a day in some corner of the house, giving me ample space while she’s on an adventure in some fictional world. Sometimes, I even get to read next to her, which is the best.

Pickle, who has witnessed both my good and bad days, will wistfully ask “are you all better yet mommy?” when she sees me more mobile on my better days and when I admit no, she plants a kiss on my hand as if to say, it’s okay, you’ll get there soon. Once, when we walked across a field and happened upon a dandelion, she picked it up and handed it to me: “Here mommy, this is for you so you can make a wish for your pain to go away.”

Oh, this girl.

And here I thought it was going to be hard with the girls, when in fact they’re the ones who keep me going. Literally. They keep me active as I’ve been taking them places, preparing meals, and cleaning up after them, which can be exhausting, but it also helps with my condition because constant motion prevents my joints from stiffening. It’s the movement after a period of rest that hurts the most.

Every time I stop moving, I feel my body contracting. I imagine it to be like rigor mortis. Only I’m still alive.

Alive and grateful, I should say. I may be slow and in pain, but I’m here with my family. A blogger friend of mine recently lost her 30-year-old sister to cancer, and I felt foolish for complaining about my aches. Perspective is a sobering, humbling exercise, and every time I feel myself sinking, I think about those who have suffered more - the recent flood victims in Texas, those afflicted by far worse diseases - and it clears my murky thoughts. Despite my complaints, I’m still one of the lucky ones.

Perspective also forces me to focus on the “can’'s rather than the “can’t”s. Like a frickin’ Pollyanna with my rah-rah think positive campaign, I refuse to revel in the sadness and misery of my condition.

I can’t run, do yoga or lift weights, but I can swim. Slowly. Any activity helps not just my joints but my emotional state. I find I can better cope when I feel stronger from a few laps in the pool. Plus it feels great to feel light and buoyant in the water after all this tedium of mobility on land. Lately I’ve been able to use the elliptical machine too. Progress perhaps? But I won’t allow myself to get too excited. I’m still waddling after all.

With kids at home 24/7, the mess is harder to contain, but I’m also someone whose emotional well-being is easily influenced by clutter. That means there’s no letting things slide just because I’m unwell. I can’t, however, easily bend to pick things up, but I can purchase a grabber that can help me reach better. I named it Grippy, my new best friend. We’re together a lot.

It actually hurts to sit at my desk to work for prolonged periods, so it’s a big reason why I can’t contribute financially to my family, but on the flip side, I can spend that time with my girls instead. At six and four, they’ve hit this magical age where they’re far less needy and clingy with me and more dependent on each other for company, which omigodisthisforreal?? I’m so in love with this evolution of parenthood right now, especially since it couldn’t have arrived at a better time.

Thanks to record rains, Lake Travis is full (yay!) and I can’t keep up with the weeds in our yard on my own (boo!), but, with a little incentive, my girls can help.

All this to say, thanks to my sweet and supportive family, I’m coping. I won’t even go into how My Guy has been so amazing during this difficult time, because that could fill another blog post, which kinda did this past Father’s Day, but he knows just how ridiculously grateful I am to have him.

While none of this is easy on us, I have to say it’s pretty remarkable how we’re capable of adapting to a new normal - even when there’s nothing normal about it - so quickly. We’ve developed new routines around my pain, like having My Guy crack my back every night before bed so I can breathe better. Or going to the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays so I can use the elliptical and the pool for my laps. I could do these at home, but at the gym, the girls get to interact with other kids at the facility’s Child Watch center that often involves Kid Fit activities of their own. They make new friends; I fight disease and depression. Win, win.

My follow-up visit to the doctor yielded more questions, X-rays and another prescription since I’ve steadily gotten worse, not better, from the last time I saw him. This new medication is a steroid to reduce the inflammation. I’m not sure if I’ve improved from it yet as it’s only been a couple of days, but I’m already feeling one of the side effects, insomnia, as I compose this at ~~two~~ three in the morning with too-bright eyes for this time of night.

Sure, it sucks that I can’t sleep, but at least I can finally finish this post that I started over a week ago.

See? I’m totally getting a hang of this Pollyanna thing aren’t I?

To the man

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Sun, 21 Jun 2015 13:07:00 +0000

This post is dedicated to the man…

…who makes us breakfast every morning, no matter how busy his schedule is. Sure, it doesn’t always look like this delicious breakfast taco that he’d make on weekends or on “Weggsdays” (Eggs on Wednesdays) but waking to his dedication to his family will always feel wonderful.

… who takes our girls exploring with him and teaches them the value of adventure and curiosity.

…who pushes them to do more, even (or especially) when they’re afraid, promising to always catch them and he does.

…who is the bedtime routine guy (bed, bath, teeth, books and songs) because he breezes through it better than I do. Besides, for the girls to begin and end their day with their daddy who’s often times busy with work in the middle the day, what could be better?

…who is the resident geek and gamer, and because of that, our girls will easily know their way around technology.

…who has a knack for goofy antics, which always, always get the biggest belly laughs and frenzied giggles from our girls.

…who will never accept that his girls can’t do something just because they’re girls. In fact, he makes sure they know that they can do anything he, a man, can. Even toilet repair.

I would go on and on, except I don’t have pictures for all the big and little things this man does for our family. But from what I have here, it’s not hard to see how lucky we are to have him in our lives.

Happy Father’s Day to our favorite guy. Thank you for all that you do for us and for loving us the way that you do.

A birthday letter to my four-year-old Pickle

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 28 May 2015 14:49:00 +0000

My dearest Pickle,

Today you turn four, and while I go through the usual wretched emotions of seeing the last threads of your babyhood slip from my grasp, you’re “super excited” to be this big girl of your dreams - one who can do more, be more, except you’re already there and don’t even know it.

Sure, you still can’t read the stats in your Pokemon book, and you’re not quite tall enough for the bigger water slides that you've been desperately wanting to try, but what you’re capable of with your heart? I tell ya, you could move mountains.

I’ve never seen anyone as generous as you, happily giving up your share of ice cream ("ice cweam!!!") for your sister who you know loves it too and making sure everyone around you gets to delight in what you enjoy. Admittedly, you can get a little overzealous with your sharing: “HERE! YOU HAVE TO TRY THIS!” but I know it comes from a good place.

This good place that has said, countless times, “I just want to make you happy” when you go out of your way to do something unexpected just so you can make the other person smile. And when someone thanks you for your loving gesture, you let out that little giggle that tells us that you derive more joy from giving than receiving, which is pretty incredible for any age, let alone a three- and now four-year-old.

This good place that is also fiercely protective of Little Miss, who’s 2.5 years older than you and who you absolutely adore,“Stop yelling at my sister!” and then you turn to gently say to her as you try to embrace her in your pudgy arms: “It’s okay, I’ll make you feel better. What do you want? Tissues? I’ll get that for you ‘k?”

This good place that created this conversation:

Me: You know what my favorite thing about you is? Your heart. Because you’re so kind and so giving. You always share what you like with other people.
You: That’s because when I make other people happy, it makes my heart happy too.

That right there. That’s perfectly, unequivocally you.

That is not to say that you’ve been an angel - I’ve never called either of my children because, come on, I know better. You’ve had your Terrible Three moments, and boy can you make a scene. But that part of you is par for the course - you’re growing, you’re testing your limits and pushing boundaries. I get that, and while that’s not my favorite part about you, what comes after sure makes up for it.

Being a little shit is just one of your many talents

Your ability to be self-aware after a difficult episode and walk up to us, unprompted, to apologize often melts us: “I’m sowwy Mommy...I’m sowwy Daddy…” You hate being on the wrong side of our affections, and we can never stay mad at you so it always ends in a teary embrace and wet kisses on your soft cheeks that still, much to my delight, hold traces of your baby fat. We recognize the moment when all is right with the world again when we see that light radiating from within you. That light that shines bright enough to help me find my way on days that I am lost, especially now with this mysterious pain that has descended on my joints, leaving me hurt, baffled and weary every day. Which you often ask about because that's just the kind of person you are, always aware of the feelings of others: "Are you feeling better today mommy?"

I love, as family clown, how funny you are (as your Daddy says, "you’re a goofnut”, which sends you cackling) and how smart you are (despite declaring “I can sing Twinkle, Twinkle Star in Spanish!” when in fact it was in Mandarin. Ahem - we'll work on that). And how, at four, you’re already swimming gracefully on your own and making new “fwiends” easily everywhere you go.

You can be fearless, but when you have a nightmare, you climb into bed with me at night, "just for two minutes", and you can be so sweet because when that time is up, you willingly uncurl yourself from my arms and head back to your room, saying "I don't want my sister to wake up and not find me there with her."

It amuses us to no end that you continue to struggle with rolling your tongue for “r” words and your lisp seems to be stuck to you, but I also secretly celebrate this impediment because we can fix these little hiccups in your speech when you’re older, but we can’t ever have our little baby back once you decide to leave it all behind.

However, instead of fearing and fighting the inevitable, I realize I should just be grateful for every moment I get with you because you know what? Whether you’re 1, 4, 10 or 20, it’s going to be extraordinary no matter what. I’m so incredibly proud to be your mom, Pickle, and I love you more than words can say.

Happy birthday my sweet. Thank you for being the light and joy of our lives.

Always,

Mommy

The thing I don’t want to talk about

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 21 May 2015 13:15:00 +0000

I don’t want to talk about this mysterious and debilitating pain in my joints that has been plaguing me ever since I came down with the flu for the first time in years.

I don’t want to talk about how, in the past week, I’ve barely been able to walk or sit, let alone play with my kids or get outside to run. Heck, I can’t even do yoga.

I don’t want to talk about the guilt from seeing My Guy step in for all the things I can’t do for my family or myself, like getting the girls ready in the morning, making dinner (or breakfast or lunch!), picking them up from school, laundry, dishes, groceries, every *#@&$^@^ thing, although I do want to say just how AMAZING he has been for being there for us every time we’ve needed him.

I don’t want to think about what’s wrong with me, although I can’t help it. Hours of poring over pages and pages on the Internet gave me a Fibromyalgia scare that had me in tears for days. So yeah, not only do I not want to talk about that, I don’t ever want to do that again either because the strain from worrying is bad enough, but the stress from a wrong self-diagnosis was much, much worse. But not knowing? That’s killing me too.

I don’t want to talk about the desperation - and even the betrayal - I feel, not knowing what is happening to my own body. A desperation that has led me to try acupuncture, cupping, and Chinese herbal medicine for the first time because the June 30 appointment with the Rheumatologist seems forever away.

I don’t want to talk about how it feels to see my family bustling around me and I’m helpless to join them. How my heart breaks a little each time I say no to a request to see the fort the girls built, watch the birds with them, tuck them in their beds. Because it physically hurts. And this guilt is emotionally draining.

I don’t want to talk about this crippling fear I get occasionally - what if this never goes away? what if this gets worse? what if...what if...what if <all the worse things that can happen> is happening right now?

I don’t want to talk about how it feels better today than it did yesterday, and I think I see the light at the end of the tunnel, but I’ve seen that light before only it was extinguished the next day when the pain didn’t just linger but was magnified.

I don’t want to talk about this hope that appears in and out of focus with each day, depending on what my body has in store for me, and it can get exhausting, trying to lift myself off of my own despair with this hope. Maybe I’m on the mend, maybe it’s a fluke, maybe it’s all going away...

I don’t want to talk about how I’ve been waking up every morning disappointed because well, it still feels like hell, and I have to force myself to painfully endure all the things I love doing and could usually do with ease for another day.

I don’t want to talk about any of the awful stuff, hoping that staying positive will do the trick, hanging on to whatever fucking platitude that will get me through the moment - this too shall pass, we will get through it - but I guess I’m failing spectacularly on that front too, just like the way my body is failing me.

Don’t be fooled; pain can look like this.

A sad first weekend away from my family

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 06 May 2015 12:00:00 +0000

I don’t know how it happened that before this past weekend, I had never left my family for a trip by myself. It’s not like I’d never felt the need to go away (believe me, that happens once a day at least) but I guess I never made it a priority.

But when you haven’t seen your childhood friend in more than seven years, and she just happened to move one state away from you after living in Malaysia and Australia - really, anywhere but close to me - for so long, I jumped at the chance to meet her halfway in Dallas for a girls’ getaway. Oh the food we would demolish and the conversations we would enjoy together; I just couldn’t wait.

When the day came for me to drive the 200 miles to Dallas however, I woke with chills, aches, and a sore throat. What the what? I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t just random shitty luck. It’s TOTALLY shitty luck because I never get sick. Okay, almost never. I’m not exaggerating because even my six-year-old Little Miss noticed and commented several weeks ago: “Mama, I’ve seen Pickle sick, I’ve seen daddy sick, and I’ve been sick, but I’ve never seen you sick. Why’s that?”

“Well,” I started smugly, grateful for a teaching moment, “That’s because I work out and I eat healthy and…” Yada yada yada yada. As I miserably fought my symptoms on my way there, I thought back to that moment and leered at myself. Where’s that healthy immunity now, %#@*&#@%*?!

After our gleeful reunion at DFW airport, where my friend landed, and we finally found our way out of the frickin’ airport, which has the worst signage of any airports I’ve visited, by the way, we made our way to our first stop: the Malaysian restaurant. Like that’s a surprise.

Because of my ailment, I could barely eat the food I’d been dying to inhale for the past few months. Even Char Kuey Teow couldn’t get me out of my appetite funk, and that was a sad, sad day.

What’s worse is that after the meal, we went back to the hotel...to take a nap. I don’t know if it’s my sickness or just aging in general, or that we were both weary from travel, but we were perfectly content to rest in a darkened room until our next meal time.

We then explored Lower Greenville with their many trendy restaurants and cocktail bars, and all I could think of was some kind of soup with some kind of noodles. My friend, who had to overcompensate for my underperformance and ate more lunch than she would’ve liked, was craving something much lighter, and sushi sounded great to her. We compromised and went in search for a Japanese place that served both ramen and sushi.

Once again, when the food arrived, my appetite failed me. In fact, the complex flavors of the broth that often reeled me in actually offended me that evening. I preferred eating the fried chicken gizzards and the agedashi tofu (have I mentioned how much I adore eating with my Malaysian friends?) but the green tea was my favorite part of the meal. Again, what a sad, sad day for this food fanatic.

Pathetic, in fact. Especially when we arrived back at our hotel at 9PM on a Friday night. Oh yeah, we ladies sure knew how to party. I was so grateful for a friend who understood, and who is generally pretty low-key so all this eating and resting didn’t bother her. All wasn’t lost however. Despite my aches and chills, we still managed to catch up on each others’ lives throughout the day and “The Bridget Jones’ Diary” movie that played on the hotel TV kept us entertained that evening.

When I woke the next day with the same dreadful feeling, I knew I had to snap out of my denial and admit that my friend was right - I had all the symptoms of the flu. I was sick and I needed to find a way to get over it. I was just supremely annoyed that it had to happen the one weekend I finally made plans just for myself after what, nearly seven years of planning my life around others’? And since I’d always been the caretaker of the sick bodies at home, it would’ve been nice for the flu to hit when I was actually home, when I could finally claim some payback and be the one who got pampered while the rest of the family scrambled to tend to my every whim and need, like fetch me water, fluff my pillow, feed me soup…hey, one could dream.

And so I begrudgingly made CVS our first stop, took the DayQuil I procured, and made our way to brunch, determined to beat this thing. Drugs are often my last resort, but without my usual arsenal like bedrest, homemade chicken soup or “jook” (Chinese rice porridge) available to me, I had no choice but to choose the alternative.

And voila! It worked.

Even though I hurt in some places, ate a little less, and walked a little slower, I was well enough to explore Dallas and continue to have deep, long conversations with my friend of 33 years. After all, when you go way back like that with someone, you have plenty to talk about. The memories alone would’ve filled the weekend, but we also opened up about the lives we led apart as well as our current personal challenges.

Within the pristinely manicured grounds of the Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Garden, on a stroll in the Uptown neighborhood, during a late-evening trolley ride to Downtown Dallas for cocktails, on a walking tour of the historic West End district where we could see the X that marked the spot where President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and during our food truck lunch at the family-friendly Klyde-Warren Park that’s built over an expressway, our conversations flowed, often punctuated by laughter and interrupted by selfies.

The city we explored felt more like a backdrop to the connection we were both trying to re-establish. It had been years after all, and so much has happened in between.

Can we ever remain the same in some ways to some people? Apparently, this weekend had shown me that it’s possible, and I, for one, am ever so grateful. I’ve lost so much from my past to build my life here in the States; I couldn’t lose this friendship too. Sometimes it feels like the only thing that’s keeping my memories of my school days from fading completely. (Thank you, my sweet friend.)

After goodbyes (and miraculously navigating out of the airport labyrinth on my own), I’d arrived home in one piece, but gladly fell apart at the sight of My Guy. Having had to hold it together all weekend so as not to ruin my friend’s time with me, and having always been the one to care for a sick kid or husband, I just wanted to give myself permission to crumble for a bit.

I think I’ve earned it.

Evolve

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 16 Apr 2015 12:00:00 +0000

“Liepard is the evolved form of Purrloin, mommy,” explains Pickle. “She’s in Team Rocket.” Except from the mouth of my three-year-old, it’s more like “Team Wocket”.

“Oh?” I lean in to see the images she’s pointing to as we flip through the pages of the Pokemon stats and facts book that she had deliberately picked out for herself from her sister’s school book sale.

She goes to bed with it every evening, and since she can’t read, she tries to find pictures of the characters she encounters on the TV show and makes up her own stories, which explains why the book is worn and taped in several spots. When asked to pick a bedtime story, she’d prefer to point at different characters and have me read their specs aloud to her instead, which I do:

“Zorua, Tricky Fox Pokemon, Possible Moves - Scratch, Leer, Pursuit, Fake Tears, Fury Swipes, Feint Attack, Scary Face, Taunt, Foul Play, Torment… Zorua can use the power of illusion to make itself look like a person or a different Pokemon. It sometimes uses the resulting confusion to flee from a battle. It’s the pre-evolved form of Zoroark.”

I sometimes explain to her what she doesn’t understand, but for the most part, she gets it. She beams at me and shares what she recalls about Zorua, one of her favorite characters, on the show, “One time, Zorua and Ash went to…”

I am thrilled that she’s enthralled by these creatures. For one thing, it’s Goodbye “Frozen”, Hello Pokemon. After a year of constant “Let it Go”’s I’m so relieved that they finally Let. It. Go. I’m also amused to see that she’s rather Pokemon-ish herself - adorable, feisty, and capable of destruction all in one cuddly little package.

My girls’ obsession with Pokemon is a welcome change from many years of overtly didactic, educational PBS shows that teach and entertain kids (the color red, the letter “T”, be kind to your neighbors, etc.). It reminds me of the cartoons I used to enjoy growing up, like “Voltron”, “He-Man”, “She-Ra”, and “Thundercats”. Sure, kids don’t learn their shapes and alphabets from good versus evil battles, but there’s something to be said about stories of friendship and loyalty.

Besides, how many three-year-olds have a vocabulary that includes “capture”, “strategy”, “transform” and “evolve”, which Pickle has surprisingly used correctly in different contexts? Evolve is an especially great word. I think it’s because it hits so close to home for me these days.

I love seeing this evolved form of Little Miss and Pickle, going from playing Disney’s damsels to powerful Pokemons when they’re together. Adorable little things don’t have to be helpless is a subtle lesson from the show, but an important one nonetheless.

And I like that, after a year in Austin, we have all evolved into slightly different versions of ourselves. The changes are minor, but the effects ripple across our everyday lives.

If you’d told me a year ago that I would spend most of my weekends on yard work, I’d laugh at your face. But here we are, toiling away - weeding, mowing, planting, watering - to do our best to transform (hey, another Pokemon word!) the yard from its dormant state in the winter to a vibrant, productive one in the summer.

Last year we inherited a vegetable garden, which we only needed to water before enjoying the fresh tomatoes and peppers that the previous owners had planted. This time, we decided to be more ambitious and went with tomatoes, jalapenos, sweet cherry peppers, sugar snap peas, watermelon, and spaghetti squash, not to mention the myriad herbs that appear in the dishes I make. I know - what happened to baby steps right? We figured hey, if we killed half of it, we’d still have a decent yield. Hah.

Since a house with a yard this size still feels new to us, we have much to learn, and we recognize that we can’t do that without getting our hands dirty. We spent the year studying what we already have - the grass, the trees, the irrigation, the hedges, the delightful perennials (and the awful ones too), and the beautiful rose bush that continues to wow us, especially when it sprang to life with such gorgeous blooms after the winter, despite the fact that we hardly touched it (maybe that’s the key). Now that we (kinda, sorta) know what we’re dealing with, it’s time for us to add our own touch to it.

The yard feels like it, too, is evolving. To be honest, I’m nervous but also really excited to see what it will become in our hands.

Because of my recent conundrum with running, I’ve also had to evolve in other ways. I surprised myself by becoming the runner I never thought I could be nearly three years ago, but with a busted hip, it may be time for a change again, even if I hate the idea.

As a consolation, my sweet friends reminded me that if I could fall in love with running, I could do the same with another activity - I just need to give something else a shot. And they’re right. My pre-evolved form couldn’t even imagine running a mile, let alone a half-marathon, so why not wrestling? Or rowing? Maybe even Javelin throwing?

As for Little Miss, she started soccer again after a failed attempt at age four, when she hated “all that running” and chose to admire the dandelions in the field instead. Now her burgeoning interest in running is fueling her enjoyment of soccer, and it’s lovely to see her so excited about a sport. Neither My Guy nor I were athletes in school, and it’s easy for us to let that part slide, but I’m realizing that not only is cheering for my girl on the field fun, it’s also thrilling to watch her learn the merits of teamwork and losing graciously, especially since Little Miss had always been a me-me-me girl who couldn’t handle not winning at any game.

I notice the difference in her: high-fiving with big smiles after a game despite losing terribly, emphasizing on the fun rather than the competition, learning not to boss her teammates around and accepting that the coach is boss, not her. She’s also more likely to get outside and play now, shooting hoops and practicing soccer with her daddy. It’s great to see her evolving into an active little girl, although the moment we get back in the car, she’s back to her usual self again.

And I’m okay with that too. Naturally.

I believe some things stay the same to keep us grounded. I will never be an extroverted go-getter like My Guy, nor do I want to be. But then again, I had also said I’d never be a runner.

This brings me back to the “Dear Sugar” podcast I heard while running, when Cheryl Strayed and Steve Almond both said in their advice to a reader wondering about the state of her relationship that “the years are long” - we are constantly changing, growing, evolving. What we were 10 years ago can be radically different from who we are today. Hell, even a year ago. And I am proof of that.

I’ve written about change before, firmly believing that it’s never too late for any of us to try new things, break old habits, become someone we never thought we could be. It’s this constant evolving that makes every spring so compelling while we watch the natural world come back to life. Some things remain the same, but having survived the harshest parts of winter, they’re also different. Hardier, better.

These were the first perennial I planted last year, and I was pleasantly surprised to see them come back this spring. Not only that, they seem bigger and stronger.

I am in awe. After years of thinking that all I have are brown thumbs, it’s lovely to discover that there may be a gardener in me after all. What an incredible evolution. I still have a lot to learn, of course, like how I probably shouldn’t be wearing white while doing yard work, for one. But I’m at least ready to see how far I can go with this.

As I watch my friends share where they were or what they did one, three, five years ago a certain day on Facebook, thanks to its latest feature that prompts users to share a significant moment from a past post, it makes me wonder, where, or more importantly, who will I be one, three, five years from now?

What about you? Who will you be?

“Explore, experiment and evolve your beautiful world.”
― Lailah Gifty Akita

You can’t always get what you want

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Fri, 10 Apr 2015 12:02:00 +0000

So what happens when you’re told that something you love is also the same thing that’s hurting you? I know this could be applied to many things, but in my case, it’s running. After enduring a year of nagging hip pain, I finally bit the bullet and went to the doctor with my issues.

The news wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either.

“Do you have to run?”
“I don’t have to but I would like to…”

“Then no running on hills and paved roads” was my Physical Therapist’s advice. Which means I pretty much have to kiss neighborhood running goodbye, and that SUCKS because one of my favorite things about running is just lacing up and getting out the door. Plus I really do love my neighborhood and enjoy being able to spot the fall colors and spring blossoms all around me, so having to end this pains me even more than what I feel in my hips.

You don’t get these from working out inside a gym…

My PT also pointed out that I have no arches in my feet. Flat-footed? Me? How is it that I hadn’t known that all these years? She said it affects the way I run, which must have affected my hips. She hasn’t quite figured out what exactly is wrong with them - we’ve only had three sessions so far - but she warned against continuing as I have because it would mean surgery, and who wants to go down that road?

I took her advice seriously and started to cut down on running and looked to other cardio activities. I tried many group classes at my gym and settled on Zumba (I love dancing; it’s so fun!) and Cardio Combat (makes me feel like a badass!), but when I reported that to my PT, she shook her head: “Nope. These classes have too many repetitive motions that will continue to hurt your hips.”

What. The. Fuck.

How ironic that my quest for better health is actually detrimental to my health. Before I started running, I don’t even remember ever having to go to the doctor for any medical issues. However, I knew the risks of running before I started; it was just wishful thinking that I could avoid them.

I signed up for a 10-mile race back in October, and I informed my PT that it would be my last long-distance run for awhile. It was the Austin 10/20 - 10 miles, 20 bands - and I ran it with a fellow mom who’d been my Sunday morning running partner this past year. I knew I couldn’t push it, but it was also important to me that I finish this race.

I’m glad I did it because it was a really fun race, but that last mile was painful. Literally. My hips started to hurt, then my knees, and finally my ankles. Man did I feel broken. But there was only a mile to go, and I just couldn’t stop then. Having my partner there to cheer me on got me through the finish line (thank you!). You can imagine how fantastic that felt, especially since I wasn’t sure if there would be another like this in my future.

After 10 days of rest, I ran again yesterday, but I followed my PT’s instructions to find a flat gravel trail and attempted a few slow miles. I drove to a neighborhood park with a small wooded trail and aimed for three miles, but it felt so good that I easily reached four. My hips weren’t crying for help, so perhaps there’s hope yet for keeping running in my life.

This nagging pain may still be a mystery, but I’m wearing orthotics to fix my flat feet (and secretly thanking the stars that they’re looking more fashionable these days than the old-lady shoes of the past) and I’m (begrudgingly) avoiding hills and paved roads when I do run.

My daily arch-support footwear around the house. Could be worse I suppose.

I haven’t given up on finding something to fill the running void for when I absolutely have to stop, but I’m hoping that that day wouldn’t come either. I can fathom taking a break, especially during the summer when it’s hot all day and night here, but I can’t imagine stopping altogether.

My girls are starting to show interest in running, and I’d like to continue for their sake. I don’t think it’s the only way to get healthy, but to me, running is more than just cardio. It’s the fresh air that fills my lungs, the scenery that both enthralls and surprises me, the solitude as an escape, and even the meditative effect of a long run that, apart from cycling, which isn’t my thing, I just can’t get from other activities.

And that’s why I’m doing what I can to preserve what little I can do because I hate to be told I can’t do something, and I love a challenge. So we’ll see.

I’m just not ready to give up on it yet. I just hope my body doesn’t give up on me first.

One Year in Austin

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Mon, 23 Mar 2015 11:39:00 +0000

A year ago today, we arrived in town late in the evening after driving over eight hours on the second leg of our journey here from Chicago. It was nearly 9PM, and the sun had set nearly two hours ago, making it impossible for us to see anything but the road ahead and the neon signs that we occasionally passed.

We found the apartment we would call home for the next two months and set up for the night after some takeout from the nearby Noodles and Company. We were too tired to venture further than what was right by us, and because we were there right at closing, they even offered us free cookies. Bonus!

I’m not sure who was more excited about getting out of the car - the cats or us - but we managed to spend a few more minutes exploring our new fully furnished, very neutral, very brown and beige apartment before succumbing to the fatigue that came with three days of traveling. What an anticlimactic end to six weeks of wild anticipation.

Except I was wrong, wasn’t I? It wasn’t the end; it was only the beginning.

And the thrill and majesty of this beginning didn’t hit us until we decided to go out for breakfast tacos at Torchy’s the next day, a quintessential Austin thing. We took a right on the Capital of Texas Highway, going south, and our jaws dropped at the sight of the hills that lined both sides of the highway. For two people from pancake-flat Chicago, any undulation was a big deal. When we drove here the night before, we couldn’t see any of it - we had no idea we were surrounded by such pretty scenery.

That was the first thing that struck us about Austin - just how green the city is. Between pockets of neighborhoods are large swaths of greenbelts that afford us a quick reprieve from urban life, and I find myself drawn to them despite my city-girl prissiness.

Then it was the tacos. Well, not just tacos, but food in general. This city enjoys its food, but because we have access to year-round growers, there is also plenty of Texas pride in food sourcing.

Speaking of Texas pride, there’s plenty of that going around here, naturally. It’s unnerving to a newcomer like me because what’s so damn great about a state full of guns, Republicans and the religious right? But over time I realized that this pride isn’t just reserved for those people. It’s in how the people in this state preserve nature, bottle their own spirits, build a local business (hello, HEB), grow their own...everything, cook their BBQ, treasure their place in history and pass it down to the next generation - not just the story of Texas but also the pride of belonging.

It doesn’t get anymore Texas than bluebonnets and UT-Austin

For transplants looking to plant roots, there’s just something about it that works for me.

And the weather. Oh the weather. We moved here to get away from the harsh Chicago winters, so we knew to expect a more temperate climate, but what we didn’t expect was just how glorious it would be from Fall to Spring. Sure, we’d have some cold days in the winter, which was perfect for snuggling by the fire, but we’d still experience 60- to 70-degree days every couple of weeks, which was a far cry from always fucking frigid for weeks and weeks at a time for at least four straight months up north.

Summer can be brutal, but then again, it’s also pool season so who cares?

Today we met with who we jokingly refer to as the Original Friends - the three families we got to know within the first month of our move here - to celebrate our Austiniversary. It was at a restaurant with a playground, where our kids were either playing with each other or with other kids. The grownups sat at two tables outside under a giant oak tree with one eye on the kids while we chatted about our spring break and what not.

Topics ranged from vacations to cars to SXSW to sickness to a Taylor Swift concert road trip (don’t ask) to school to work to the amazing weather. Then we said our goodbyes and made plans to meet at one of the Original Friend’s homes for a BBQ next weekend before rushing home for the bedtime - bath, books and songs - ritual.

While the girls played in the tub, I walked out to my yard and laughed at the sight of the dandelions in my yard that sprouted from this last spell of rain. I never knew they could grow that tall.

Then I turned and spotted our “Yellow Rose of Texas” by our front window and stood there in awe of it - how the plant survived the frosty winter nights and my lack of attention was beyond me. But it’s native to this region; it would naturally make it here.

Unlike us. Even as the movers hauled our belongings into the truck, even as we drove 1,100 miles towards our new life, I wasn’t too confident that this would be the place for us. After all, three out of the four of us had never even been to Austin before we arrived with our worldly possessions.

But despite the brutal summer heat, the minor setbacks, the homesickness for Chicago, the lack of snow, the fact that we’re in Texas (but hey, Austin really isn’t Texas-Texas is it?), the abundance of wildlife just in our neighborhood, let alone the area, we made it.

And we didn’t just survive our first year here, we’re loving it. My girls are blooming where they’re planted, and I feel our roots growing deeper into this once foreign soil with each passing day.

I would’ve stayed outside to enjoy a few more moments of my reverie had it not been for a certain three-year-old who walked out naked in search of her mother. After one last look at the expansive coral tinged Texas sky, I followed her back into the house for the rest of our Sunday evening.

Best laid plans

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 18 Mar 2015 12:00:00 +0000

I don’t know why SXSW thought it was a good time to have the event right at Spring Break, but what can you do? The powers that be have spoken, and we’re stuck in the city because My Guy has been dying to attend SX (Southby to us locals, apparently) ever since I’ve known him. That also means I’m solo parenting. That, in itself, isn’t so daunting. Nothing I haven’t done before, and without the frenetic school schedule, it should be fun!

I planned on hiking a low-key trail with my girls on a sunny 70-degree day (because there would be a few of those during the break - yay!). I hoped to use our membership at the Thinkery one morning, and then a jaunt to the contemporary art museum, Laguna Gloria, for the free art day so the girls can explore the different media available at the art school there and the beautiful grounds that offer hiking trails, river views and interesting sculptures along the way.

screen printing

Ta-dah!

weaving

Pickle playing coy behind me

I had also hoped to watch the third installment of the Harry Potter movie series with Little Miss and take her to the movie theater to see “Song of the Sea” on another day. It will be a “Mommy and Me” special.

In between those, we’d have playdates with friends, and since our gym has family yoga and family Zumba during the break, Little Miss and I would be going to the gym together every day. By the end of the break, it would’ve felt like a proper Spring Break - Fun! Sun! Family!

That was the plan anyway. It’s Wednesday now, and so far, of the things I’d listed, we’ve done one - Laguna Gloria - because what I had hoped for us was one thing; what actually unfolded was quite another.

You see, sickness happened. 103-degree fever happened. For both girls. Then croup happened, for one of them. It’s also their first time being sick together, when they’d usually take turns after one infects the other. All this while My Guy goes out for 12 hours every day for Southby, while we also host two guests staying with us for the event, and while I juggle my freelance work deadlines.

Naturally, plans were derailed. My Guy had to take time away from his highly anticipated event to help me care for the girls because of my deadlines, and because sick kids are also extremely needy. Not quite the fun and exciting spring break I had in mind for us.

But we’ve been parents long enough to know what happens to best laid plans when kids are involved. We learn to create Plans A, B, and C, just in case. We learn to suck it up and deal with it. Easier said than done, of course, because it can also be stressful and upsetting.

Yet, what choice do we have? We can sit around and mope or we can choose to make the best out of a shitty situation, which is why I am resolved on focusing on the things that make me happy.

I make healing, comfort foods - chicken noodle soup, pork and ginger rice soup - for my babies. I allow myself to be flanked by my girls on the couch as we read or just cuddle. I’m grateful that my girls like each other enough to play well with one another. But that also means sometimes they make mischief together. Like when I found them grinning at me suspiciously here - they had emptied out a couple of drawers of clothes and hid them under blankets to make the mound on the bed. For jumping. Like it’s so safe. (No one got hurt! See? Another bright spot to our week.)

Why are you guys smiling at me like that..?

I also get to spend time in the yard collecting a crapload of live oak leaves that, unlike its regular oak cousin, sheds in the spring. Sure it’s an arduous task, but it feels oddly therapeutic. It probably has something to do with the warm sun, the bird songs and fresh air.

Leaves, be gone! (Except there are now more on the ground again. Ugh!)

One of my favorite parts of the week was watching Little Miss spend six straight hours re-reading Harry Potter one day. Granted, I was a little jealous. Oh the joy of being able to dive into a good book uninterrupted for hours and hours in the middle of the day. When I do that now, I’m often sacrificing precious sleep.

And Pickle did what she normally does - raid our pantry every two hours (yes, even when sick, this girl doesn’t ever seem to lose her appetite) and decorate everything with glitter glue. Because you can never have too much glitter. Don’t ask me why it’s even within her reach; sometimes I astound myself too.

Speaking of things that don’t make sense, even in sickness my three-year-old tries to avoid napping. One afternoon, I found her passed out on the floor after she spent most of naptime playing in the room. As much as she loves fighting naps, she doesn’t always win.

When evening (FINALLY) arrives, I do like that bedtime is a little earlier for ailing girls, which works out nicely for this exhausted mama.

But then we get to do it all over again the next day when one girl comes into our room barking like a seal (hello, croup) and the thermometer confirms the fever that we suspect from the heat radiating from their little bodies. Another day of balancing precariously in that delicate space between hope and disappointment, work and play, light and dark. Wishing that maybe, just maybe tomorrow will be better. Or the next. Or the next next.

In the meantime, I make a big-ass pan of brownies to try to salvage this Spring Break that has offered neither a spring in my step nor a break from the neverending demands. (*shakes fist at the sky*) My girls probably thought, aww, mommy’s so nice, she’s trying to cheer us up. And maybe it’s working.

Although, between you and me, once they’re in bed, I’m going to relax on the couch with my feet on the coffee table, the pan of brownies on my lap and a spoon in my hand. That’s the plan anyway. But we all know what can happen to that.

Big news: Nothing happened!

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Fri, 06 Mar 2015 12:33:00 +0000

Yup. That pretty much sums up the day when Austin decided to close its schools on Thursday. My phone was buzzing all of the previous day with emails from the school, the preschool, the school district and winter storm warnings. Apparently the freezing rain would only get worse. Even state and federal offices would shut down.

Ice is a problem down here, and with the many hills, bridges, and overpasses in the area, traveling on the road becomes treacherous, especially for school buses. I get that. I want my kids home safe with me too. And honestly, not going out on a cold and blustery morning to drop off my kids was just fine by me.

But when we woke the next day, the day of the supposed winter storm, this happened instead.

Does this look like a stormy winter day to you?

Sure, it hovered in the low 30’s all morning, but it reached a high of 43. It was windy and chilly, but the ice that was forecasted to disrupt travel was nowhere in sight. Geez, people, overreact much? Meteorologists, I tell ya. They’re the only people I know who get to keep their job despite being wrong half the time.

The kids were of course over the moon to be home. No school, yay! We can sleep in! (They didn’t). We can stay in our pajamas! (Naturally.) I would’ve shared their enthusiasm except for that pesky little thing called a deadline. Ah yes, the age-old working parent’s dilemma: How do I watch the kids and write the pieces that were due to my client at the same time?

And today, I figured it out - HAVE FREAKIN’ AMAZING KIDS!

Okay, okay, I know, I know, I deserved that eye-roll because every parent says that about their kids. Believe me, my kids are a pain in my ass most days, but today, I have to give credit where credit is due. Last night I said to them: “Hey, I know it’s great to stay home from school, but the only way that it’s going to work well tomorrow is that you find a way to play well together because mommy has to work. I’m sorry that I can’t hang out with you guys, because you know I’d really, really love to, but I just can’t since it’s my regular work day and my client needs something from me. Will you try to play well with each other?”

I threw the words out there, not really knowing if they’d stick. They both nodded, which isn’t exactly binding, so I didn’t keep my hopes up.

But HOLY SHIT THEY DID IT! They totally did it! I was amazed at just how much and how well they played together. Most days, by 9:30AM, someone was already screaming at the other, but today, the stars must have aligned because not only was there barely an argument, they actually enjoyed one another’s company!

I set up shop at the dining table to keep an eye on them, thankful that I could usually tune out chaos, but apart from a few “look at this, mommy” interruptions to show me the results of their various creative pursuits, I was able to immerse myself in work while they did at play. I looked up occasionally to marvel at them: They’re still playing? And of course I had to take pictures. Evidence, ya know. Because I still can’t believe that it happened.

Naturally, they made a mess, but who cares? They were actually playing with their toys and giggling! (And they happily put these away afterwards.)

Little Miss patiently explained “Go Fish” to her three-year-old sister, and they harmoniously played a game or two together. (This was about the time I was pinching myself.)

And their new favorite thing to do together? Clean up their mess to surprise me!

Yes, “for real,” as Pickle would say. Don’t hate me; I don’t even know how this became a regular thing, but you won’t find me complaining about this new “game” of theirs, where they would disappear for a long while together, then they’d come find us, have us close our eyes while they led us to their bedroom, the living room or playroom and yell: “SURPRISE!”

We would find toys and craft items back in their spots, books put away, beds made, clothes in hampers...it’s the best kind of surprise, and I love that both parties actually derive so much pleasure from this. For me, I’m just so delighted and grateful for their effort, and for them, they’re just so proud of their contribution and happy to see us happy.

Today, Little Miss trembled with excitement as they led me to their bedroom, where Pickle gleefully announced, “Ta-dah! We cleaned our room!” but immediately added: “But don’t look under our beds!”

Fair enough. I didn’t. With six- and three-year-olds, you figure out pretty quickly to steer clear of the gift horse’s mouth.

Here’s another thing that blew me away today. Remember how I always long for them to play outside? Today, after running in circles around me in the afternoon and jumping over hurdles that they had purposely made for themselves in the living and dining rooms, I finally kicked them out of the house. “If you want to run around and play, get your shoes and jacket on, and do it outside!” Like normal kids, I added in my head.

After some minor protesting, they did comply. The clear blue sky was a little deceptive; no matter how beautiful it looked, it was still a little chilly. I expected them to come back in within five minutes, whining about the cold. But they didn’t. In fact, they stayed outside for what felt like hours, and played and played and played and played. Who are these kids???!

My view of them just hanging out in the front yard from where I was working; don’t mind the phone reflection – I never claimed I was a pro photographer.

In the evening, at their bedtime, they crawled into bed by 7:15PM, and after I shut their bedroom door behind me, no one called out to me or came back outside to use the bathroom, to have more water, to give me one last hug, to ask “what’s that sound?”, to check if daddy’s home yet. On a day where they played hard, they also crashed hard.

I’d like to call this a miracle of a day, but really, if I think about it, a lot has to do with the fact that the girls are getting older. As much as it pains me to see that cute baby part of them go, on days like this, having older, independent kids completely saved the day. They had a wonderful time away from school, and I got my work done.

“I think we’re finally reaching that sweet spot,” My Guy said to me, “The girls are getting to the age where they’ll give us five or six really good years of being pretty cool kids.”

Curious, I asked: “Five or six? Why just five or six?”

“Well, then they become teens.”

“Oh. Right.” Tumultuous, tempestuous teens. Shudder.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. If the next five or six years will give us more days like today, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of them first.

This lady and her tramp…oline.

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 26 Feb 2015 13:00:00 +0000

I have to admit, I don’t know what came over me. I don’t think we’d ever discussed getting a trampoline, but it sure made its way to our house in a hurry once I decided that that was my next get-the-kids-to-go-outside ploy. It might have been my last straw too; I was getting tired of convincing them to leave the house, and I was even more exhausted from having to coax them to stay past their usual five minutes. It’s like they’re allergic to the fresh air and sun.

When it was 75 degrees one winter day here, I remember yelling, “DO YOU KNOW THAT IT’S SNOWING IN CHICAGO RIGHT NOW??!” perhaps in my sad, desperate attempt to shame them for wasting such a precious day. Like that would feel punishing to these girls who claim they miss the snow.

When the colossal thing finally made it to our yard, I was already expecting it to fail. Because you know how sometimes you imagine things going a certain way and somehow reality has a way of completely destroying any romantic notions you had of how things might turn out?

Well…it’s kind of like that with the trampoline, except this time – miracle among miracles - the reality is working out to be waaaaay better than what I’d expected. Who knew a trampoline could be useful in so many ways?

Exhibit A

Grownups get to unlock their own inner child. I’d never been on a trampoline before this, and even I can’t deny the glee that comes from bouncing away like a maniac. Oh, it’s also a great workout – the pounding in my chest after ten minutes of gravity-defying stunts says so.

Exhibit B

We’re warned against leaving small pets outside because they mysteriously disappear in these parts from prowling coyotes and possibly other large that-which-shall-not-be-mentioned creatures. *shudder* I feel bad that our cats will have to remain as indoor cats, even though I see their longing to be outside as they stare out the window. WIth this? Problem solved. It’s like his very own cat condo. He didn’t jump on it, much to my disappointment, but perhaps he’ll get there eventually.

Exhibit C

Butt to chair is so last year. Plus research says all that sitting is really not that good for us. So why not lounge on the trampoline while soaking up some sun and devouring a few thousand words? It’s ergonomic-ish, right?

Exhibit D

When you spend three hours raking and filling nine yard bags with leaves, this is what happens. You can’t even make it to your sofa in the living room to rest. But hey, look at that! A trampoline is great for some post-hard-labor siesta too.

Exhibit E

As you can see, the trampoline can be quite versatile, but this is still by far my favorite of its utility. It’s hard to tell, as I didn’t zoom in on the girls, but this was my view of them from my kitchen window, playing beautifully together after school – without my prompting, might I add. They were bouncing, they were toppling over one another and giggling, they were playing tag, they were sitting together and inventing games, and they were imagining a whole new world just for themselves.

I was so grateful for such glimpses as I cleaned the dishes and prepared the evening’s meal. It was just like I’d hoped before procuring the trampoline. The best part? Instead of begging them to stay outside a little longer while I finished preparing their meal, I had to call them in for dinner. It’s the kind of thing I’d (naively) romanticized about having a family before I actually had a family – parents doing grownup things inside the house while kids enjoying kid-like things under big blue skies, and then they would all converge at the dining table together after the mom calls out: “Kids! Come inside for dinner!”

I cannot tell you how happy it made me to actually be able to do that today. It’s a little ridiculous that so much pleasure could be derived from something so simple, but you know what they say about the little things… Although, I’d argue that a 14-foot trampoline really isn’t all that little is it?

Year of the Sheep begins with eyes of the fish

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 17 Feb 2015 12:42:00 +0000

As you may well know, I’m proud of both my Chinese and Indian heritage, and I try to share some of the traditions with which I was raised with my daughters just so they get to experience diluted (as in watered down to .02% concentration after having lived in the States for the past 20 years) versions of them. They’re part Chinese and Indian after all.

But it wasn’t until yesterday, when we were having a celebratory Chinese New Year’s Eve dinner (two days early because My Guy has a work thing two nights this week) as a family, that I became convinced that Little Miss, my six-year-old, may be more Chinese than I thought. More Chinese than me even.

You see, while we were shopping at the Chinese grocery store, I explained to Little Miss, who wanted to know why we didn’t just go to the regular H.E.B. (a Texas-based grocery store, also one of my favorite things about this state), that we were there to get a whole fish, specifically the white pomfret, because it’s an auspicious dish for the Lunar New Year, and it would be impossible to procure it anywhere else.

At my response, her eyes widened: “A whole fish? You mean the head too? Yaaaaay! Yes! Yes! Let’s get the whole fish! I want to eat the eyeballs! Mmmmm….eyeballs!”

Since then, until one such eyeball actually made its way to her mouth, she wouldn’t stop obsessing over it for the rest of the day.

At the store:

“Yes, yes, pick this one - let me see the eyes. Oooh...look at that. I like that one. I can’t wait to eat the eyes!”

At home:

She sauntered into the kitchen and asked: “Where’s the fish? Is it ready yet?” Then she turned to her sister and excitedly announced, “Pickle, we get to eat the eyes! It’s going to be sooooo gooooooood…”

Actually, she’s never had fish eyes.

“Can I see? Can I see?” Naturally, Pickle caught the fever since whatever her sister does, she must too. “I want fish eyes!”

I don’t even know where this obsession came from. But Little Miss has had fish eggs (salmon roe nigiri is one of her favorites), ox tail, cow tongue, chicken heart, pork liver - and they were truthfully introduced to her as such - so I suppose eyeballs didn’t seem odd to her.

Ah, memory lane…

The thing is, while I’d enjoyed every part of the fish as a child, I was never into the eyes, which made her fervor even more amusing to me. Even I, the one who’s technically more Chinese, who grew up immersed in a culture that consumes all kinds of animal parts, whose favorite part, as a child, of helping my mom cook was to wash and gut fish (yes, really), would gladly avoid eating the eyes.

When we finally sat down to eat, we, of course, went straight to the business of eyeball consumption.

“Mmmmm…..this is delicious!” declared my big girl.

As for the little one, who got to try the other eye (thank goodness most fish come with two), this was her only comment after some chewing, “Can I spit this out?”

Hah! That’ll teach her to blindly follow her sister. As for the rest of the fish? We ate it all up. Everything except the bones, of course.

* * *

Kung Hei Fatt Choy everyone! Wishing you luck, joy, and prosperity from our house to yours.

Valentine’s Day romance

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 11 Feb 2015 12:51:00 +0000

It’s our first Valentine’s Day in Austin, which means we won’t be going on our traditional Valentine’s date to the Chicago Auto show this year. Bummer. That was so us.

Time for new traditions, as with all the holidays we’ve celebrated here, I suppose, but instead of forcing to create a new one, we’re hoping to happen upon it eventually. For now, we’ve planned a teeny tiny road trip to a quaint and historic little town not too far from here - Fredericksburg, TX - in “the beautiful Texas Hill Country” (says the travel literature) to experience a small slice of German culture. Because, come on, don’t schnitzel and spaetzle scream romance to you?

Romance. Hah! Technically, we’ve only been married for a whopping three-ish months, which still puts us at the honeymoon (think chocolate covered strawberries in bed) stage. In reality, however, we’ve been together for nearly 10 years, which kind of puts a different spin on romance. There are strawberries in the fridge, and there’s chocolate in the pantry, and never shall the twain meet and be consumed in my bed. Are you kidding me? Can you imagine the mess?

Don’t get me wrong—romance isn’t dead. Not exactly anyway. But gone are the big showy bouquets of flowers, gasp-making blush-inducing gifts, and elaborate Hallmark cards that celebrate romance, although, come to think of it, I don’t remember those either. Now, Valentine’s Day means a celebration of love for the whole family. We make heart-shaped crafts with the rest of America, we make cards for loved ones, we have chocolate (that are mostly leftovers from Christmas), and we make (unromantic) plans to commemorate the occasion together.

But romance isn’t dead, no. The grand statements of love have just morphed into everyday kindness, which doesn’t necessarily shout love over the rooftops of the world, but it gently reminds me that I am loved. Sweetly. Unequivocally.

Like when I went out for a run one Sunday morning and agreed to meet my family at the store for some errands soon after. My Guy brought the girls, and despite having to get them ready himself, which can be quite the monumental task, he still remembered to bring me coffee that he warmed just before leaving the house because he knew hot coffee would feel pretty great for me after a chilly run.

That same morning, because we took separate cars to get to the store, we drove home and arrived at a different time, with me dragging behind with the girls. When I stepped into the kitchen, My Guy had already reheated the breakfast tacos, which he had made that morning, for me so I could refuel.

See? Love. So unexpected. So real.

I’m not writing this to justify the lack of overt romantic declarations, but rather to let him (you, if you’re reading this, my love) know that I notice them. That I always notice every single gesture, and I am always, always deeply grateful for them. For you.

Because, really, who needs a dozen roses when I have hot breakfast tacos waiting for me at home?

* * *

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! May you have love in abundance, in whatever form it takes shape for you, that day.